For the one who’s hatin’–it’s time to love the skin you’re in
In my kitchen, a pack of stew meat rests atop the stove, plucked from the bulging freezer. Ah, Mister’s provided so well, and I’m grateful. Soon, I shall gather up the boys’ cast-iron Dutch oven (a gift to them for camping), and my hands will do what they love–fill it with food for the hungry men I adore. Potatoes. Carrots. Mushrooms. Onions. Stew meat cut into chunks, crowned with juicy tomatoes. All of these, layer upon layer, simmering for hours in my oven. And the aroma shall say, “Welcome home.” And, “All’s well.”
Before I press into my day, I have a message to share that is on my heart. With all the love that Papa’s given me, I’m pouring it into your own cup, a shot of espresso, a taste of joy from the overflow in which I live. It is this…
It’s time to love the skin you’re in.
Above my kitchen sink, a little ceramic creature perches. It was given to me by a blue-eyed boy with his daddy’s eyes and his mama’s double crown. Fashioned by young, clumsy hands, it came home to me in a sturdy, red backpack; a fish (I think), with large teeth and fun colors, and I fell in love right away. Precious hands had made it.
I can picture him, head bent. Hands moving, fingers working, brow furrowed in concentration. He’s doing the best that he can. Choosing colors, shaping, forming, molding, and pressing; then adding those large, funny teeth. It’s for Mama.
How devastated he would have been if I had snatched up his gift, criticized it from every angle, then dashed it down to the floor, pieces flying. Refusing to accept what he’d made with such love.
So much heartbreak, never to be forgotten. So much pain, anger, devastation unleashed. So many scars criss-crossing his young soul if I had mistreated and ill received his sweet gift.
And now, you. And of course, me.
The body you’re living in; my body as well. They have been perfectly formed, perfectly crafted. Perfectly pressed, molded, and knitted by…
The perfect Potter. Who shaped it all with such love using those divine, gentle fingers.
When we refuse to accept and, yes, love our bodies, we are dashing the gift to the ground. We are so hard on ourselves, you and I. So hateful. So ungrateful. So critical, and we think we’ve got reasons, and good ones.
What I am coming to see is that my body–just as it is–is a great gift to me. Never in a million years would I have held that little piece of pottery up, compared it to another mother’s gift carefully fashioned by her own child and said, “I can’t stand the one you’ve given me. I want one like she’s got.”
God forbid! I would never. But I’ve done that (yes, I have) to the Lord. To my Potter. And you, perhaps you have, too.
My loving Father fashioned my frame, this house that I live in. The One that He’s living in, too. And I’m choosing to love it, to say, “Thank You!” for the gift.
Body worship is wrong. That’s what the world does, and we’re scared to death of that idol. But so is body hatred. That’s what the world does, too, and we’ve been judging ourselves by wrong standards. It’s time to repent.
When Papa revealed to me how wrong my attitude had been, how ungrateful, I chose repentance. “Forgive me,” I said, “for being so ungrateful and so discontent with Your gift. Thank You for making me just like I am. I receive it.”
FacebookTwitterGoogle+DiggPinterestBloggerI just love that visible proof of my son’s love. I am happy and content. I’ve no need to compare it to another.
Just like my body, a visible proof of my Father’s love and careful intention. I can be full-happy and content. I no longer choose to compare. For precious hands have made it.