It came to me in my quiet time today as The Friend and I were having coffee. And chattin’…
A spring rain is comin’ down. In the garden, thirsty tomatoes and greenin’-up peppers are liftin’ their arms for a drink. Just before the chicken coop, verbena and sun patiens are brightenin’ the corner there where they are, and they are lovin’ His rain, too.
On my *BOS, I’m reviewin’ the lessons, the ones that Friend Jesus has been teachin’. Shame and trust. Truth and lies and the great divide that stands center, ‘twixt and ‘tween.
“Your body,” He’s sayin’, “has birthed four never-dying souls. You have partnered with the Almighty in giving life.”
I listen in wonder.
“Your origins are not with a human receptacle nor even with a human depositor. Your origins go back further than that.”
The peace that I’m feelin’ is sweet. I know what He’s sayin’.
He knew me (that’s the reminder) before the foundations of the world. That’s amazing! He knew when and who and where. Knew my name.
When the right moment came in the history of this earth, His fingers went to work, began shaping. In the womb. And there’s never. Ever. Ever. Any shame in what He’s created.
No shame, not ever. And it’s impossible (He’s been sayin’ this, too) for Him to craft something that would never fail to cause other humans to sin. He cannot.
All of this I’m reviewin’. I’m thinkin’.
“His fingers made you exactly the way He wanted you to be.” And here, He whispers His reasons for my design, a secret for my heart and ears only.
Divine planning. Intentional design. Deliberation, and care. My body a gift for my soul’s dwelling…and for this treasure inexpressible, the Godhead.
For Father, Son and Spirit.
For all the times we’ve complained about our bodies (now I’m teachin’), we ought to fall down on our knees and repent. It’s no wonder the devil bears such hatred. For our bodies.
They are the visible evidence of the Creator’s existence. They are the bearers and nurturers of life. What an honor!
They house eternal souls, His glory shines through; flesh and blood, skin and bone, these clay pots.
For the woman who is chronically discontent and complaining, I will tell you what my wise husband has told me. “It’s an insult to me when you disparage your looks. You’re saying that I didn’t make a good choice.” Or, that he didn’t know what he was doing. Lord, forgive.
Then this: “It’s like you don’t believe me when I tell you I love your body. That I love how you look.” He felt disrespected, that I’d challenged his integrity. Hon, forgive.
I know this is frank. I know this shoots straight, but I see all the pain from the hatin’. It’s time for lovin’.
Time for lovin’ ourselves just as we’re created, and it’s time for the lovin’ of others. Including husbands.
There’s no shame in His design. No “more than” or “less than,” and it’s time we stop hurtin’ our husbands. It’s time, loved ones, to bless God.
To give thanks. Yes, oh, yes. We can.
If this comes as a surprise to you, that your dissatisfaction could be hurting your husband, I warmly encourage you to ask him. Be vulnerable and see if your negativity about your own being is causing him to feel disrespected. It could open up a new avenue of communication. You need it. He needs it. Your marriage needs it. And God wants it.
*BOS – Bright Orange Swing