A Day without Makeup

Broken has a daughter.

 I saw her like I had never seen anything before. I saw her with such clarity it frightened me. I sang “isn’t she lovely.” I looked at her. She was quiet. No noise. She had gray blue eyes. She had dark hair. She was intense. I was in awe. She was in me and now beside me and I saw her and nothing else.

She was so fragile. Glass. She could break so easily. I feared dropping her. Hurting her. I wanted to protect her. Suddenly 25 was too young to have a child. I wasn’t old enough or mature enough. Suddenly I was weak. Full of doubt. Who was I to be trusted with this daughter with gray blue eyes? This intense baby who stared. Broken had a daughter who was as physically fragile as broken was mentally fragile.

I would lay her down on the floor and put my head next to her and weep tears of appreciation. I admitted I created something wonderful but could not comprehend it. My body created her. This body that I blasted. This body that I bruised. This body I deemed unworthy. It created this intense baby. It created a feminine life. She, the female who would turn to me. I buried broken. Shoved it down. Did not talk about it. Yet, always thought about. It is amazing how long you can stay buried and broken. However, God has a purpose and when His purpose is only discovered through the broken. The broken will emerged. But for now, it stayed buried.

Intense is now in school. I love her. Her eyes have taken on the warm brown of her father’s. She is nothing like me. She has carved her way with attitude and might. She does not listen to “no”. She is smart, really smart. She is cunning and savvy. I did not give these to her. God knew. God knew I would not be able to so He put them in her Himself. I am convinced of it.

 I need do nothing to help her succeed. It is in her. She does not need me to comfort her. She will not tolerate dresses or bows. She will not brush her hair. I let it go. I am relieved. God simplified her needs. With the exception of one. Perfection. She needs perfection. I talk with her. I am trained in this. We go on. Intense continues to coast.

Intense gets older and so does the perfection. It won’t go away. I ask for advice, but don’t take it too serious.

Intense is in 3rd grade.

I wake up one night in a cold sweat. In less than two years she will be in 5^th grade. 5^th grade. That was when broken started for me. I stare into the dark. It has happened too fast. This passage of time. How do you make someone believe they are imperfectly perfect in less than two years?

How do you do it when you don’t believe it to be part of your truth?

This daughter of intensity. This daughter of cunning style. This daughter which I try so hard to bury the broken so she won’t see. How do I make her unbreakable?

 When God wants you to pursue something He makes it obvious. National Eating Disorder Month appeared on my calendar as I prepare my February work schedule. I stare at those words. They are me and it is an odd feeling. I don’t own the eating disorder yet. I don’t bless it. I try to make it no big deal. However, “no big deals” don’t need to be buried. The news starts to fill with stories of girls who go without makeup to show Beauty Redefined. I talk to young girls about self-love.  I start a lunch group….I lunch group that I don’t eat at. Moms respond with appreciation. I feel fake. I tell the girls love yourself, celebrate yourself. I yell to myself. I AM FAKE. Pretend Perfection. Pretend not hungry. Raw. Broken. Guilty. I cry over my perceived failure. Remember, crying is admittance. After the cry comes the voice. I ask myself what if……. What if I didn’t hide? Would I feel free? Would it open others to feel free? Broken hissed I would be made fun of, people would yell that I seek attention.

When God wants you to pursue something He will make it obvious. He kept at me. Everywhere I turned voices spoke of self-doubt, never enough, a choir of hurt. Girls needing something else. Esther breathed in me. “For if you remain silent at this time, relief and deliverance for the Jews will arise from another place, but you and your father’s family will perish. And who knows but that you have come to your royal position for such a time as this?” Esther 4:14. She was saying to me: “Perhaps this is the moment for which you have been created.” I take a deep breath and challenge, for the first time, broken.

I ask them. “Would you go without makeup?” “Would you come and sit in public with your daughter at lunch…… without makeup?” They did. These moms did. Something loosened inside of me. Emotions of warmth filled the broken.  They, those moms, those coworkers, went a day without makeup. Something fluttered inside.

That day, Intense sat with me, my mother, and my sister. All without makeup. We ate. I ate in front of moms and daughters. I ate God’s purpose. Broken gave way to a type of grace I had never known. Strength rose up from broken.  I knew broken was still there. I would still trip. In fact, I would trip so hard that I would fall and not get up for a few months………twice.  

But for that moment….that moment. The way to show Intense and the girls around her that they imperfectly perfect, was to show them a village of women, who took off their masks and redefined beauty for one day. For one group of girls.

 

To those moms, to those coworkers, to sister and mother, to all who supported A Day without Makeup- that was an instrumental moment for me. A stirring of something deeper to come. A hope that maybe I could extend out of my broken and find something more for others. I never truly conveyed how deep my appreciation went.

Thank you.

 

 

Joy Comes in the Morning

The morning cries out with the sound of the alarm.

To others it is an annoying beep. To me it is the start of another broken day. It yells “Get up and run so you will know you are worthy.”  Worth comes from running and controlled eating.

The world is still asleep at 4:45 a.m. The world is dark. The darkness matches the broken.

I do not know if I love the running or if I hate the running. The truth lies somewhere in between. I know I never regret the running. Many years ago, before I admitted the broken I ran to be perfect. Quick prayers to the One who blesses. Rote prayers rehearsed for many years. I say them in my head as I think of other things. I am empowered with this false power of multitasking.

Prayers done, marked off the list, music on, and go. Run. Run. Run. I will never be overweight if I run. Running saves me from fat. My mind obsesses. Soon I run to the cadence of the word “fat”. Every time my foot hits the ground it sounds off “fat” like a symbol. It clanged so loud in my ears. The word gave way to fear. I ran out of fear.

I was never such a person to be superficial. He didn't create me to be superficial. But I thought the word over and over again. Sometimes I said it. I let it come from deep inside me and I said the word over and over out loud. A crazy, broken person repeating herself like a broken record. In the dark, you don’t have to hide your words. The dark covers you and lets you be ugly broken. It is always so dark in the mornings. Before 5:00. I can hear the coyotes and disturb the deer. My broken dares coyotes to seek me out. I run and say the word that haunts me.

One day I say it and a tear falls. Somewhere inside me the broken breaks a different way. It has reached my soul. Broken smiles as it hits my soul. Broken already won my mind, it has my heart. I am only worthy when I push myself to the extreme and the extreme makes me fragile and easier to break. The crack hits my soul and the tear falls. It falls hard. I am confused and then the voice comes. It is soft I could almost ignore it but I heard it. “Why not Joy?” it asks. I am confused. Joy. My heart gave up on joy so long ago. But the voice was compelling. I stop saying fat. I try to listen. I keep running. Another tear falls. The spirit has been touched. There is such sadness in the place where broken and spirit meet. The spirit is ready. The spirit has the last battle. Spirit is gentle grace. Broken is jagged fear.

The crying starts. The winter freezes the tears. Jagged pieces of salted water run down my face. Tearing at the broken. Crying is admittance. Admittance takes so long to come forth and to become a truth. In the dark you do not have to wipe the tears away. In the dark broken tells you to fight the truth.

Now I speak to your spirit. Listen. Listen to me. There is a voice that comes after tears. It is a small but clear voice and it brings warmth and a choice. The voice tells you not what you want, but what you do not want. Your spirit will tell you what is no longer acceptable. The choice is still ours to make. Broken has won the brain and the heart. Spirit, however, is God given and will rise up when given the chance. But first the crying comes. Sometimes the crying stays for a while. My crying stayed for 20 years. Do not falter. I will lead you through yours. When you hear the voice, you must listen.

When you cry and open your ears to your spirit you hear grace. Grace leads to strength. These are given with the presence of our Heavenly Father. He gifts them freely. You must listen. You hear the solid promises of a different life. The dark that hid you becomes the dark that transforms you.

The rote prayers turn into an improv routine. Preacher dares us to talk to God. I dare to talk to Him. “I want joy.” I say. I know not how to pray. I just talk words. Confused, mixed up words. Soon my words fill my run. The music is never turned on. Although the broken still keeps me, I start to think of my run as time to get to know Him and He can help me endure the broken. His wisdom knows I will learn strength and grace from the broken. He will not deny me of strength and grace.

 I think of the Bible and how Adam and Eve would take walks with God. 

Pre-apple fiasco. I think of sermons at church. I think of what I know to be true about God. I do not know what is true of myself because broken robs me of my own identity. I know God. I know who and what He is. Crying was the step from broke and empty to admittance-- life had no joy. Joy in life comes with the knowledge of God.

 I ran without saying the “fat” word. I still would cry. My crying now admitted I was no longer running to escape. I was not running away. I was running to. I was running to Him. The crying admitted I did not want broken. The voice said “I am worthy of Joy.”

One morning I wake up and the alarm cried “Run to Him and know you are worthy”. I run to Him. As I run I realize I must stay with Him even after the run. I decide I must turn to the Bible after the run to get to know Him better. I finish. Breathing heavy, contemplating joy. I see the sun rising. I hear His promise. “Joy comes in the morning.” 

Broken to Blessed January 5,2015

From Broken to Blessed

 Follow me as my broken and jagged pieces come together for the blessed life I am leading. I know the hurt, the incomplete, the “never enough”. No more pretending. Let’s just be raw and real. Let’s grow together.

 I thought I was one of the few who were broken. Nobody else seemed broken. There must only be a few of us.  I broke early-- 5^th grade. I broke deep and wide.

I even got a name for the broken- Eating Disorder-Anorexia.

The broken doesn’t disappear. It is always. I discovered that broken is how many of us operate. It is hard to get out of the broken. Few can do it on their own. Few are strong enough or brave enough to reach out for help. You hold so tight to the little pieces, afraid if you let go you may fall instead of fly.

Every day of 2014 I asked for the broken to go away. But it didn’t. So, sometimes it was just easier to give into it and fall into the crevices. The deep dark crevices that lead to the self-sabotage, anger, and hurt.

Climbing out is tiresome and hard and leaves mental cuts and physical bruises and then the dreaded guilt. Guilt overwhelms and makes me want to escape. I hide in pretend perfection. I work out and eat right and maintain my weight and do family dinners, and focused work. I sneak chocolate, take breaks at work, lose my temper, and become prickly to the husband. I let the coveted few know I am broken. I am light hearted about it, but really I am broken. Very deep and very wide.

 I can twist life and pull and get loud. I can manipulate. I am jealous. I am selfish. I am numb. The color of broken is black with red outlines. The sound of broken is piercing words, the feeling of broken is empty, and the look of broken: bruises on the arms no one sees.

I cannot continue with this. I ask for it to go away and He does not lift it from me. So, I reach out to those trained to help. Sheepishly knowing, I am one of those who are trained.  I reach out and she helps me see the broken as not a part of me but its own entity. Slowly, I pull away from it. It is hard work to separate. Broken is sticky and manipulative. It makes me doubt my ability to fly. I will NOT be defined by it. God has plans for me. I know He does. He promised. He breathed it into His book.

It is a big ball of grey, the broken. It sits in the corner of the room. I see it separate from me. Now I can walk around it. Sometimes, it trips me…makes me fall. But I know how to get back up. It still sits. Some days I think it grows smaller. Other days it looms large. Most days, it just sits. We don’t touch. I stay away from it. It angers me for sitting there. I don’t understand why it doesn’t disappear. This mass of broken. This mass of guilt and anorexia, this mass of self-doubt and anxiety. Nobody else seems to notice it. Well, maybe the husband does. But he even says it is smaller than it used to be.

 I pray for it to go away. Broken is stubborn. It started at the age of 11 and it still here at 38. Every day I ask God to heal me completely and make it go away. Every day, it is still there. Frustration overwhelms my spirit. How can I lead when the broken sits in my life?

Then, it hits me. The loathed and hated broken made part of me. The diamond in the coal. It gives me purpose.

I have to BLESS the broken. The thought drives me down to the floor. On my knees, heaving tears, hot and messy. This raw honesty brings a painful release.

For you see, my broken is a gift. I know how it lives and breathes. I know the tricks it plays and how it grows. I know the manipulation. I am wiser for the knowing.  I know my way through the dark crevices I have visited so many times and I know how to be a tour guide through it. I use to think I was a stepping stone. But I now know I am a tour guide. Through the broken to the strong.

Dear Heavenly Father,

 Who was I to doubt You? You tell me again and again “For I know the plans I have for you….” and I refused to listen.

You knew the broken was hard and made me doubt who and what I was. You hurt and were frightened when I questioned living. You cried with me. You walked with me through the darkness and it was You who turned my Broken into Blessed. You knew my story could help others. You knew if you took it away I would not grow into graceful strength and You knew if You took it away I would not have Gracefully Strong.

Heavenly Father, bring the women who read this blog together. If I am to be a tour guide through the broken, help me to bring these women together so that we may embrace each other and our struggles so that we may all move together from Broken to Blessed.

Your Daughter,

Heather