This and That

Saturday, April 7, 2012

Haters Gonna Hate: So Don't Hate Yourself

Ugly. Fat. Flawed. Flat. Plain.

Every girl hears these words. Every girl has been stabbed by these lies. The problem is, not every girl knows these are lies. Culture has nailed in these "ever present" (haha Robin) lies so much, covered them up with pounds of foundation, and smeared them with layers of mascara that they seem to be true. They're the lies on the surface.
Many people wonder today how Hitler came to power, how he was able to bring so much hatred. There's a quote that goes like this: "If you repeat a lie often enough, it becomes the truth."
For decades, society has been telling girls (and boys) that they're not good enough, they're not pretty or skinny enough. One. Giant. Big. FAT. Lie. Images of make-up plastered, 6 foot tall, size negative two girls in paper thin bikins fill the pages of magazines. The ideal "hot girls." These girls may be attractive, they mean be sexy, they may be beautiful, but are they the only pretty ones?
Do girls have to be skinny to be beautiful? Do they have to have "flawless" skin in order for someone to call them pretty? (Who's flawless when we've all sinned, anyway?) Do they need exotic facial features or full chests? We all KNOW the answer is no, but do we BELIEVE so?
There are hundreds of quotes about inner beauty and confidence. Then how come there are anorexics, bulimics, sucidials, and obsessive plastic surgery patients? BECAUSE NOBODY'S PERFECT. But that's okay. 100% okay. (110% to those who think that makes sense.) The only human to ever be perfect was Jesus, and I guarantee you He did not have flawless skin. But He had a perfect heart and perfect obedience and perfect faith. And because Jesus IS perfect, we don't have to be. We never will be. Jesus took our flaws, our scars, and our wrinkles, and He bonded them around His inwardly perfect body and He shed. Isn't that beautiful? Doesn't that sound like the greatest, most wonderful four letter word? Doesn't that sound like LOVE? (If you were thinking of "food" you're wrong, although that's a great word, but we'll discuss that later.)
Strangely, a lot of people cringe at the word love. They assume love always means a relationship between two people. They think love is out to harm them.
"Love is patient. Love is kind. It does not envy. It does not boast. It keeps no record of wrong."
It keeps no record of wrong. It keeps NO record of wrong!
You're thinking: Hold on, how did we get from lies to love? I'll tell you. If we love ourselves, then we love who we are. If we love who we are, then we love our bodies. Now notice that in the verse that it says "Love does not boast." When I say we should love ourselves and our bodies I do not mean that we should become prideful beings. To love oneself is to know no one is perfect (except Jesus) and to be confident in oneself, inside and outside. If we cannot be confident with our insides, how can we be confident with our outsides? We can't. When we're not confident, we're not sure. When we're not sure, we start to believe the lies.
Okay. Back to the lies. Now you know why we believe the lies. So what do we do with them? Throw them out the window and into the dumpster! Yay! Unfortunately, it's not that easy. Why not? Because we're girls. Girls overanalyze. A lot. Someone could tell us we're pretty over and over but we'll never believe it...until we believe in ourselves. I, for one, have struggled with this for many, many years. Some of you may know that when I was six years old, I had a seizure that did not affect my body but did affect my learning ability. I was much slower at learning my ABC's and time tables than my classmates. But they didn't know. So they laughed. And it hurt. It hurt so much that I grew very shy. I didn't say a whole lot. It didn't help that I was chubby either. There was and is nothing wrong with being chubby, but I thought so. I believed the lie. All through elementary and middle school, I listened to those nasty comments. But something happened in 2008. I stopped believing the lies and starting seeing the truth. The truth that Jesus truly loves me as I am and that He made me beautifully. I begun to love myself. I stopped caring what others thought. I became myself. And when I did, I made more friends and I even lost weight after joining Cross Country. Now I would had never joined the XC team if I hadn't had confidence in myself and faith in Christ. I would had believed the lies that said I wasn't good enough or skinny enough to be running with these speedy people. But I believed the Truth instead. I believed that I was good enough, that I was strong enough, that I mattered.
But even now, I'm not "skinny" like the models in Cosmo girl. I don't think I ever will be, and I don't care to either. I don't want to cover my face with gobs of make-up. I don't want to hide behind a facade. There's nothing wrong with a little make-up. It brings out our best features , but only when we use it to brighten rather than darken and cover. I don't care if I'm flat chested or double D because they're gonna sag someday anyway. It's what's underneath those that matter. No one's going to care who was the prettiest or who was the most the athletic or the most intelligent. They're going to remember the girl whose confident, who loves herself as much as she loves others, who knows she's beautiful, inside and out. Because when you smile on the inside, it shows on the outside and that's more beautiful than a pair of boobs, a flat stomach, an acne-free face, or a nice body. Love yourself because you're loved by Him who made you beautifully.

Sunday, November 27, 2011

Louise

Some of you may have already read the earlier version of this essay. However, I edited it a few weeks ago, and it is loads better. Please comment so I can know what to improve.

To my Nana,

whose birthday I still celebrate on November 27.

Not too many people are fond of the reek of fish fry and grease, but I don’t mind. It reminds me of my great grandparents’ lake house in Horseshoe, Arkansas. Whenever my Pop fries bacon, a memory of Nana floats back to mind. With one hand on her hip, the other clutching a rusty spatula, she flips catfish and crappie in the propane deep fryer. Due to her arthritis, she has to bind her left hand fingers around her right wrist in order to remove the heavy skillet from the fire. While the fish sizzles in the fat, she rolls flour and corn into balls with her fat-knuckled hands. She smiles at me, her gorgeous gray eyes express a kindness only grandmas possess. “Give me some sugar,” she says. Knowing exactly what she says, I wrap my arms around her frail body and press my childish lips to her wrinkled yet soft cheek. Immediately, I’m overwhelmed by her perfume, a powdery-sweet scent.

I’ve always had a strong bond with Nana. For one, we share the same name. Hers being Francis Louise and mine, Joanna Louise. When I was born, she insisted that I be called Louise. Though only four feet and eleven inches, she was a little ball of fire, a Death-ah-Blow as PawPaw would call it. She refused to take no for an answer. Three days later (and only one after her birthday), I was given the name Joanna Louise Bernardini. Cradling me in her loose-skinned arms, she whispered in my ear “I love you Louise. You’re mine.” Since my birthday was so near hers and I carried her middle name, I was considered her favorite.

Sometimes I can still feel the chill of the autumn wind blowing in our faces while we stand on that ramshackle dock and simply admire the view. Golden and carrot colored leaves dance beneath the almost red Sun and the wind whistles above the white capped waves. During the summer we go fishing with my brother Jordan and PawPaw. With my construction site colored vest, I sniff the gasoline that rises when the motor erupts. Ducking our heads, Jordan and I bend over so to not be knocked out by the heavy hooks that hold the boat in place. While the boat cuts through the slimy algae, my brother and I keep our eyes peeled for turtles and tortoises. Before we exit the mouth of the canal PawPaw slows down and eases up to the side. Crawling out and fiddling with thickets and branches, he manages to acquire a twig of juicy blackberries. Even though they stain our fingertips, we stuff our mouths with the berries, stick out our tongues, and compare whose is more purple.

Once near the lilies, Nana reaches over and pulls a pad three times the circumference of my face and plops it on my head. I resemble a Munchkin. I always want to ask her questions like “How do fish breathe?” and “Where do they sleep?” but she constantly shushes me.

“Hush child. If you don’t be quiet, the fishies will run away,” she often said.

“But fish can’t…”

“Shh!”

I never understood how fish ran without legs.

Nana and PawPaw never fail to catch, but I am lucky enough to have one nibble on my line. Many times my heart jumps from excitement and I begin to reel in my pole, only then to realize my hook is caught on a log or tire. Jordan’s catches appear like Russian nesting dolls; each one comes out smaller and smaller. Once the Sun’s rays stretch for the horizon, we head back, and Jordan makes sure the hefty catfish doesn’t flop out while it breathes heavily. I snack on the smashed and sun dried berries.

While PawPaw demonstrates to Jordan how to properly cut open a catfish, Nana assists me with setting up the croquet equipment. Even though it hurt her back, she played with me every time I asked (which was every time I visited). Of course she let me win. I knew no one more altruistic than her; she was the essence of a caring grandmother.

Nana was perhaps the most oddly rounded individual I knew. Everyday, after she and PawPaw finished their six AM fishing, Nana knitted and sewed and crocheted. There was no one more talented at such a complicated skill. From quilts to felt bookmarks to pot pan holders, she did it all. For my sixth birthday she gave me a doll whose ball gown she had knitted with purple yarn and finished with ivory lace. I named her Emily (which I later found meant “industrious”). That was the last gift I received from Nana.

Often I think about her. I miss her smile and the way she squeezed me with her arms. I miss sleeping in the pull out couch and watching The Ten Commandments with her. I miss the story of her and PawPaw’s engagement: how she was crawling out from under the house and PawPaw replied “Do you cook too? I’m gonna marry you.” I miss the fried catfish and hushpuppies that she made for the fourth of July. I miss the endless hours of croquet and fishing. Whenever I visit that rugged dock, I feel as if Nana is standing there right next to me, talking to me, pointing out whenever a fish jumps. I can smell her powder and feel the warmth I receive from her hugs. She may not be down here but I know she’s There, watching down on me. I tilt my head to the sky and say “I love you too, Nana. I’ll see you when it’s time.”