28 February 2007

my toes

Do you remember that Judy Blume book from the third grade: "Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret." No. Actually, I think it was called "Blubber". Do you remember "Blubber?"

Judy Blume. There is someone I haven't thought about in a LONG time. She was such a pivotal figure in my prepubescence - one of the first to let me in on the enigmatic secrets of becoming a woman. I wonder how Judy Blume is doing... I wonder what Judy Blume is doing... I digress.

So anyway, "Blubber." Honestly I remember very little from that book, other than the obvious. There was this line, however, near its conclusion that came to mind this morning.

"I can see my toes," she said.

After a lifetime of burden - years of carrying around baggage that blinded this little girl to what was behind, beneath, around and within her - finally, she let it go. After searching and working and finally surrendering, she eventually looked down, and for the first time, she saw her toes.

There was a moment this morning, when I felt like she felt. This is a lot to get into. Far more than I intend to disclose at 4:30 in the morning, but the short of the long is that I can see my toes. For years I have been weary - carrying around burdensome baggage, blinded by a figurative (and somewhat literal) belly of extra weight. Even in the years when the scale read what I wanted, I was lost and unable to find pieces of myself. Somewhere down deep, I was crying out, "Are you there God? It's me, Abi."

Today - this morning - I can see my toes.

I feel free. I feel light. I feel joyful and peaceful and thankful and blessed. Lies that have bound me for years are unraveling. Boulders of mistruth and deception and isolation that once pinned me to the floor have rolled away.

"Come to me,"
He has gently enticed year after year, pound after pound, "and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your soul. For My yoke is easy and My burden is light..."

This morning I looked up, then down. I looked within and around and realized that He is here, that I am free and for the first time... ever... I can see my toes.

19 February 2007

blog slacker

What is my DEAL? It's been weeks. No words, just thoughts. I have SO much to say. I am full... overflowing, yet totally and completely overwhelmed and devoid of the right words. Maybe I should take my own advice. Just start, right? Indeed.

Not today (sigh).

03 February 2007

hard to say goodbye

It's been a little while, hasn't it? I'm not sure how more than two weeks have passed since I wrote last. I suppose I've had a lot going on and a lot on my mind (You would think that this would be my cue to write something groundbreaking or profound). Not so, not so.

Actually, I've been thinking about a pair of pants.

Do you have that pair of pants? You know, the pair that hugs you in all the right places, hides your flaws, accentuates your assets. Jeans, maybe. The fit is just right - EVEN out of the dryer. Perhaps you are the proud owner of the perfect little black dress or an impeccably-tailored power suit that just looks good or the classic shoe of all shoes.

Sadly, I have no idea what it's like to be you.

My pair of pants is ANYTHING but perfect. If you have known me for any length of time, you've seen the pants that I'm talking about. Through my days as a bachelorette, through marriage, three jobs, two pregnancies and two babies, who are now toddlers, I have shamelessly worn these tattered, elastic-wasted, stretched out, non-descript, shapeless, black-faded-to-something-not-so-black pants.

I'm that girl - the one you see in the grocery store with her nasty pants dragging on the floor. The one at whom you shake your head wondering how and why she made THE CHOICE to put on those raggedy knickers that do ABSOLUTELY NOTHING for her. The walking, talking episode of What Not To Wear, proudly parading in a pathetic excuse for pants... yeah, that's me.

The worst part is that I KNOW. I can't blame it on ignorance. I KNOW. I know how horrible those pants looked three years ago, (let alone last week) yet I continued to wear them. Shameless.

The good news is that I decided enough's enough, while I was out one day last week. I bought not one, but THREE pairs of comfortable, yet practical workout pants to replace my vice. I made the call and told Paul that the end of an era had come. It was time for us to say goodbye. He actually squealed.

The bad news is that that was 10 days ago.

"I'll just wash them one more time, before I throw them away" I said to myself. Then I proceeded to stick them back in my drawer.

"I just have to wait until ARC or DAV or Salvation Army comes back to our neighborhood," I momentarily convinced myself.

"I'll just wear them when I paint," I even rationalized last night.

I guess you could say that I'm having a hard time letting go. Regretfully, I simply cannot promise that I will ever throw my pants away. With that said, however, should you ever see me walking around in public in those dilapidated black pants, you have my permission to smack me.