The Thief

Anxiety is the stealthiest and most cunning of thieves.

Months ago, I thought, "I think I'd like to get a dog."

So began a series of endless preparations. Researching rescue animals, looking up puppies for sale, settling on a Golden Retriever as the right fit, saving money, buying supplies gradually, and eagerly marking the date on our calendar when our pup would be ready to be picked up.

We spent hours deciding on what name to call our puppy. Midas? Merlin? Westley? Kevin? Finally, we found the perfect name: Pacha. 

 I was nervous, but normally so. I read all the articles. I did all the research. I set up the crate and bought a potty bell and cut up treats carefully into tiny pieces to get ready for training. With the clicker on my wrist and the toys in my purse, I made the drive and picked up the puppy. 

He was plump and playful. The car ride was a bit scary, but he was brave, and so was I.

I showed him his crate. He went right in and took a nap. He chased the kids in the back yard and discovered how much he loved being out in the grass. He would eat random leaves and chew on exposed roots in the backyard. 

I started to feel the familiar wave of panic, held at bay by trusty anti-anxiety meds. Clark could sense my unease and sent me on a walk because that often helps settle me down.

The walk helped a little. I returned home and did a brief five-minute leash training with the puppy before crating him for the night.

He did not cry, whine, or even stir until midnight.

And then the thief entered -- at night like they most often do.

Pacha went back into the crate. He went back to sleep.

I did not. I felt full-blown panic. Trouble breathing, the need to go to the bathroom every 10 minutes, racing heart, thoughts running like wild ponies through the sagebrush of my mind.

I waited, breathing, for the panic to subside. It did not. Instead, it spread, affecting every muscle and blood vessel in my body. I felt tears coming and I could not stop them. Confusion rushed through me. Hadn't I prepared for this? Why was I having such a strong episode of anxiety?

I did my usual coping mechanisms. Listen to audiobooks. Try soft music. Pray. Wrap blankets tightly around self. But I could not cope. Desperate for sleep, I took a second Zoloft in addition to my usual dose, and I got two more hours of rest.

I took the puppy out at 5 AM. The kids got up. And I was a zombie of sleep-loss-enhanced panic. 

I could not eat breakfast, because I knew I would throw up if I tried.

I couldn't even look at the dog, because I felt my stomach clench every time I did.

My skin was pale, I was constantly clammy, and my heart rate stayed at 130 beats per minute (thanks Garmin) for over two hours. 

Not knowing what I to do, I turned to google. Anxiety after a puppy, I typed. How long does it last? About six weeks, came the response. Three months, one person said. A year, said another. A year? 

Not surprisingly, though my body was already tense with fight or flight stress responses, the anxiety worsened. 

The thought of even two more hours like this was terrible. The idea of a week -- nearly unbearable. A year -- unthinkable.

So then I turned to friends. What's wrong with me? Why am I broken? Why can't I do a normal thing like take care of a puppy (food, sleep, water -- it's not exactly brain surgery)? 

Nothing is wrong with you, they said. You couldn't have known this would happen. 

And they were right. I couldn't have known. With all the training videos and preordered treats and dog dishes and crate set up, anxiety slept in the background, not daring to show its head.

Instead, it struck when I had the most to lose. I could have called it off. I could have told the breeder, we've decided not to get our puppy. I could have avoided disappointing my children and feeling guilty and embarrassed and stupid. I could have saved hours spent researching and driving and planning. But, the best thieves only come when the prize is the greatest.

A lovely lady from a reached out to me. She's been looking for a dog after losing her last one to old age. She could drive down today, she said, just let me know what you need.

After taking away my sleep, my appetite, my ability to even control my bladder with any semblance of adult normalcy, and then taking away my new dog, anxiety then took away my ability to feel anything but emptiness after that 24-hour war that I just waged with myself. The thief completely cleaned house. 

Just a day later, my life is back to normal. But thanks to anxiety, there's a giant dog-shaped hole in it, filled to the top with nothing but guilt, shame, and sadness.

The Cost

What would it be like to live in a world where the priority was not economics but empathy?

Maybe the price we pay would be different.

It's less costly to pay a settlement and give a suspension than to fire an officer and chance risking an admittance of guilt to open the door to more potential lawsuits.

It costs money to train an officer. It costs money to outfit him. It's hard to get enough officers working to cover a full shift because the city doesn't want to hire, train, and pay more officers.

It costs money to raise salaries to attract better talent for police work. It costs money to continue their education. It costs money to give good benefits. It costs money to extend academy times, to provide stress outlets, to host community events to promote unity.

So what happens when all those things come together?

You get officers who don't speak up because they don't want to rock the boat.
You get officers who lose skills the further away they get from the academy.
You get officers who don't seek counseling for anger or anxiety because it could call their ability to police into question, or because it's not covered by health insurance and they can't afford it.
You get officers who gradually become a rule unto themselves, committing worse mistakes with a sense of complacency because even if they get their hand slapped, they won't get fired.
You get officers who forget the job is not about guns or punches (or apparently, restraining people with their knees until they die), but first about protecting and serving people and promoting the sanctity of human life.
You get officers who try hard, who want to do well, who are not racist at all but are now suddenly embarrassed and disgusted to be associated with a gang of bullies.

It costs money to liberate black men and women from slavery. A war was fought over that money, actually. It costs money to provide the same educational opportunities for everyone regardless of skin color. It costs money to register black people to vote. It costs money to pay black people the same amount that white people get paid. It costs money to give black people the same amount in welfare checks as white people. It costs money to build new schools in inner cities and hire competent teachers. It costs money to support single black mothers. It costs money to hire proper defense attorneys for black men accused of crimes.

So what happens when all those things come together?

You get black men who are always aware they could be shot when they go for a jog.
You get black graduates who know that their black name on a resume means they won't get the job.
You get black families who worry about how their kids will get a good education.
You get black boys who grow up without stability.
You get black dads who get killed for no reason.
You get black kids flooding foster care, facing abuse and other horrors, with little chance of finding an adoptive home.
You get black people in prison with harsher sentences for lesser crimes.
You create a black nation who feels that they are still second class citizens, because every time they begin to breathe freely, someone or something cuts off their air because giving them air is just too costly.

I chose this picture because they can breathe. I want others to breathe too. 

I guess this is America, and we get to keep our money in exchange for something we apparently seem to value less: the lives of the poor, the black, the brown, and even some of the good blue ones who pay for the sins of the bad blue ones because police do get shot in cold blood just because they're police. They're all cheap currency, a valid opportunity cost.

One nation under God, with liberty and justice for all -- for all who are rich, who are white, who are privileged, and
who are lucky to be alive.

Good

bread is without a doubt the best food on the planet.

I hear it every day. Every day.

"I've gotta get my body ready for summer."
"I need to be good with my diet this week."
"I need to lose these saddlebags."
"My butt is too flat for these jeans."
"My skin is too wrinkly now."
"I hate the way my legs look in shorts."
"I've been so bad -- I gained five pounds during quarantine."
"I'm so bloated and disgusting from this weekend."
"Gotta go for a run to burn that extra cookie I ate."

I get it. I know that self talk.

Here are my replies:

"Your body is ready for summer. You have a body, and summer is just around the corner."

"You can make healthy choices this week, but no food choices makes you a bad person. You can choose to be strict with what you eat for health reasons, but you can't be more good by choosing to eat a certain way."

"Your body is a good body, and saddlebags are normal. So is having a little fat on your thighs, a little pudge by your bra strap, and a bulge when you bend over at the waist. You can work out to be strong, but no part of your body is a bad part of your body, because your body is already a good body."

"Wear what you like and feel comfortable in. Your body is capable of more than filling out the seat of a pair of jeans."

"Your skin is good, and wrinkles are normal. Wrinkles do not diminish your worth."

"Your legs hold you up. If they feel warm, wear shorts. Your legs are part of your good body. Your legs are good legs."

"Gaining weight during quarantine does not make you a bad person. It makes you a normal person. You can change your choices and move forward in a different direction if that is what you want to do."

"Bloating happens for all sorts of reasons. Slime is disgusting. Rotten food in the back of your fridge is disgusting. Poop is disgusting. Chewed up gum is disgusting. You are not disgusting, even when you are bloated."

"Running is so good for your body and your mood. Run regardless of what you choose to eat, just because running makes you feel powerful, and exercise shows respect for your good body (which is good regardless of what you choose to eat)."

Say it until you believe it. My body is good, even when it doesn't look good. Food does not make me a bad person. No part of my body is a bad part of my body. Aging is normal. Your body can experience good things like summer and swimming regardless of how it looks. Exercise shows respect for your good body. You make your body stronger, you give your body relief from stress, you help your body avoid injuries when you move it regularly. Food choices can improve your health, help you avoid sickness, and make everything function optimally. Food is fuel for your good body.

Rinse. Repeat. You have a good body. It doesn't deserve the hate.

Greater Love

When you think of Jesus Christ, what do you think about?

I think about someone who is constant, compassionate, capable of great joy, whose greatest defining characteristic is the love He has for others. I think of someone kind, loyal, dependable, and obedient. I think of someone protective, teachable, wise, and honest.

But I also think of someone misunderstood, chastised, hated, and suffering. I think of someone who needs solitude, who struggles under many burdens, who chose pain as the path for His life.

"Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends." John 15:13

"He is despised and rejected of men; a man of sorrows; and acquainted with grief; and we hid as it were our faces from him; he was despised, and we esteemed him not... But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities; the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed." Isaiah 53: 3, 5.

With the advent of this Memorial Day weekend, I want to reflect on others who made a similar sacrifice to that of the Redeemer of the World.

There are thousands who laid down their lives for their friends -- countrymen, comrades, and citizens.

There are thousands who were despised and rejected for that sacrifice, brave men and women who are not remembered, not honored, and not respected for the pain and trauma they experienced on behalf of others.

There are thousands who bear constant sorrow for the loss of a brother, father, sister, son, daughter, or friend.

There are millions who look away or, like the priest on the road to Jericho, pass to the other side instead of stopping to help the man by the wayside, because they are too uncomfortable to face suffering.

From small things.

There are soldiers who do not get esteem for what they have done. There are men lying in forgotten graves, men who were never recovered, men who are still missing in action after seventy years.

But they were wounded. They were bruised. And most importantly, the chastisement of our peace was upon them. They allowed their personal peace to by assaulted so that countless others could live without experiencing that same pain. Often with their personal wounds, free countries can be healed from the threat of war, from natural disasters, from oppression, and from pride.

The ultimate gift we receive from Christ is peace and healing. He can fix what we cannot fix, repair what we personally broke, stand between us and our enemies, taking blows so that we do not have to suffer them. There will come a day when that peace will heal the world.

Until that time, there are good people who go forward, willing to lay down their lives for their friends.

The Next One

I've gotten through some days of social distancing by listening to a few of my favorite books on Audible. I'm more productive when I listen to books. They keep my mind distracted as I go through mundane tasks like doing dishes and folding clothes.

Some books I like to listen to include Harry Potter (obviously), historical books like The German War or The Boys in the Boat, and nostalgic books like the Phantom Tollbooth.

But, I've started the colossal "relisten" of "The Way of Kings" by Brandon Sanderson.


For those unfamiliar with Sanderson, he's kind of a rising star in the world of high fantasy work. He finished the Wheel of Time series for Robert Jordan. His method of writing and worldbuilding is astoundingly logical and complex. He has shorter books -- the most popular probably being the Mistborn trilogy (totally great, by the way), but "The Way of Kings" is the first book of an epic fantasy series. The audiobook is over 45 hours long.

It's a commitment of a listen.

But the slow pace and the intense world creation, along with some brilliant characterizations, are perfect for quarantine.

One of the key characters in TWOK is Kaladin.

Kaladin was raised as a lesser race but in a relatively privileged home. He showed promise as a teen to apprentice as a surgeon, but Kaladin feels his true calling is in military service as a gifted leader and fighter. He joins the army in an effort to protect his conscripted younger brother from being killed.

In a series of progressively unfortunate events, Kaladin goes from a position of military leadership to the lowest of the low as a slave. He's passed from master to master until he eventually is sold to become a bridge runner on the front lines of the war effort.

A bridge runner's only job is to carry massive bridges for real soldiers to cross when they reach chasms between plateaus. They carry bridges right into the arrows of the enemy, and hundreds get mowed down at every plateau assault. Basically, to be a bridge man is to be condemned to death.

After a few weeks of the bridge runs, with open scars on his shoulders from the bridge cutting into him during plateau runs, Kaladin contemplates suicide. But, he figures if he has nothing to live for, he might as well try to make the lives of the other bridgemen better.

He saves his slave pay to buy medicine for the wounded.
He trains his men to lift and carry the bridge more effectively.
He convinces others to pool their resources for better food.
He unites the bridgemen into a team that works together.
He gets his men to value their lives.
He earns their trust, builds their health, and minimizes their losses in battle.

One of the most prominent quotes from the series is "The most important step a man can take -- it's not the first one, is it? It's the next step, always the next one."

Now, for some honesty.

I didn't deal with social isolation as my best self. There was a lot of Netflix, a lot of complaining, plenty of tears, and a lot of abandoning self-care for self-pity and apathy.

I didn't track my food as usual. I skipped workouts because I just didn't feel like doing them. I ate whatever I felt like eating, even if it made me sick later. I didn't read to my kids or homeschool them. I stopped teaching Tennyson piano. I gave up working on my quilt. I felt no pressure to clean, to plan, to prepare. And even though I'd have bursts of productivity, I'd quickly regress back to my rather dismal approach to daily life.

But one of the lies we tell ourselves is that if we've screwed up enough times, then we might as well just not try anymore. We do that with food (I've already eaten this, so I guess I'm giving up), we do that with parenting (I always lose my temper with my kids, and it's too late to change that), we do that with God (I've already messed up my life this badly, how could I ever be redeemed). Kaladin did that too -- every time he would try to help or protect someone, he would fail. He wanted to quit trying -- what was the point?

But the next step is the most important. It doesn't matter what steps you took yesterday, or last week, or last year. It matters what you do now, and a minute from now, and an hour from now, and tomorrow, and all the tomorrows after that.

If you feel like you're too broken to try, then just remember that you have nothing to lose if you keep trying anyway.

Instead of taking his own life, Kaladin decided if he was already dead, then he might as well give his life away to people he could help, even a little.

If you're not too broken, then you have something to work with.

And, a quote from Jeffery R. Holland (who says it better than me):

"The past is to be learned from but not lived in. We look back to claim the embers from glowing experiences but not the ashes. And when we have learned what we need to learn and have brought with us the best that we have experienced, then we look ahead."

Her Name

She's twenty-six. She's gained 35 pounds already, and still has three months to go until her due date. Her hips ache and she can't eat without getting that burning feeling in her throat. Her shoes won't go on her feet anymore, so she wears flip flops, even though it's November.

She's exhausted. She's been up all night with a child who can't keep any food down. The water pours into the bathtub at 3 AM, and it's the third bath that night. She falls asleep next to the hot little body on the floor, hoping they both get the rest they need before the day begins and wondering if maybe the doctor can squeeze them in if they call right when the clinic opens.

She's worried. Her son has been struggling to make friends in school, and she can't seem to reach him like she used to. He's hurting and lonely, and she wants to help. Is he being bullied? Is he doing the bullying? How can she help him grow into a good man?

She feels guilty. She lost her temper today, and she could see the change in her daughter's eyes. She knows she shouldn't have yelled -- but it was just one more thing in a day where so many things have already gone wrong. They were going to be late, and she's tired of always having to repeat herself, so she got angry, and the kids got quiet.

She's sixty-one. She gets in the car to drive to the post office to send a package to a five-year-old boy who loves dinosaurs. She doesn't get to see him very often, but she loves him anyway. She sees his mother struggle with feelings of inadequacy and worry, and offers advice and comfort when she can.

She's trying. She's working full-time and taking evening classes, studying when the toddler sleeps. She sometimes wonders if she made the right decision, and single parenting is tough when you have no one to help you. But she still sings songs before bedtime and folds laundry if she has time. She's carving out a future by pushing a boulder uphill.

She takes a moment alone. The tiredness behind her eyes builds up. She takes a deep breath. And then she keeps moving forward. She puts on a brave face to protect you so you don't have to be afraid.

She wears her heart on her sleeve. She gives her body away. She fills up her time. She creates light in the darkness. She chases away dragons. She washes dish after dish. She asks how your day was, but she spends hers in the car, just driving and driving and driving. She says yes to getting a cat, even though she doesn't like cats. She makes playdough for the preschool and puts the homework folder in the backpack. She says no ice-cream unless you eat your dinner, but then forgets and gives you ice-cream anyway. She goes to bed last and wakes up first. She wants to lie down and rest. She wants to get away, but when she does, she misses home. She's lonely and crowded at the same moment.

She waits by the hospital bed and holds your hand at the dentist. She says you don't have to go out when you don't want to, and she agrees to be the bad guy so you can save face. She sees the melt-downs in the grocery store and somehow she knows what to do, even though she feels like she's just making it up as so goes along. She is patient, even if she doesn't believe it.

She wonders who she is sometimes. She wonders what she can change. She wants to be better but doesn't always know how to get there. She hopes her children will forgive her when she makes a mistake.

She says sorry sometimes. She says you need to wait for lunch, to put that in the trash, to tidy your room. She cares how your hair looks for school pictures and tells you to put on a clean shirt because you've worn that one for three days. No, it's not still clean. Yes, people can tell.

She is divinity made human. She is sacrifice embodied. She is hurting and healing at the same time. She chooses to be wounded to make others safe, to cultivate joy, to give what she can, even when she has given so much already.

She cries tears in every shade emotion -- by the side of a tiny casket, as she watches the picture on the ultrasound, into her pillow as she lays down to sleep, in the bright sunshine, and when she doesn't know if she can take another step forward. Joy and pain, sadness and gladness, guilt and pride, peace and turmoil.

Her name is Mom.

Flipping the Switch

More to be

What gives a person their worth? What makes a person matter? What should a person be remembered for?

I might not know all the correct answers, but I do know the incorrect one: how a person looks.

Your purpose in life is not:

• to wear a smaller dress size.
• to be an ornament that other people like to look at.
• to fulfill the sexual expectations of other men and women
• to feel shame about the parts of your body that aren't "perfect"
• to apologize to perfect strangers because you are not thin enough, curvy enough, young enough, or pretty enough to be valuable. 

Every time I have looked in the mirror I have noticed:

• that my breasts are lopsided and deflated looking from pregnancy and childbirth.
• that I have a section of fat that hangs out on top of my butt that makes it look bigger than it actually is when I wear jeans.
• that my arms have red bumps on them.
• that my legs are too short to actually look good wearing a dress
• that my tummy has scarred stretch marks and the skin looks mushy and wrinkly

Can I fix anything from the above list? 

The breasts -- Ummm, surgery I guess? A lift, some implants to even them out?

The fat -- it's been there even when I have lost weight and after running over 20 miles a week and keeping my calorie intake at less than 1300 a day. So, liposuction or coolsculpting, maybe. 

The red bumps -- I've tried creams and exfoliation and washing and not washing. My skin just is red and bumpy there, instead of smooth. So maybe laser treatments with a dermatologist.

The short legs -- high heels. 

Stretch mark tummy -- A time machine, or a tummy tuck, or both.

So I have these problems with my body. Surgery is financially impossible, and I have yet to hear of a surgery that can make my legs longer. So what's the only solution? A while ago, it might have been recommitting to a stricter diet, continuing to research moisturizers and stretch mark serums, and exercising more. Short-term misery to shoe-horn my body into something it isn't. 

And when those fail, the only thing I'm left with is my self-consciousness and intense dislike for my body. Even hatred sometimes.

I have sometimes wished I had the will-power to be anorexic. Yes, I wished I had the physical ability to literally starve myself to death.
I have sometimes wished I could get a disease that causes me to lose weight and finally be thin. Because cancer's not so bad, right, if the chemo makes you thin?
I have sometimes deliberately chosen not to be friends with a thin person because I feel like they don't know how easy they've got it.
I have sometimes hidden the fact that I want a brownie because people will see me eat it and think I shouldn't be eating it if I am overweight. Which means I have personally thought this about fat people.
I have sometimes wished I could switch bodies with a fit, thin person just to see what it would be like.
I have forced myself to throw up after Thanksgiving dinner because I'm too afraid of feeling full and gaining weight.

I could continue on that path, save up for surgery, hope for an eating disorder, and never feel comfortable just being myself again. Or I could flip a switch.

I loved this hike. I have a body that can hike.

What gives a person their worth?

I am a beloved daughter of Heavenly parents, with a divine nature and destiny. 

Just to clarify the above statement, I am created and loved by God. My body, my life, has worth and infinite potential. 

Beauty does not give you worth. 

And again for the people in the back:
BEAUTY DOES NOT GIVE YOU WORTH.

I remember disliking this picture
because I thought my arms looked fat.

What makes a person matter?

To who? To followers on Instagram, strangers on the internet, people who pass me on the street?

Or to my children, my husband, my friends, my neighbors?

I would guess to matter to them, I would try to be there for them, to love them, to teach them and help them and make a difference in their lives for the better. I cannot make that difference if all of my time is spent worrying about how fat my thighs look in these pants and whether or not I can have a slice of birthday cake because of the calories. I might spend a whole day at the pool, and not be able to enjoy playing with my kids, because I'm too self-conscious to be in a swimsuit, so I sit in a cover-up and watch instead. 

I matter too much to stay inside in case people might think I am ugly. 

I freaking made this dress. 

What should a person be remembered for?

What they do. People should be remembered for what they do. What do I want to be remembered for?

Maybe kindness. Or the cool cake I made once for my son's birthday. Or for how I can always make my husband laugh. Or for the goal that I set to do a pull-up, and how great I felt when I reached that goal. Or for the half-marathon I completed. For the kids I got to teach, for the friend I was able to lift up during a hard time, for the work I've done and thoughts I've shared. 

I am not ugly. I have cellulite and thighs like tree trunks and a saggy stomach skin and size 10 jeans. I'm just a person, and people are not ugly, because they don't exist to be looked at. That's not the reason I'm alive.

I like art, and music, and I like to learn new things. I have three beautiful children who love me. I created those children with the body I've spent so much time feeling badly about.

I have a body that can do amazing things. My body can speak, and see, and hear, and act. It can run and lift heavy things and make music and create art. It can learn and grow and heal itself. It can love and recieve love. 

There is more to be than eye candy.