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It's Just a Number

Would I ever make peace with my scale?

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With the birth of each of my five children, I added a few more pounds to my 5'2" frame. The pounds clung to my hips, thighs, stomach, and backside like barnacles to a boat. They invaded my clothes, stretching and shrinking them until the seams gave way.

To shed these pounds, I tried every diet I came across. I either ate or avoided protein, carbohydrates, fat, or sugar, depending on the latest medical "expert" recommendations. I drank every slimming shake in a can and listened to every diet guru on TV. I downed water until I sloshed in my boots, and ate sprouts until they grew out of my ears.

No matter how hard I tried to rid myself of the excess weight, the pounds I occasionally lost always found their way back to me like a boomerang. I suspected somewhere there existed a lost and found with my name and address tacked on the wall as the recipient of all wayward pounds.

I asked God to remove this weight from my body. If he wanted to, he could speed up my metabolism so I'd burn calories faster than a speeding bullet. He could add six or more inches to my height. (I'd be the right weight for a seven-foot woman!) If he chose, he could reprogram my appetite so I'd crave cardboard-tasting rice cakes, carrot sticks, and liver, instead of club sandwiches, ice cream, and brownies.

Sighing, I reined in my fantasies and decided I must need what the apostle Paul called a "thorn in the flesh" (2 Corinthians 12:7) to keep from being conceited. If I were thin, I'd probably flaunt it. I'd mince around town on six-inch platform heels, dressed in leather micro-mini skirts and tank tops, shamelessly exposing my flat abs. Everywhere I'd go, I'd want to be noticed. No longer content with a back seat anywhere, I'd parade down the church aisle to the front row in my designer-beaded dresses and stiletto heels. I'd be an embarrassment to everyone who knew me, a middle-aged woman gussied up like a teenager. My children would wear sunglasses and trench coats when they were out with me. My husband would pretend he didn't know me. Being thin would most likely make me unfit for human company, I consoled myself.

Still, my weight tormented me. I became guilt-ridden over what seemed an obvious lack of self-control. I felt ashamed and weak. I imagined people pointing at me, saying, "She needs to get her appetite under control," or "She certainly isn't trusting God with her weight," or even, "If she'd get up from the table and suture her mouth, she'd lose a few pounds."

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Today's Christian Woman
It's Just a Number