Fat Chance (20 page)
Authors: Julie Haddon
I want my legacy to be that I praised God at every turn. Until I breathe my last breath, I want to praise him for the mountaintops and praise him for the valleys. I want to praise him for my history and for a future that seems so bright. I want to praise him for my husband and for my children and for my friends. I want to praise him for my body—which, though imperfect, carries me through each and every day. I can walk. I can run. I can build muscle mass and confidence and strength. And for those things, I’ll always be grateful—gratefully full of praise.
The contemporary Christian band Watermark released a song years ago that echoes the heart of this theme. In “Gloria,” they sing, “I wish I could crash like the waves and turn like the autumn breeze, in an effort to praise you. I wish I could smell like the forest, the fragrance lifting a mighty chorus in an effort to praise you.”
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They go on this way, wishing they could cry out praise as effectively as rolling thunder or falling summer rain but then acknowledging that we humans have limitations when it comes to such things. When the chorus rises, the lead singer expresses her praise the only way she knows how—by singing “Gloria.”
Gloria
!
Glory in the highest
Forever I will hide myself in Thee
Oh, Gloria
!
Glory in excelsis Deo
Gloria
!
Gloria
!
Gloria!
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I get what the singer is saying. How I wish my praise for God were as powerful as thunder! While I was on
The Biggest Loser
campus, I used to wish my praise could have rung out like those church bells or smelled like the sweet strawberries whose scent often woke us up. Knowing those things were impossible, I’d praise God the only way I knew how.
With every minute on the treadmill, my soul was saying, “Gloria!” With every healthful handful of almonds eaten, my lips were speaking, “Gloria!” With every quiet prayer mouthed when I was too tired to actually speak, my heart was crying, “Gloria! Glory in the highest!
Forever
I will hide myself in Thee.”
Although you and I are limited creatures, we can praise God still. We can do what God calls us to do. We can strengthen ourselves—body, mind and soul. We can accept his great love. We can offer up our lives in service to him. We can leave behind a legacy of faithfulness to all who knew us well.
T
he first weekend I was home after being on the show, I couldn’t wait to go to church. Sunday morning showed up with crystal blue skies and bright, warm sunbeams, and a sense of distinct, divine hope that I’d missed.
As I stepped into the auditorium I realized that while everything was the same, it was altogether different too. The people were nicer, the music was sweeter and my attitude had been remade. How true it is that you don’t really appreciate something until it has been taken away from you for a while. I had been in church for all those years without enjoying all that it means to be “in Christ.” Funny how I’d overlooked him until I encountered him in a gym.
I sang a solo that weekend, Babbie Mason’s “He’ll Find a Way,” and as I looked out from the platform at the loving eyes looking back, I couldn’t help but think about how these were the people who had been praying for me for four months straight, the people who had been caring for me from afar every second I was on the show. “You did find a way, didn’t you, God?” I thought as I belted out the chorus. “You found a way to break through, to be near, to beckon me toward authentic faith.”
It wasn’t the church of my youth that had been the problem. It wasn’t legalism’s rules that had led me astray. The chasm between God and me all that time was one of my own making. And how grateful I was when it was finally bridged. “When you’re feeling at your weakest,” that Babbie Mason song goes, “Jesus will be strong. He’ll provide an answer when you find all hope is gone. He’ll find a way.”
I couldn’t agree with her more. God always finds a way.
It may seem like a small accomplishment to you, but the first time I was able to walk into church, sit down and cross my legs, I thought I might have to stand right back up and do a happy dance. Prior to my
The Biggest Loser
experience, I was barely able to cross my
ankles
while seated, let alone try to cross my legs.
Similarly, the first time that my son Noah was able to sit on my lap without being pushed off by the enormous roll of fat surrounding my midsection, grateful tears sprang instantly to my eyes.
Then there was the time I walked into a clothing store and was approached by a saleslady who was anxious to help me find a new outfit. She eyed my frame so that she’d know which clothes to pull and before spinning around to retrieve them said, “Hmm … looks like you’re a size six.” I could have kissed her, I was so elated. “Say that again,” I said with a smile. But sadly, she’d already walked off.
When you’re working toward a monumental goal, progress can seem hard to come by. No matter how hard you try and how faithful you are to your exercise and diet routine, you can’t seem to get to the crossed-legs, child-on-lap, surreal-size-six stage. I get that. I
lived
that for many, many months. And what I noticed on those
will-I-ever-be-thinner-than-this?
days was that the only way I could keep my sanity was to set small, achievable goals for myself—and then to celebrate like
crazy
once I reached them.
Those smaller goals were all over the map in terms of importance, but as I look back now I see that each one played a role in my overall success.
When I had already met my calorie limit for the day and turned down a piece of chocolate cake,
that
was a real goal achieved.
When I finally didn’t have to wear plus-size clothes,
that
was a real goal achieved.
When I saw an old friend and didn’t duck out of sight,
that
was a real goal achieved.
When I weighed in lighter than my wedding-night weight,
that
was a real goal achieved.
When I could actually do a cartwheel, that was a real goal achieved.
And with each goal I achieved, I had fresh reason to celebrate.
Part of my celebration strategy from the start was to make sure my rewards did not revolve around food. Although the previous Julie would scoff at these words, there is much more to life than food. It’s even possible to socialize with friends without the event being consumed by food. Who would have thought?
My advice if you’re stuck in a progress-less state is to try rewarding your small achievements with other senses than taste. Call a friend and share your success. Do your next workout in freshly cut grass—it’s the scent of celebration you won’t soon forget. Write your spouse or another family member a note of thanks for supporting you along the way. Look at yourself in the mirror and simply experience self-appreciation for once. Now
that’s
a way to celebrate!
Right now my “small, achievable goal” is to complete “The River Run” next month, a race that winds through the heart of Jacksonville, Florida—complete with challenging hills and long, flat stretches alike. It’s the largest 15K in the United States, and trust me, seeing my feet cross that finish line will be all the reward that I need. For thirty-five years I have watched tens of thousands of people finish that race, never once thinking I could ever keep up with them. Live bands perform at ten different locations along the race course, and I have a feeling I’ll be singing my heart out every long-awaited step of the way.
Break up your goal into small goals, and reward yourself as you greet each success. Before you know it you’ll be smooching your sales staff and lacing up your running shoes too.
At Home in My Own Skin:
Returning to the Old Life
I’d Somehow Never Lived
I
’VE ALWAYS BEEN a fan of crime fiction, and in my view there’s none better than Patricia Cornwell’s book
From Potter’s Field
. It’s part of the series that stars Detective Kay Scarpetta, a former medical examiner who retired and then became a private forensic consultant who was still utterly consumed by her work … and Italian cooking, which is why I
always
get hungry when I read about her life. Anyway, what’s so amazing about Cornwell’s writing is that just when she has you totally enthralled in one part of the plot, the chapter ends, a new one begins and that new one is about a completely different subject. “Wait,” you think as you flip the page, “weren’t we just in Central Park, staring at the poor girl who was killed by a mysterious murderer and left in the freezing cold wearing nothing but a trench coat and an Atlanta Braves baseball cap? And now it’s Christmas Day and we’re sitting in a hotel lobby? What did I miss?”
I can’t remember exactly when I picked up my first Patricia Cornwell book, but it was probably when I worked late-night shifts at CSX Transportation years ago. I handled paperwork for train orders coming out of various big cities. I loved that job! I loved the people, the setting and the fact that I got to read good crime-fiction when things were slow.
The story lines always wind up being related in the end, but all along the way you’re desperate to understand how. Interestingly, I would discover after my
The Biggest Loser
experience that I only loved being kept in the dark and guessing at every turn when those things were happening to a fictional protagonist instead of happening to
me
.
Throughout my entire reality TV stint, God was orchestrating such a magnificent series of captivating twists and turns that now as I look back on those days my breath is all but taken away. What’s more, the masterly story lines he was writing would build to a climax that was far more exciting than Scarpetta solving a crime. They would lead to a little boy named Jaxon, Mike’s and my adorable, adopted son.
P
art of why I auditioned for
The Biggest Loser
in the first place is because I was at my wit’s end. I knew that I had a medical condition—polycystic ovary syndrome—and I knew that obesity only exacerbated the problem. If I could get on a show like
The Biggest Loser
, then I might be able to lose weight once and for all. And if I could lose weight, then maybe I would be able to overcome my medical condition, get pregnant again, deliver a brand-new baby and live happily ever after. That was my plan—bing, bang, boom. Little did I know that God had a very different plan in mind.
Mike and I had loved Noah’s infancy and early childhood so much that we decided we’d wait until he was three years old before trying with any intention to conceive again. We wanted to be just as present and enthralled with our second child as we’d had the luxury of being with Noah. What we didn’t know at the time, of course, was that pregnancy the second time around just wasn’t meant to be.
Those infertile months were ugly months. Around the time that my period was supposed to start, I would wait on pins and needles, wondering if
this
was the month we’d conceived. I would drop fifty bucks on pregnancy-detection sticks, and another fifty on ovulation kits once I realized that our efforts, yet again, had been in vain. The good stuff of intimacy quickly was replaced with clinical calculations of temperatures and fluids and calendar counts, and before long my husband and I both were sad and spent and heartsick to our cores.
In the same way that you never ask a woman her age or her weight, never, ever ask her when she’s going to have another child, or a first child, for that matter. Who knows what raw nerves you might hit.
Just a little friendly advice, free of charge from me to you.
As each menstrual cycle showed up, so did Mike’s overly emotional and spiritually exhausted wife. The everyday bits
and pieces of life just did me in. We’d make a quick trip to the mall, for instance, and as soon as I’d catch sight of an apathetic teenager with a disheveled toddler hanging off her hip, I’d dissolve into tears. “
Seriously
, God? I’ve actually been trying to get pregnant, and yet
she’s
the one with a child? Why would you choose
her
over
me
?” I had love to offer, care to extend and a heart that truly desired another child. Would the Giver of that desire really refuse to fulfill it?