Fierce Beauty (6 page)

God
is
calling women to be beautiful, just not in the way our world portrays. God’s desire is that we will choose to lay down our princess crown of entitlement, pick up His sword of encouragement, and start fighting for those around us who are losing their battle for hope.

God help us. The fact is that from the beginning of history,
He has never stopped trying
.

Friend, sin is not pretty.

However, righteous beauty is like a sunrise; it cannot be stopped no matter what circumstances surround it. It is not affected by the weather of perceived emotions. It is stable, secure, and dependable. It does not merely sparkle from the outside in; it radiates from the inside out, because it’s inside these perishable containers that the glory of our Lord is held. This glory—
His glory within us
—is what makes us beautiful.

Like Carrie, the frilly little guest at our ranch, Amelia was another “little girl” who came to the ranch searching for fulfillment. Because she
chose to experience life by serving others, she found a much deeper purpose. Amelia taught me so much the day she brought cookies. Even though it was difficult for her, she did it anyway. She pushed beyond her own desires and took action to lift the hearts of others. She demonstrated that true beauty is not about how we look. Authentic beauty is revealed in what we do for those in need around us. On that day I wanted to be beautiful like Amelia … because she was beautiful like Jesus.

Do you wish to be beautiful, as truly beautiful as Amelia? It’s not so difficult. Authentic beauty is not based on what we’re wearing or how we look. It flows out of our hearts and is a form of worship of our King. This beauty grows when we open our eyes to the hurting souls around us—our neighbors, our co-workers, our friends, our husbands, our children—and ask, “What can I do today to show them the love of Jesus?” The simplest act, even a kind word, is the first step toward a radiant beauty that will endear us in the eyes of the One who matters most.

I’m a runner, but not in the way you might think. My staff would enthusiastically confess for me that the sole reason I run is to maintain my superhuman ability to eat busloads of M&M’S and still fit in my pants. I tell my running mates that I’m just preparing for the future. I happen to have insider knowledge about a technique scientists are closing in on—a way to bale M&M’S like hay and sell them by the ton!

For me, running is about fellowship and whom I’m jogging with. For the past two decades, I’ve valued this time so much that I’ve run a marathon roughly every other year. It’s been a wonderful opportunity to spend precious time moving stride for stride with family and friends. Running 26.2 miles sounds lofty, but, trust me, it’s not. If I can do it, anyone can. It’s simply one of the things I do to stay physically and relationally fit and keep my life balanced. Especially since
balanced
has not always been true of me.

For propriety’s sake, please understand that I use the word
run
as a figure of speech. At five feet nine inches and weighing an industrial 163 pounds, I believe the lithe grace one usually associates with
run
does not apply to the lead-footed lurching of my tyrannosaurish gait. Whether I’m running uphill, downhill, sideways, or backward, I’m the ten-minute-mile queen. Over the years I’ve been nicknamed “Diesel,” in part because once I get warmed up, I’m completely comfortable chugging along all day at this humble pace.

Our marathon training schedule is simple. We run two short distances during the week and save the long jog for Saturday mornings. We add an extra mile each weekend until we reach twenty-four miles, and then, about a month before the race, we taper down sharply to the day of our big event.

Because of the heavy ranch schedule, the only marathons we can participate in are those held in the early spring. Nearly all our training is done during the coldest months of winter, my favorite season to run.

On one particular Saturday a few years ago, my running team and I gathered in the nearby town of Sunriver. We planned to run to Bend via a network of logging roads that eventually connect to a beautiful river trail. The course we mapped out was about twenty-two miles and was a point-to-point run. These are my favorite types of runs because they each offer a distinctive adventure. Once in the wilderness, our runners were to travel in pairs for safety. I advised all my teammates to be prepared for a variety of weather conditions and carry their own survival gear. At nearly 4,000 feet in elevation, the weather can change rapidly in the high desert. When beginning a long route, it’s best to wear layers and then add or shed as the climate dictates.

Our run started under low clouds and heavy sleet. After we climbed a few miles and gained elevation, the sleet transformed into downy snow. The falling world of white swirled around me in soft eddies and churns. Each rolling flurry made me grateful for the new Windbreaker and gloves I’d just purchased. So far, the maiden voyage of this light jacket was proving it to be a useful acquisition.

True to the Central Oregon climate, it wasn’t long before the sun’s triumphant beams began to break though the falling snowflakes. I was awestruck by the rare phenomenon of being able to run hand in hand with my own shadow amid heavy snow. While ethereal beauty wafted down, my heart filled with silent praise:
Thank You, Lord, for this amazing world
. I smiled and wondered if this might be what the fringe of His robe would look like.

After several more uphill miles, I was warm enough to remove my
Windbreaker. I tied it around my waist and left the tail to drape over my backside. As one who loves to run in the cold, I’ve learned this is the best way to keep my “engine room” warm and moving well. While running, I was only vaguely aware that the zipper head of my jacket was gently drumming against the outside of my right thigh. Step after step, mile after mile, hour after hour, the nearly imperceptible tapping continued. It was no big deal. It was a zipper head, it wasn’t even an inch long, and it weighed nothing at all.

Later that night I finally had the opportunity to jump into the shower. That’s when I noticed it. As I raised my right leg to step into the tub, I was stunned by what I saw. My entire right thigh looked as if it had been beaten with a gunnysack full of golf balls. On my leg were approximately sixty dime-size bruises. I looked down at my completely purple thigh in astonishment. I’ve run for years with jackets tied around my waist and never experienced anything like this.

Yet the damage was done.

Clearly, the whipping zipper head was the culprit. Hot steam filled the room as I stood motionless on one leg. I found it hard to believe that such a weightless, insignificant little thing, left unchecked, could cause so much damage. Nevertheless, before me in vibrant color, was my proof that, indeed, it could.

Finally I stepped into the streaming warmth of the shower. It became a refuge for reflection, a time to consider how destructive “little things” can become. It didn’t take me long to reel through a list of events in my life that began with an insignificant start and—swinging to the opposite extreme like a pendulum—ended with a damaging finish.

I was only thirteen when the serpents of image and appearance slithered into my heart. I was about to be a freshman at a new high school and would know few others. Feeling insecure about the unknown, I took stock of myself. One destructive example was set in motion by a single, simple thought:
Kim, you weigh too much. You would be healthier, faster, stronger, and much better to look at if you weighed less
.

Well, okay. I guess I should lose a few pounds
.

A harmless observation, fueled by the stress of a destroyed family, soon grew into something far from harmless. Even though my grandmother’s love for my sisters and me was undeniable, the trauma of my parents’ deaths was a private tragedy for everyone; none of us was equipped for the sudden loss. Year after year I watched my sisters and grandparents struggle to deal with their grief in their unique ways. During that time our home often ricocheted between silence, volatility, self-imposed isolation, and brittle vignettes of peace.

We were on a crash course of learning how to walk through a season of unthinkable anguish. Our life as a family—something that should have felt safe and under control—repeatedly felt anxious and completely out of control. Many a night I lay in my little bed and listened to my grandmother through the wall that separated our bedrooms. She never knew that I could hear her crying herself to sleep. Her helpless sobs in the night became the only motivation I needed to never trouble her again. I purposed in my heart that my actions would no longer bring her grief. I would become the perfect child. I would be in control of my every word and action and never again cause her a moment of pain or worry.

It wasn’t long before my warped need to control myself became my sole ambition, my sense of value, my lonely god.

What began as a healthy endeavor soon grew into an obsession. I lost five pounds, then ten, then fifteen, and suddenly earned the praise of all. At my school, job, and church, I gained more and more attention for my appearance. More than once I was stopped by virtual strangers who looked at me with tear-filled eyes and stammered, “Oh my goodness, you’ve become as slender and beautiful as your mother!”

Wow, who knew I was so good at this?
I thought.
If some weight loss is good, more will certainly be better
. As a former chunky tomboy, this “reduction” suddenly gave me a sense of purpose. During a season that often seemed out of control, my weight became an area in which I felt powerful and in control. I liked that feeling; I liked it too much.

As my weight plummeted, my height skyrocketed. I grew six inches during my first two years of high school, topping out at sixty-nine inches.
My bones grew more heavy and dense as well. In my obsessed frame of mind, this caused a paradoxical problem for me. I simply could not lose control. I could not allow my weight to rule me, to win. Even though my height was that of the average American man and I had the bone structure to match, my weight often hovered around 113 pounds.

I became addicted to seeing the incremental lines on a scale, any scale, go down. I weighed myself up to twenty times a day. Often I did not drink water because this would cause an unacceptable increase in weight. I kept and chewed the same piece of gum for days, sometimes weeks, to save on my caloric total. More days than not, my lunch was a lone green apple.

My grandmother was an extraordinary cook, and when no one was home, I would chew up obscene amounts of food, spit the results into the sink, and wash the evidence down the drain. Cake frosting was my archenemy. It became a family joke. Only my sisters knew how many of my grandma’s cakes I destroyed by quickly eating only the frosting.

Unfortunately, that’s where the joke ended. If I momentarily lost control and swallowed too many bites of food, the immediate punishment I inflicted on myself was severe. Each transgression was punished with thousands of sit-ups, push-ups, and jump-rope skips. Even in this narcissistic exercise, I gained a weird pride in counting every single repetition. If I failed to complete the number in my head, I was sure I’d failed as a person and suffered an additional crushing mental defeat.

For five years I chose to live in this prison, bowing before my self-appointed deity. Though I was a believer and in a young-adult home group, taught a Bible study, and attended a Christian college, reigning supreme over all was my desire to be thin. It shadowed my every thought, determined every decision, and governed all my actions. I’d given my life over to my obsession with food.

Even though my words proclaimed otherwise, during this tormented season I did not trust in God. I trusted in me. My faith rested in my own sense of leadership. Under my rule I led myself to the brink of starvation. I was too weak to explore my beloved mountains or, for that matter, to
participate in any sport or physical activity outside my near-daily punishments. My self-imposed weight loss devastated my once-healthy immune system. I was sick all the time. My vitality deteriorated so quickly that my long black hair started to fall out in clumps. None of this self-inflicted ruin deterred me from my goal—the goal of control.

To maintain my facade, I became a master at hiding my addiction. Not even my family knew. I came up with myriad excuses as to why I didn’t have time to play anymore. I camouflaged my thinning hair with layered styles that looked bouncy and full. I never changed my clothes in front of anyone, not an easy task when being raised with two older sisters and having four years of PE classes.

If I knew I would have a sit-down dinner, I skipped all other meals that day. Often I hid the volume of what I ate by carrying my food into another room and secretly throwing it away. Once while scraping an entire meal into the garbage, my grandmother surprised me.

“Honey, what are you doing?” she said in a voice that demanded more than asked.