WE ARE NOT ALWAYS THAT PROUD OF OUR BODIES
ESPECIALLY AS WE GROW OLDER
so we have a way of
on purpose
covering up
as much as possible
and maybe even making fun of it
in ways that makes others look away from
THE OBVIOUS
like some grand Vegas Strip Magician. . .
Which has made me understand the most profound of all statements uttered by sick and the not so sick alike:
THE WORST BETRAYAL OF ALL IS WHEN OUR BODY’S BETRAY US
I seldom BLOG two book reviews per week and wasn’t planning on doing this but I had just gotten done intermittently reading this book when Richard Rohr wrote about this in his daily devotion this past Tuesday. . .and I don’t let CHANCE MOMENTS pass; when they speak to me, I make sure I above whisper them along to others:
Knowing and Loving Our Bodies
Dear Body,
Sometimes, I hate you. You ache. You get tired sooner than I’d like to admit. You wake me in the night for no good reason. Your cells duplicate at unpredictable rates. New gray hairs and fine lines and silver stretch marks show up out of nowhere. You let me down just when I need you the most. . . .
Sometimes, I want a break from living with you. I’d prefer to trade you in for a newer model. A model that isn’t in constant pain, that fits better in that pair of jeans, that has more energy. With you, I am limited—bound by skin and bone and thinning hair.
With you, I am fragile. . . .
But God knows what it’s like to live in flesh. . . . If God too lived in a body, then God knows the ache of growing pains and the feeling of goosebumps on a brisk day and the comfort of a warm embrace. He felt the gurgle of a hungry stomach and the annoying prick of a splinter after a day of hard work. He wept over the death of a friend. Ours is a God who sneezed and rubbed His eyes when He was sleepy. Ours is a God who knew longing, heartbreak, excitement, frustration—the full range of what it means to be human . . . [and] live in a body.
So when my own body drags me down, when my muscles ache, when my worries keep me up at night, when my fear for the future leaves me motionless, when I feel lonely and exhausted and burdened, I do not worship a God who is far off.
This is a God who knows my humanity inside and out. God has counted every hair on my head (Matthew 10:30) and bottled up every tear I have shed (Psalm 56:8). Not simply because the Word formed us (Genesis 1:27), knit us together in our mothers’ wombs (Psalm 139:13), was there from the very beginning . . . but because God wore our skin.
By embracing the wisdom of the incarnation, Bowler learned to listen to her body’s messages and be kind to herself:
Dear, dear body, I get it. Or at least I am starting to. You do not have an unlimited supply. You run out, and I need to listen. Maybe I really should go to bed a little earlier or let you off the hook for craving those extra salty chips. I need to sense when you are struggling, and gently acknowledge that you are actually changing. That time and love and grief and life have worn themselves into my skin. Day by day. This is the beautiful, terrible evidence that we have lived.
what we often do
TO NOT SEE THE OBVIOUS
and maybe now know that’s it so much more than
a glimpse worth spying. . .
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