The Worst Compliment Ever

I’ve always been the chubby girl, and several people throughout my life have had no problem reminding me of that.  It was mainly in elementary through high school (which, in retrospect, was a long time to be reminded that you’re imperfect by world standards), and I think that at some point most people mature enough to see that, while physical appearance may still be a major aspect of their own lives, being couth is a lot more socially appreciated.  Most adults (at least the decent ones) won’t flat-out call someone ‘fat.’

Living seven hours away from most of my friends and family means that I don’t see them all that often.  But when I do, sometimes one will comment that I’ve lost weight.  Now, I probably have lost weight.  Since Matt and I are on a limited budget, I cook most of our meals, and I try to create healthy, veggie-filled dishes that give us lots of nutrients and still fill up my husband’s bottomless pit of a stomach.  But losing some weight has not been the most exciting thing that has happened to me since that person saw me last.  I’ve moved to a new state, started a new job, and gotten married.  Those are all more exciting than shedding a few pounds.  So while no one has called me fat, my own personal body weight has still been made into someone else’s business.  I am still being judged, categorized, and recognized by the size of my jeans.  I recognize that most mean ‘You’ve lost weight!’ as a compliment, but it’s probably the worst compliment ever.  Because it sets one's worth as a number.

I’ve heard, what feels like, every possible reasoning as to why someone else’s weight is anyone else’s business, from good Samaritanism to the cost of healthcare.  Rationalizing it only further identifies people by a number, the one in their pants or on their scale.  We are humans, though, not numbers.  We are not numbers in the eyes of God; He didn’t assign us a number at our creation and keep a spreadsheet of how we’re doing.  He knows us all by name, by accomplishment, by struggle, and by effort.   I firmly believe that the things I have accomplished are worth more than my rising or falling pants size.  I believe that entering into the covenant of marriage, exploring my new city, and furthering my career are far more interesting talking points than whether or not I’ve lost weight.   I believe that God is more concerned with my desire to better love Him and His creations than my weight.

J.K. Rowling, author of the Harry Potter series, said once, "‘Fat’ is usually the first insult a girl throws at another girl when she wants to hurt her.  I mean, is ‘fat’ really the worst thing a human being can be? Is ‘fat’ worse than ‘vindictive’, ‘jealous’, ‘shallow’, ‘vain’, ‘boring’ or ‘cruel’?... I’ve got two daughters who will have to make their way in this skinny-obsessed world, and it worries me, because I don’t want them to be empty-headed, self-obsessed, emaciated clones; I’d rather they were independent, interesting, idealistic, kind, opinionated, original, funny – a thousand things, before ‘thin’. And frankly, I’d rather they didn’t give a gust of stinking chihuahua flatulence whether the woman standing next to them has fleshier knees than they do. Let my girls be Hermiones, rather than Pansy Parkinsons."

If you’ve read the series (or seen the movies), you’ll recognize Hermione as the sharp-as-a-tack, resourceful, brilliant, caring witch who advocated for better treatment of house elves, fought in numerous battles, and saved Harry’s and Ron’s skins more than a few times. While Pansy Parkinson was an all-around bully, constantly teasing others and reveling in their sorrows.   She goes so far as to laugh at the memory of the late Cedric Diggory and to suggest handing Harry Potter over to Lord Voldemort for certain death.  It doesn’t take much thought to rationally conclude that we should all want our daughters and ourselves to be more like Hermione.

No one comments about Hermione’s weight or hair or complexion.  No one cares that she’s a bit of a frizz ball; people care that she stood up to evil.  And I seriously doubt that Hermione ever spewed the compliment, ‘You’ve lost weight!’

Treading Water

I am not a very strong swimmer.  I have horrible vision (I'm actually legally blind), and I didn't begin wearing glasses until I was six.  Of course, wearing glasses in the swimming pool isn't very practical, so I was never able to really see what I was doing when it came to swimming.  Eventually, I taught myself the basics, and I can swim enough to keep myself afloat.  But every time I swim, I pray I'll never have to save someone from drowning.

I'm awesome at treading water, though.  At basically every aspect of my life.

The Sunday before last was Candlemas, or the Feast of the Presentation.  Basically, Mary got to come back into the public (as was customary for women to be secluded for a set amount of time after giving birth) and infant Jesus was presented to the world.  And the readings leading up to Christ's presentation have a certain anxious waiting to them, almost like we've gone back to Advent when we wait for the coming of the Lord.  The first reading (from Malachi) even tells us that the messenger is coming to prepare the way for the Lord, and the messenger will purify and refine like gold.  So right away, we're told someone is coming and we've set the stage for anticipation.  The second reading (from Hebrews) tells us that Christ is coming, not for the perfect, but for the imperfect.  And believe me (someone who is super imperfect), that's something worth waiting for.  And of course, the Gospel tells of His presentation.

We learn that two people have been patiently waiting for Christ when he arrives at the temple with his parents.  The prophetess Anna, who was old and a widow, had been waiting without ceasing.  She spends all of her time waiting in the temple, praying and fasting.  And when she sees Christ, she thanks God for him and tells everyone about the child who will redeem them.  And then there's Simeon.  Simeon was a really holy man, very devout and pious, and he had received a message from God that he wouldn't die until he'd seen Christ.  So when Simeon does see Christ, he holds him and praises God and declares that he has seen the salvation and that Jesus will see the rise and fall of many Israelites.  The thing about Simeon is that, unlike Anna, he hasn't been at the temple waiting every day.  He came that day because the Spirit had told him to.

Fr. Trahan spoke about actively seeking the Lord.  All of the readings provoke a sense of urgency in us, a feeling of waiting for something big.  We recall the feelings we have right before Christmas when we're actively waiting for something (hopefully the birth of Christ, but often the opening of gifts).  We do all these things to prepare for Christmas both in our spiritual lives and in our lives preparing for the customs of the holiday.  And the Candlemas readings remind us that we must continue to actively prepare for the coming of Christ a second time.  Of course, actively preparing is not the same as passively waiting.  And too often, I think, we all find ourselves living lives of passive Christianity.

When we are passive Christians, we are boring Christians.  We're treading water instead of swimming.  Instead of actively seeking Christ, we just wait and expect him to knock on our door and let us know he's here for us.  We must be proactive, constantly seeking Christ like Anna and Simeon.  It is not enough to be stagnant, keeping ourselves afloat in our Christian lives by treading water constantly.  How will we find Christ in the smallest of places if we aren't actively looking for him?  How much will we miss if we stay in the same place, expecting him to come to us?  Simeon didn't wait at home, expecting Mary and Joseph to bring Jesus to him for a visit.  The Spirit led him to the temple, and he went.  Anna knew that Christ would be there and she never left!  She never stopped waiting for him where she knew he'd be.

We cannot expect everything we seek (even beyond our relationship with Christ) to simply come to us.  We tell children from an early age that they can do anything, but we often leave out exactly how much work one must put into achieving those things.  Thus, we've bred a generation full of entitlement, a generation of people who believe they deserve everything they could ever want but don't realize they may have to work for it.  When our school systems refuse to issue failing grades and we hand out participation trophies, we teach our children that they will be rewarded for just participating in life without exerting much effort.  We reward them for being stagnant, for treading water.  And how much do they miss out on because they haven't been encouraged to try?

I often see members of my generation wondering why they didn't walk right into a well-paying job after receiving their diplomas.  We once were told that a college diploma was what one needed to do well.  But now, with the huge influx of college grads flooding the workforce, we need more.  We need drive, motivation, marketability.  In the ever-appropriate words of Dr. Seuss, “You can steer yourself in any direction you choose.  You’re on your own.  And I know that you know.  And you are the guy who’ll decide where to go.”  We need to be swimming toward success, actively seeking it.  We can't tread water and expect success to float past us.

The book of Jeremiah tells us that we must look for Christ, "You will seek Me and find Me when you search for Me with all your heart."  We're not told that he will come tap us on our shoulders when we're parked in front of the television on Sunday morning.  We're told that when we search, we will find Christ.  Searching isn't always easy or enjoyable.  It isn't comfortable to be always swimming toward something.  But as Pope Benedict XVI said, "The world offers you comfort.  But you were not made for comfort.  You were made for greatness."  We are not meant to be stagnant, sitting ducks.  We were meant to swim.

"Courage is found in unlikely places." -Tolkien

Disclaimer:
This post isn't meant to be about a hot-button issue.  It isn't meant to rally you with or against me in my stance on the sanctity of life.  This post is meant to applaud courage. 

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When I first read Tolkien's words, "Courage is found in unlikely places," I didn't really think much of it.  I didn't think much of it because I had never been called to be particularly courageous.  I had known particularly courageous people, relatives, friends and acquaintances that had faced some battle or situation that required extraordinary courage.  For a long time, I just assumed that they were naturally braver than me.

To me, courage seemed to be a distant concept that was naturally built into people and manifested itself in extreme circumstances, like making an incredibly stand against a bully and being someone's hero or waging a treacherous war on a disease or racing into a burning building (or equally dangerous situation) to save lives.  Courage was always a distant concept, probably because the less obvious acts of courage I had witnessed always seemed to come so naturally and easily to those who showed them.  Courageous acts were full of grandeur and valiance.  I often missed small acts of courage in others and myself because they seemed like instinctive reactions.

When my mother was forty years old, she discovered that she was pregnant with my younger brother.  I was a senior in high school, and needless to say, the pregnancy was a surprise to the entire family.  I was less than supportive.  (I was actually kind of a terror about the whole thing.)  And in retrospect, I know my mother had to have been fearful; she was beginning motherhood all over again, eighteen years older than she was the first time around.  A lot of things had changed, and she and my father were jumping back in quiet unexpectedly.  But I never saw that fear in either of them, and it seemed to me that they were just naturally accepting of this new challenge.  The idea that they were forced to be courageous in that situation wasn't one that crossed my mind until many years later.

In our society, my parents had did have a choice in their situation.  They had a choice to be courageous with the new task before them or to terminate the pregnancy and live the life they had planned with their baby bird left the nest (which included purchasing a motorcycle and RV and having a few grand adventures).  But at the time, it did not register with me that they had that choice.  The family and moral situation in which I was raised did not warrant abortion as an option for unplanned pregnancies.  The idea of aborting their unplanned baby probably never crossed my parents' minds, as it certainly never crossed mine (despite how totally not accepting I was of the situation for most of the pregnancy).

In the past seven years since my parents made the choice to be brave and keep their unexpected miracle, I've realized how truly brave my parents are, for various reasons.  My eyes have been opened to bravery all around me.  But a recent experience showed me, perhaps, the biggest act of bravery I have ever witnessed.

My friend, Julie, (along with her husband) and I attended the Texas Alliance for Life's Rally for Life.

It was a bit step in my personal ministry.

Last weekend, I got courageous and stepped out of my own comfort zone.  You see, I’ve been ministering to children and teens for the better part of the past ten years.  I’ve participated in various ministry teams and spoken to hundreds of young people about the Lord and His love for us.  And it was tough at times, because it isn’t that surprising that the last place some teens want to be on a Saturday morning is a church retreat.  But nothing required the courage I managed to find last weekend when I attended the Texas Alliance for Life’s Rally for Life.  I’ve never had to evangelize in such a way.   I’ve never been met with that level of hostility.  I’ve never been cursed at or rushed toward for speaking the Gospel.  But my bravery was simply nothing compared to a quiet act of great courage amongst the crowd.   

A woman walked before me with a sign on her back.  It was a black sign with white writing, and it read, ‘I regret my abortion.’  And I was floored.  It was a quiet act of courage, but it was probably the most courage I had ever seen.  It takes a lot of courage to admit to ourselves that we’re wrong.  It takes even more to admit to others that we’re wrong.  But my, how much courage it takes to admit to the world that we regret something that so divides us.  

When our group of marchers approached the capital building, I began to honestly feel fear.  It had been a peaceful march thus far.  Around me, groups were praying rosaries and singing beautiful hymns in Spanish.  But as the capital approached, our march slowed as our whole group bottlenecked trying to get through the gates.  And surrounding us were pro-choice advocates.  Some were vulgar, shouting curses at us and chanting crude rhymes condemning the Church for supporting the sanctity of life.  Some were taunting us and bowing up at us.  And behind me, someone spoke, ‘Remember, being pro-life also means being pro-peace.  We aren’t violent.’  In retrospect, I doubt anything violent would have occurred.  We had been escorted by police since the march began, and police were patrolling intermittently around the capital.  But I was slightly fearful as we slowly moved through the pro-choice crowd and toward the capitol steps.  The words of pope Francis kept ringing in my ear, though, ‘Ask Jesus what He wants from you and be brave!’  I had read the words a few weeks before and hadn’t been able to shake them.  And as I learned about the rally, the more I repeated the pope’s words until I finally committed myself to attending.  

Blessed John Paul II made an appearance.
I became interested in his Theology of the Body in college.

In front of the capital, we listened to many speakers.  The keynote speaker was Greg Abbott (who is of no relation to me), the Texas Attorney General and Republican candidate in the Texas gubernatorial race.  Abbott is wheelchair bound, and he said something that really struck me.  He said, “It does not take legs to take a stand; it takes a backbone.”  He wasn’t using his disability as a crutch, wasn’t making excuses as to why he could or could not do something.  But how often do we rationalize our actions (or lack thereof) by claiming inability for one reason or another.  How often do we let the possibility of bravery pass over us because our fear is too great and our reasoning is too sound?  We don't need every detail in order to take a stand; we don’t need reassurance that we’ll succeed or be on the winning side of an argument.  We just need a bit of bravery.  

As the rally drew to a close, I thought again of the woman I’d seen earlier.  The quietly courageous woman who proclaimed her regret, her mistake.  She had a backbone.  She wasn’t giving a speech to a crowd surrounded by the opposition.  She wasn’t filibustering in the Senate.  She was taking her own stand, being courageous in her own way.  In the most unlikely place, a pro-life rally, she was courageous in admitting she’d had an abortion.  There are other women, I’m sure, who regret making that decision.  But this courageous woman faced her fears and told the world that she regretted that decision.  I’m sure both sides of the fight have said unkind words to her, but it took guts to do what she did.   

Some perspective from Horton.

C.S. Lewis wrote, “Courage is not simply one of the virtues but the form of every virtue at the testing point, which means at the point of highest reality.”  Courage is what we get when we take any of the seven virtues (prudence, temperance, justice, fortitude, faith, hope, and charity) and test it within us.  When we feel temptation so strongly, the moment when we are able to turn from it is courage, when we are able to say no to the vice that appeals so much to us.  It is so, so simple for us to hide behind a vice.  It is at the moment when we feel most as if that vice, be it indifference, impurity, impatience, hatred, or a plethora of others, is the norm in our lives that we must be our most courageous.  It is when we are most tempted toward impurity that chastity becomes courage.  It is at the moment when skipping Mass on Sunday has become commonplace that our choice of piety becomes courage.  When it is so very simple to be hateful, being kind is courageous.  

When Tolkien’s unlikely place is our everyday lives, we must be brave.  We must ask Christ what he wants from us and we must be brave.