Someone asked me recently how I talk to my daughter about modesty. It was a conversation morphing into how to help our daughters see their bodies as important, but not too important. (See this post, Naked Truth about Body Image.)
Incessantly telling her she’s beautiful—though I honestly believe she is–doesn’t seem to be the answer: “Don’t worry about looking beautiful. You’ve got that one down!”
Author’s note: If you missed these previous posts, you might grab them first for other overarching ideas on choosing vulnerability even when it’s hard–and being a safe place for others when they don’t have their act together.
My husband and I were headed out on a date night (can you hear the angel choirs singing? I needed it. As in, bad). It was admittedly last minute, to the point that my curly-turned-cotton-candy hair had been lassoed by a headband and fun-bun. But my kids would have food and it looked positive no one would burn anything down, so the big stuff was covered. Thus I sat in the passenger seat with my makeup bag, aka magic wand. I was just about through patting on concealer when my husband looked over at me.
Hey.
So–I was thinking of you. Every month I get a little excited when that one women’s magazine pops in my mailbox. Your brother brought it in to me last week. It’s a frivolous happiness, just one that keeps me posted on the latest trends, gives me good ideas, and, let’s be honest, keeps me from getting frumpy.
But every now and then, there’s an article that lifts my eyebrows. Sometimes the frou-frou just gets too obvious. This month, I found one that I might cut out so you don’t accidentally find it. But instead, I’ll tell you about it.
Last week I told my husband, “We may need to make a bit of a budget in springtime. For your wife’s happiness, in the form of plants.”
I started a few seeds, truth be told, in January. And then there was the twenty-cent seed rack: Canterbury Bells. Snapdragons. Moss roses. Sugar-snap peas. Petunias. Jalapenos. Basil. Coleus. Zinnias in these explosive colors. (I am an equal-opportunity planter.)
That was next to the display of blueberry plants (perfect for pollinating the one I got last year at the end of the season!), and one of my favorites: pink, globe-shaped peonies. Two of those, please. (I took them out of the package and actually heard myself saying to these stumpy, brown roots, “Come here, you beautiful little things.”)
It’s a classic moment in our family lore, though I rightfully roll my eyes when it’s retold. (Again.)
Before my husband was even my boyfriend, there was this potentially lovely moment when he disclosed his intentions. That’s right. He was actually doing what we want young men to do: Speaking plainly (there is no other way for my husband). Not playing games.
So imagine a spring night in the South, us just having returned from coffee on campus. We’ve come to a stop at the door to my dorm.
So I’ve been presenting our church’s announcements lately. Which y’know, wouldn’t be that big of a thing if they didn’t…tape me. So far, every Sunday, I shrink a little in my seat as the monitor enlarges my prerecorded face to two feet tall. True, I see this little video as a distinct hospitality, inviting people into our church’s activities and community, making them feel welcome and relaxed, maybe even laugh a little.
But it’s time for me to admit some straight-up immaturity on my part. (I’ve written about my gnarly body-image issues before. )After seeing meticulous beauty all the time on TV, it’s hard not to succumb to the eyes of our culture’s usual bait-and-switch, our love affair with an attractive veneer. I hone in on my flaws: My crazy-curly hair is pretty set on doing its own thing. The woman doing it before me was probably a size 4. And could we position the camera up a little so my chin doesn’t look so double-y?
This is one of those posts where I’ve still got so many issues that I wonder if I should be writing it in the first place (possibly passing on my corrupted thoughts to all of you?). Body image and I have a long and gnarly history. (See the first post of this series, A Body Good: Naked Truth about Body Image…and this one.) I still wrestle with it in real-time, so consider this a post of someone thinking out loud.
In my recent conversations with Western women, I’m getting the idea that I’m sadly far from alone. Body image certainly influences our confidence. The way we spend our time. Our sexuality and marriages.
Yesterday was one of those days when I felt like I was walking against the wind so much of the day: straining uphill, my too-thin sweater tugged around me as I grimaced, head down. As my husband and I lifted down plates for dinner, I recounted the parts that made me want to tear my hair out. (Or maybe a small tuft of my children’s. …Joking.) In the course of things, I did remember some good points. Somehow, as I relayed them, they grew a little. I tucked my head with a smile.
He put his hands on my shoulder, leveled his hazel eyes with my blue ones. “I want you to know,” he said, “that you are incredibly blessed.”
On my father’s side, my family carries a long tradition of music, particularly in amateur a capella. My husband jokes about that time when he first took a road trip with my family, and we started singing in the car—with all the choral parts. He may have felt a bit bewildered. He still says that when all my extended family sings Happy Birthday, it’s something to behold. (It is! They sent it to me on video for my birthday this year. I was in harmonic heaven.)
So I sing now, by myself—while I wash the dishes, or as I plod along on the guitar I’m learning; the acoustics in my concrete house are pretty sweet. And I sing particularly when I’m happy, my husband has noticed.
But of course, when I want to do good, evil is right there with me. Though, sure, God gets a big kick out of skillful music, I get a little into myself at times—to the rich sound reverberating off the walls, even to my own fantasies. (I know. Ugh.) Let’s just say the “worship” swivels its focus a bit.
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