The following is something I wrote back in September and I was reminded of today. I've also posted it on my weight-loss blog.
Yesterday, I had an epiphany.
For almost a week now, I’ve been faithfully keeping track of what I eat and how much I exercise. It hasn’t necessarily been enjoyable. I never have been the type to critically analyze and calculate every single piece of food I put into my body. Nor have I been one who thrives on exercise. So it is little shock to anyone why I’m in the terrible shape I am. But that wasn’t my epiphany.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a writer. My earliest memories of writing take me back to the 5th grade when I began writing down certain dreams I had and then embellishing them. Then, in sixth grade, my class received a writing assignment. We were shown several pictures and told to write a story about one of them. I don’t remember how much time we had to work on these stories. But I distinctly remember coming home from school that day and immediately getting to work on mine. From the time I came home from school until the time I went to bed each night, and then all day on weekends, I wrote. When the time was up, I still wasn’t finished. So my teacher gave me a little extra time after I submitted an outline of my story to her. Once finished, I had somehow worked each of the pictures into the plot line of my story. The day we received them back, before handing them out, the teacher made an announcement. She typically did not give out A+ grades because she believed that there was always room for improvement. However, she felt that one student deserved an A + grade for their story. Without revealing whom had earned this high honor, she instead began to read the opening of the chosen story. It was mine. Everyone immediately knew it was mine as well because of the deep shade of red I turned. All through junior high and high school, and even somewhat into my college years, I spent many hours during and after school writing story after story. Then, after my babies were born, there weren’t enough hours in the day for sleep or showering, let alone writing. I set it aside, telling myself that I’d pick it up again when the kids were older. Now, they are older and time is still at a premium. But that wasn’t my epiphany.
In my life, I’ve sat through at least twenty-five years of Sunday school, attended a Bible college for eight years (yes, I crammed 4 years of study into 8), and have watched each and every VeggieTale countless times. I know God made me and loves me very much. I know that I am fearfully and wonderfully made. I’ve known this for 31 years (I’m not counting the other four years of my life because let’s face it, who remembers much before they’re four?). But somehow knowing it and knowing it were two different things for me. And that was my epiphany.
Because God loves me enough to send His Son Jesus to die for me, and because I am fearfully and wonderfully made, I am beautiful in His sight. I am worthwhile. I matter.
I realized that because I matter, I don’t want to be overweight any longer. I don’t want to keep setting a bad example for my children. Therefore, I am actually excited about this new weight loss journey I’m on. And so if using a website to keep track of everything I eat and each time I exercise helps me to finally lose the weight once and for all and reach a healthy me, then I am excited about it! I deserve to be healthy. I deserve to be happy.
I also realized that because I deserve to be happy, it was a mistake to put away a gift that God gave me. To that end, over the weekend I began writing again. Each day, I’ve spent a few hours writing--losing myself in a world entirely of my own making. I’m not just doing this for my own pleasure and enjoyment, however. I want to use this gift to glorify the One who gave it to me, whatever happens. Whatever comes from it. Even if nothing comes of it but a closer walk with Him.
My epiphany was that I was born to soar--we all were. And I’ve decided to spread my wings and let my Heavenly Father teach me to fly.