On Learning to Look in the Mirror and See Eternity

I hope I get to be with you in Heaven, he says from the backseat.

We are driving to church and I am lost in my thoughts as his little four year old voice pierces through the depths of it all. 

I had woken up to gaze a monster in the mirror--a reflection of myself which I hate. It was just one of those mornings. You know the ones. Where your hair won't curl just right and you have that pimple jutting out like a mountain and you don't remember it until you're in the middle of conversation and you realize she is staring at it. One of those mornings where all the blush in the world couldn't cover up the hurt, the insecurity, the pride, the fat, the failure that you just can't bear up under anymore.

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Dear Body

Dear Body,

The years have not treated you kindly.

Over these two decades, gravity has begun to pull at you. Through womanhood you have gone all curvy and lose on me. You don't fit into that one pair of jeans that I used to love or that little black dress, you know the one that used to make beauty on the outside come to life. Some days, not even my {most stubborn} will could will you to pick up and run another mile—you just have zero to give. Forget the Olympics, just give me another half marathon. Something I can do. Anything.

Your sausage thighs and feeble knees have hindered my game. Your soft belly never tucks in quite right to my clothes. Your large chest hinders my style and jostles too much during my workouts. Your arms jiggle when they should be still. Your face grows hair in the wrong places too often and never spares me of blemish. Your hair doesn't even keep it's brilliant blonde on its own anymore. Oh body, how do I love you?

Most days, I don't feel like I can be who He created me to be—and most days I blame you. I blame your saggy arms, your feeble knees, your curves that continue to curve in all the wrong places. I blame your cleavage that seems to be subdued by nothing short of a little of this southern grease tucked into many layers. I blame the girl in line in front of me all tanned and perky and perfect—why won't you just look like that?

I blame my twelve year old will that eventually crumbled under the pressure of starvation. The day the curves began pop out and latch on, when my jeans started to fit different, I got so mad at you. I starved you until you hungered so loud. So I fed you. I guess we ran and weighed and starved our way right through teenagerdom. Until the day I taught you to purge yourself of the curve-inducing, tastes like love calories I hoarded for you—a new era began for you I suppose—for us both. You were my best friend and greatest enemy.

Some days you got tired and you didn't perform well enough—so I had to punish you, body. How could you have forsaken me this way, I would wonder aloud? Why did you have to have so much fat on your thighs and such big bones beneath it all? Why did you have to look like that today? Why couldn't I just be petitie. Even the word sounds sweet—and innocent. I am sorry for hurting you, for the scars you continue to bear up beneath. I'm sorry that your innocence was lost so early a time.

Two decades later, we don't often agree on much, me and you. And yet in some summersault of extrordinary grace, we are still one, still putting feet to the carpet morning by morning, new mercies and all. As my understanding fails, the truth prevails so I begin to trust in something more. Created to move and serve and laugh and love—created for more.

And I begin to realize you are more—we are more? You have to be. Perhaps there is a purpose, a reason which far extends my youthful comprehension and yearnings—for why we continue to be granted breath. What a mess we are!

They tell me you are a temple, a holy dwelling made new. To me you are still who you have always been, like a bag of ugly rocks weighing me down. I have never quite figured how to get comfortable in you.

Oh body, is there anything about you worth loving? Perhaps a fingernail all clean and cut or that freckle on my toe.

Some days I want to crawl out of you because you hurt me so bad. I can't open my eyes before the mirror because it reveals your imperfections, your flaws which are plenty and overwhelming. And it is too much. Too messy. Too ugly.

Oh dear body, will these eyes of yours ever learn to see with grace?

Eyes of grace hear the word triplets (growing in your best friend's tummy!) and remember that someday, you are going to defy everything that makes sense and breathe to life a whole human inside. Eyes of grace see the little beans inside and weep, the yearning to hold life within so much greater then the desire to destroy it. Eyes of grace dream of that little life forming beneath this soft belly that jiggles a too much, until the jiggling just doesn't seem like such a devastation.

Eyes of grace look at your short, chubby legs and remember the moment those legs carried you through a 13.1 mile run, the victory moment and the process. They remember the moment those legs stepped out of the car and touched the red dirt of India for the first time. They remember these are the legs that will carry you down the winding aisle into the arms of the one chosen for you someday. The chub you see seems purposeful, natural even, in the eyes of grace.

Eyes of grace look down into the intricate details of this little one, they remember the strength needed to sustain him. Eyes of grace give thanks for these hips that jut out so right and perfect and wide, like they were created for this or something. They hope in the future that is full of babies resting so close. They tell me, the wider the better, stop living a slave to a number and embrace what this body was created to do!!

Eyes of grace remind me of the nourishment this bosom will provide for the generation to come. They remind me of the bonding, of the moments that are created to be mine alone. They teach me to hope in the future rather then pay for the past. Eyes of grace see through the sagging and layers—they see the needs being met, the purpose.

Eyes of grace look into the mirror and see the temple and the reflection of the Maker. They see the fearfully made through the stitches knitting it all together. They see every little hair and count it. Not because it is ugly—because they love me so good.

Eyes of grace see only a glimpse of this earthly body, imperfections and all. Eyes of grace tell me there is more, so hold fast. Eyes of grace whisper the glimpse could not compare to the coming of eternal life. Eyes of grace rely on the blood already shed—they trust in it, right here in this fallen world. They see the scars and give thanks. They need not make more, need not pay the price already paid.

Oh Jesus, give me eyes of grace. Teach me to hope here, here in the unfamiliar, in the unnatural. For I am not created for the familiar and natural. Not created for this world.

Eyes of grace, teach me to look for the stitches knitting it all together, the ones that bind up the wounds. 

Headed to South Asia!

In less than 3 months I am headed overseas...FINALLY!!!

It is with great fear and excitment that I am anticipating this trip. This excitment is overwhleming. The fear is paralyzing. Combined makes for an interesting thought process the past few weeks.

The fear is that I won't ever want to come back to life in America. It is easy to say in anticipation but impossible to deny once I know. That place of wisdom brings great fear. Praise be to the one whose perfect love casts it out.

The excitment is found in that reality--that I will continue to fulfill the role for which I was created, glorifying Him in South Asia.

Here is a letter I sent out to family and friends about my trip:

I am writing to share a brief update on life here in Fayetteville, as well as to extend an invitation to support me both financially and prayerfully for my upcoming mission trip this May.

Since returning to Fayetteville this past fall to continue my studies at the U of A, I have found my “home” among the international students on campus this year. The majority of my time that is not spent working at the hospital or studying for organic chemistry is spent hanging out with my two “daughters” and their friends. I am a part of a program on campus, where I get to host two international students, both of whom began calling me “Mummy” within hours of our first meeting. Both of my girls are here studying for the year, one is from South Korea and the other is from Tunisia. Watching them experience American culture for the first time has been hilarious at times, moments I would not trade for anything. We have laughed a lot—and cried, just a little family doing life together. Their personalities differ greatly, and each have taught me and challenged me in ways that I never expected, yet God knew exactly what He was doing in putting us together, and I know I have only seen a glimpse of His plan.

I have also been blessed to spend another year as part of Lightbearers Discipleship Program. As a part of the program, I have experienced the great joy, messiness, and refinement of living in biblical community with my three roommates. I am also being mentored individually, and attending a discipleship class weekly, where seasoned teachers of the Word are walking us through Applied Theology this semester. In addition to my rent money going to fund missions work in the 10-40 window, at the close of school in May, I will be going with my roommates and several others to serve in South Asia for two weeks.

As God has really begun to burden my heart for the nations the past year or two, the anticipation of this trip is growing daily. I am praying that God would use this as a springboard in my life, showing me more of what my future calling to serve overseas in a long-term capacity upon graduation might look like. I am excited to serve these people, to learn about their culture, to do daily life with them, being refined by their humility and faith in the process. This year, my faith has been challenged from learning about Jesus’ heart for the nations—and I am excited to experience His love for His sons and daughters across the world in a tangible way.     

 Lightbearers has several global partners located in South Asia whom we will be encouraging and assisting with what they are already doing in this region. We will be spending time serving in an orphanage as well as getting to know the people, many of whom rarely see a white person. We will have opportunities to testify to God’s faithfulness in our own lives, preaching the Gospel to a people hungry for Truth. In addition, we are hoping to host a medical clinic and help out where we are needed.

The reality is, I probably won’t go change the lives of thousands of women in South Asia in two weeks. But I pray that God would use me to impact eternity in some way—and that my life would look different as a result of this trip. That He would use it to continue shaping and molding my heart for the nations. Whether or not I am called to return, I honestly don’t know—but I do know that His love for the nations echoes from Genesis to Revelation and my job is simply to obey what He has called me to do right now—and that is to go serve in South Asia this May.

In preparation for this trip, I need your help in two ways: financial support and prayer. The total cost of the trip is about $3,000 which covers travel expenses, meals, accommodations, and supplies. The first $1,500 is due by March 15^th in order to book the plane tickets. The second half will be due May 1^st. If you feel led to support me, please make checks payable to Lightbearers ministries and mail to PO Box 9911 Fayetteville, AR 72703. For tax purposes, do not include my name anywhere on the check, but just write it on the envelope. All donations are tax deductible.

Please be praying for the people of South Asia, for the Holy Sprit to begin to prepare their hearts. Also, please lift up Lightbearers Ministries, specifically for unity among the team of students and leaders who will be accompanying me in this journey. Pray for our financial needs to be met fully and quickly, as well as for the Lord to just continue to burden our hearts for this nation and the people we will be doing life with. 

With Love,

Courtney 

“The Spirit of the Sovereign LORD is on me, because the LORD has anointed me to preach good news to the poor. He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim freedom for the captives and release from darkness for the prisoners.”                                                                              -Isaiah 61:1

Dads, where are you??

We are a generation of young women crying out for our dads. The more time I spend with young girls, the angrier I become. Their stories of loneliness and insecurity, of abuse and neglect, of feeling void inside, of never learning how to do certain things, of never having discipline, of the fears they have as they approach adulthood and marriage. As these girls passionately preach to me about their desire for wealth, self-sufficiency, and a noteworthy career my heart breaks inside. Such things will not last! Will the generational curse ever stop?

They want to challenge this picture of a biblical marriage…of the roles a man and woman should play. They have grown up in a society that tells them they can be anything they want; they can have it all—they can be just as smart, powerful, respected, and renown as any man. They don’t have to sit at home with the kids all day, wash the dishes, or have dinner on the table when their husband walks through the door. They refuse to be his slave. Oh no, they can be so much more then THAT. Such tasks are so belittling. 

These young women think that submission to a man in marriage is from the olden days—no one does that anymore. Several of these girls think ‘I won’t have to submit if I am just as good as he is.’ They reason that there are two people in a marriage, so why should they have to be the ones to always sacrifice their dreams and desires for their husband? No one should have more power—we must be equal. They explain to me how they could never stay home all day with the kids—why couldn’t their husband do that? “What if I wanted to be the one to come home to dinner on the table after a hard days work,” they ponder aloud. The opportunities are endless.

Where are you dads?

I don’t know what the Lord is trying to show me; I don’t understand His timing. But every single conversation I have had with teenage girls lately consistently comes back to this underlying cry for a father, whether they realize it or not. It is so, the cry of my heart as well.

I feel as if I am beating up against brick wall, over and over. This generation of young women has made up its mind; submitting to one’s husband, sacrificing a career for a family, dying to self to love another human being like Christ, signing a covenant before the Lord that divorce is not an option—these are not priorities for them…period.

Dads where are you?

Lord, I thank you that you are the PERFECT FATHER. As I am coming to a deeper understanding of imperfections and let-downs in life, I TRUST that even when my earthly dad fails me, even when my spiritual dads let me down…that you REMAIN—the Perfect Father who will never leave or forsake me. Praise to you that I know where you are—and that you protect me like a big, strong daddy should.

Oh Lord, I praise you for the convictions you have so engrained into my heart. Thank you for strengthening me to remain steadfast in those convictions—even when opposition surrounds. I pray that you will teach me to soften my words that I may be a sweet aroma to those around me, those who may not share the same ideas about dating, marriage and motherhood—Lord use my past, use the work you are doing in my heart…may my voice be firm and steadfast, yet gentle and wise. Lord, I will not settle—I will remain faithful to the hope to which you have called me in Christ Jesus. Thank you for surrounding me with women (and their husbands) who share similar convictions and are living them out—thank you for placing women in my life to teach me and challenge me. You are ever faithful to complete the good work you began. (Phil. 1:6)

Testimony Tuesday: Like Mother, Like Daughter

It started out a normal school-day like any other. Pulling myself out of bed, I stumbled into the shower as my eyes slowly adjusted to the brightness of another day. I soon escaped the heat of the bathroom for the coolness of my bedroom as I quickly dried off and began to dress. It had become a chore to get dressed by this point in my life—those ever-widening curves made all of my attempts at covering myself seem useless. The clothes sprawled out across the bed began overflowing onto the floor. It seemed the tornado had touched down in my room then continued spiraling its way into the distance, the rest of the house untouched in its perfection of cleanliness. Finally, something black—yes this will have to do! Gathering my stuff, I hastily ran out of my room, flipping off the light switch as I headed for the stairs.

Well, this morning, unlike any prior, I walked down the stairs to find my stomach begin to churn. With about five steps to go, I sensed her eyes looking me up and down, up and down. I felt the disgust, disappointment, and embarrassment from fifty feet away. I cringe just thinking about how this scene continued to play out—and the way it has shaped nearly a decade of my life.  

The words to follow stung. “Courtney, if you want to go back to LA Weightloss, I’ll sign you up today. I mean are you even trying?” Silence.  

I honestly don’t think she has ever realized the hurt of her eyes and words that morning. This moment has been engrained in my heart for nearly eight years now. Every time I walk down the stairs and sense her sitting on that couch, my stomach churns as I try my best to suck in my gut, stick out my chest, and swing my purse around for additional coverage. No matter how much weight I lose, the whole stomach churning when walking down the stairs to meet her criticizing eyes never does seem to dissipate any—not when I was thirteen and not now, in my twenties. It is so stupid! Some of it probably just in my head by this point, and she is not even looking at me that way.  

It was on this day that I decided to make myself throw up my lunch for the first time. I was covinced worked for awhile too—not that it quieted the gaze of her eyes and judgment in her heart any. I wish I had never made that decision, but I didn't know any better--I was insecure, lost, and on a desperate search for love. I have felt that I never measured up to my mom’s standards my entire life—never pretty enough, skinny enough, smart enough, bold enough, funny enough, or nice enough. I have battled this one out tirelessly for nearly a decade now, yet it continues to linger in my mind most days.

God’s word agrees…I am NOT good enough…nor will I ever be in comparison to Jesus Christ. That is why today I am desperately dependent upon Him. Only by His blood am I able to renew my mind and accept the Truth in exchange for such lies, but at the time I did not understand this concept apart from Christ.

Fast forward to now--just yesterday, I was with my mom visiting my grandmother in a rehab facility (she fell and broke her hip a couple weeks ago). My grandma asked me to water the flowers we had brought to her several days prior. I hesitated. I made up a couple excuses of why I didn’t want to, praying she would forget. She may have a broken hip, but lemme just tell you her memory is still going strong! Finally, I had run out of excuses—I stood up, sucked in my gut, stood up straighter, put my chest out, and awkwardly tried to narrow my hips by putting my hands on them. Within moments of rising to my feet I felt two sets of eyes judging and critiquing my body as I moved across the room, bent down to water the flowers, and as I sat back down I looked up to see my mom, eight years later, staring me up and down—still ashamed. I guess some things may never change—and that feeling that you are being judged will never be something I enjoy.

But one thing has changed from that morning walking down those stairs to face her gaze to now—I don’t have to measure up to her standards…I don’t need her approval…I don’t have to be good enough because that is something impossible to achieve. I know that the Word of God tells me I am fearfully and wonderfully made, that I am flawless in His sight, that I am a new creation, that I am white as snow. Now I understand my position in Christ and who I am in Him.

After that afternoon in the nursing home, my mom and I were driving back home after leaving grandma’s and we were talking about her husband, Kevin, and how he was probably out to lunch or at a movie. “Well who did he go with?” I asked, interested. “No one,” she replied, “he doesn’t mind going to eat or see a movie by himself! In fact, he goes often” I laughed, completely picturing him, in all of his confidence doing just that. Of course he would! Shortly my mom broke my thoughtfulness, “Gosh, he really is crazy. I would never have the self-esteem to do that!!” I nodded my head in agreement as a grin formed across my face. Turns out the whole, “like mother, like daughter” concept is more fitting then I would ever like to admit.

Yesterday I realized that as much as my mom’s gazes, comments, and disappointments have hurt me over the years, she really doesn’t mean to hurt me—how could I ever expect her to gaze at me, curves and all, with pride and joy across her eyes when her mom never looked at her this way. How could I ever expect her to speak encouraging words about my appearance and character when she is constantly trying to change hers. How could I ever except her to be proud of me, to accept me, to tell me how much she loves me when she doesn’t know how to accept, be proud of, and love herself?

An hour later, my grandma calls to tell me that she is sorry for being such a grouch that afternoon while we were there. She went on to explain to me that her hair stylist had called and told her that she must look horrible since she had missed two appointments (since she was in the hospital.) My grandma made up every excuse to avoid going out to the dinning room to eat her meals with other elderly men and women to the point where she got angry with me for trying to encourage her to get out of her room and make some friends. Why? Well, she was convinced because of that one conversation that she looked hideous and ugly and was so embarrassed and scared of what the other women would think of her that she has now avoided leaving her room for almost two weeks.

The root of it all—insecurity…pride. Like mother, like daughter, like grand-daughter. Well it is broken here—in the precious name of Jesus Christ, my girls will not be enslaved to this generational curse of insecurity rooted in pride. I pray that my mom and grandmother could come to know the hope of life with Jesus Christ—that through Him their minds could be made new, that they would not continue to live out their lives bitter and fearful of what others think. That they may be set fear from this trap of insecurity and self-condemnation. That with knowing Christ, they may still hear the lies, but that they could be equip to fight the battle—praise God the victory is already won—even in my life! I needed this reminder today!! Oh is He ever faithful to complete the good work He began in us, until the day Christ returns.

“And you will know the Truth, and the Truth will set you free!”  -John 8:32