You may be surprised to get this letter from me. We haven’t exactly had the best relationship our whole life, have we? I would say it has been love/hate but it’s more like tolerate/hate. How sad for you, that you really always did just do your best with what God gave you and what I gave you, and yet I could never stop thinking about you. I directed such angst and loathing your way. It’s the stuff emo songs are made of, and teenage journals full of Why God’s and a few bad decisions in retaliation against you thrown in for good measure.
But it was hard for me, your insistence on being so different. You always had to be taller, curvier, early blooming-er than every body around me, didn’t you? You “made me a woman” at age 10 and then made me look like a woman by junior high. That was just plain unfair.
But now here we are, together well into the 30′s decade and I’m finally not blaming you anymore. You don’t exactly run right, and we’re working on that, but the way you look? Every inch of you is something to behold. Even if I wish there were actually *less* inches to behold, I know why each of those inches are there. You have grown and stretched and held all my babies. You carried them and birthed them, and even when you birthed a baby that would never take a breath, I still didn’t hate you. I knew God would make good out of it.
Your stretch marks? I could trace them like rings in a redwood tree and recollect with you the life-travels we’ve been on. Those there, that was when my chest grew suddenly at age 13. Those down there on my belly, that’s when you grew for that first child, the son who is deep and mysterious like the waters of the oceans and who made me a mother. Those on your waist, some are from the other two boys, some are from the two girls. Can you even believe all that you’ve done?
I have to say, despite not being the size I wish you were, you somehow still succeed at making curvy feel sexy. I can always feel desirable because of my God-glow within, and I know my husband is grateful for the sexiness that results.
So as middle age whispers from ahead, I pray that you’ll always keep the blood pressure low and that maybe your metabolism will finally, once and for all, start working. But even more I pray that I never forget why you are the way you are.
Your hands have held life and death, they’ve put pressure on bleeding wounds and cradled the tiniest of feet. They’ve comforted and loved and let’s not forget how they write. Your fingers have written and typed and scrawled out a lifetime of words. Those words often became worship, so lets not forget your arms. Strong, always holding. Holding people, holding books, holding hands in the air in praise to the One who made you.
Your feet have walked the desert, the meadows, the snow drifts, the beaches and swamps. The streets of Buenos Aires and the mountains of Tuscany. They’ve bruised and calloused and blistered and always, always healed.
It’s gratitude. The reason I finally stopped blaming you? Gratitude.
A prompt from SheLoves Magazine. Linking up there today.