our bodies, our vehicles

I drove my daughter to school today in our well-used, ocean mist Honda Odyssey van.  It's rusted in a few spots; dented in the rear from our sons' driver education days; and smelly from transporting dogs and athletes, wet snow boots, skis, bathing suits, and God knows what else.

That old van is worn out but reliable. Rusty but sturdy.  Beat up but because I'm nostalgic, dare I say beautiful.

Kind of like my body.

This body has undergone numerous surgeries due to inflamed tonsils, appendicitis, and several flare-ups of endometriosis. This body has birthed two sons and rocked, fed, disciplined, and prayed for our three children. This body has given and received an abundance of life-giving, sweet love from and to the same precious man for over twenty seven years. On many days, this body notices the effects—in its joints, muscles, and back—of five decades of living.

This body is worn out but reliable.  Rusty but sturdy.  Beat up but because I'm nostalgic, dare I say beautiful.

Yes, beautiful in my eyes, but it wasn't always that way.  There were many years when I was certain I got the shaft in the figure department.

Why was I certain?

Because the words that are spoken and the things that are implied to a child and young adult can and do stick. And like most girls in this country, I entered my teen years believing there were certain bodies that were beautiful and certain bodies that weren't.

I remember instances where it was pointed out to me that I didn't measure up.

But surely worse than other's opinions was my own negative self-talk. And I told myself I was too skinny and bony, not curvy or filled out enough. Taking words from the Commodores song, I was not a "brick house." No, I told myself I was the picket fence standing ramrod straight bordering the yard - ha!

I wasn't alone in carrying unhelpful, persistent inner dialogue. My girlfriends also heard messages that they weren't good enough. Like me, they criticized their own viewed imperfections and perceived flaws.

It seems that no girls are immune to this external and internal scrutiny: not tall enough or thin enough; ears too big or eyes the wrong color; hips wide or rear flat; a little too much of this or not enough of that.

And, oh, it's all such a lie!

Our bodies were created lovingly, uniquely, and incredibly beautiful by a God that loves us more than we can imagine. He created each of us individually, separately, miraculously—not one single human being the same as another.

His creativity is endless, diverse, and amazing.

Our bodies are meant to be our vehicles—vehicles that carry our spirit and our souls while we travel through this life.

Our bodies are not meant to be a measuring stick to measure our worth or for comparison. They are not meant to be used to draw attention or to make us feel like we're better or worse than another.

I read fashion magazines in high school and college with unending ads of women with the "perfect" bodies. I watched movies where the camera always seemed to pan and then hold on certain women as they walked, and the men, who were looking their way, would drop what they were doing, stunned. Apparently,  what they were looking at was so captivating, it took their breath away.

And I fell for it … I feel for it and started believing that if I didn't look the way they did in those ads and movies that I should somehow feel not good enough and ashamed.

Ashamed? Ashamed of the wondrous, flourishing body God gave me that can skip, jump, laugh, and love?

I believe I'm no different than many women in saying that this shame caused me, at one time or another, to hate my body.

Fortunately, though, as I got older and wiser, my perspective changed, but, then, around the time I started having babies and just when I saw my body for the gift that it was and is, there were new things to contend with—scars, stretch marks, varicose veins, and the like.

But our bodies were never meant to be left in the showroom, clean and polished, with no miles on the odometer and no grease under the hood. Our bodies are meant to transport us through life, allowing us to navigate the winding, hilly streets set before us.

I remember having an epiphany after reading about foot binding in Ancient China—how their society at the time of this practice ranked women with the smallest feet highest in status ... Women wrapping up their feet to the point of severe deformity, all in the name of class and acceptance.

It's no different than our own cultural brainwashing that puts women's bodies in the category of something to be worshiped and blindly accepts that there are only certain types that define beauty and value.

It's freeing to challenge that and understand the truth: My body, our bodies, are just vehicles, divinely engineered machines, fully functioning modes of transportation in all shapes, sizes and colors, that start out shiny and new but over time show the wear and tear of living and experiencing many miles.

And that's just the way it's supposed to be. It's the great adventure and the substance of our lives that's the issue, not what model we drive.

Our bodies are just our vehicles, plain and simple.  I'm so very thankful for the ride.

I'll be grateful for my body; rust, dents and all, and will humbly strive to drive this vehicle in a manner that honors and glorifies the one who created it.

I'll keep my eyes on the horizon and on heaven, on the compass that continually redirects me down the road that leads to God.

1 Corinthians 6 : 19 - 20  "Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God?  You are not your own, you were bought at a price.  Therefore honor God with your body."

---