If you could see me now, you’d see that I’m doing the happy dance. I’m glad you can’t really see me. The truth of the matter is that I have stiff hips and lack even the slightest bit of rhythm and coordination required to break out my dance moves without embarrassing myself or other people. This, of course, is the understatement of the century. My cousin Jen has a DVD of Greg and me dancing at her wedding several summers back. I would pay big bucks to ensure that Jen’s wedding DVD never sees the light of day.
The reason for my excitement is that I finished reading an advanced copy of Jamie Ivey’s memoir If You Only Knew: My Unlikely, Unavoidable Story of Becoming Free. (Jamie’s book releases January 30, but you can preorder it here.) If you’ve never heard of Jamie Ivey, you’re in for a treat. Jamie is the host of the podcast Happy Hour With Jamie Ivey, which happens to be one of my favorite podcasts. Every week Jamie brings a guest onto her show to chat about the big things in life, the little things in life and everything in-between.
Instead of a traditional book review, I’m going to kinda-sorta share what Jamie’s book means to me by telling you a story; it’s my own “If you only knew” story. Though I should warn you, it’s a rather messy story of becoming free. I’m sharing it with plenty of fear and trembling.
Every story has a beginning. To understand my story, we’re going to have to go back to the early 80s when my life unravelled, just a bit. To be precise, because I always like to be precise, the story begins in 1983 at the back of Mrs. Hatchell’s A.M. kindergarten classroom at Parkwood Elementary School in Seattle, WA.
I sat at the back table with the school nurse because I’d just failed the state-mandated hearing test. Even now, over thirty years later, I remember everything about the school nurse, except her name. She was a large woman, obese really. I remember counting the rolls of fat visible through her polyester shirt. I was intrigued by the rolls of fat. I also had rolls around my middle, or so I thought. I never voiced my observation. I didn’t know that everyone, no matter how thick or thin, had some amount of skin that folds when they bend or sit. From that moment on, every time I took a bath in the white-tiled tub of my childhood, I would stare at my stomach and count them, the tiny folds of skin, and think about how I was just like the school nurse.
I changed schools in second grade. As a shy and observant child, often lost in thought, I made a unique observation one afternoon in November: Catholic school girls were skinnier than the public school girls at my old school. I was keenly aware that my calves seemed to be the same size as their thighs.
I could go on and on about my warped body image during my childhood years. But I won’t. It’s important to note, however, that even though I wasn’t actually overweight, I did have a problem. You see, I never truly learned how to properly identify hunger and fullness signals. Consequently, by the time I was in high school, I ballooned from a very normal, healthy little girl to a chubby teenager who really did have a bit of a weight problem.
By the time I was in college, in the late 90s, after struggling with body image and overeating, I lost 50-60 pounds through a Christian weight loss program that taught participants to turn to God for emotional needs instead of food. I fell in love with God all over again. I was joyful and alive. I was also a size 4. It didn’t take long for me to figure out that people treated me different now that I was thin. Men looked at me, which was a first. And clothes! Clothes not only fit, they actually looked good on me! I never imagined that I could look and feel so great. I had confidence that I never had before.
Yet fear slowly crept into my heart. I was terrified of losing what I worked so hard to achieve. I never ever wanted to be fat again. I was terrified of gaining even an ounce. I had always enjoyed food (hence the initial weight problem), but I was terrified to the point that I was willing to do absolutely anything in my power to make sure I stayed thin.
I learned through the diet to be content with eating less. I took the concept and ran with it. If I was content with half a sandwich, why not eat a quarter? Then when my body adjusted to it, I ate only a few bites. Ironically, deciding to eat less was a subconscious decision. I wasn’t aware that I was starving myself. I don’t know if my body went into starvation mode or what but soon I rarely felt hungry; and after taking a few bites I felt extremely full. In retrospect, I had to be hungry. I was so hungry that food dominated every waking moment. I wouldn’t entertain these thoughts, of course not. But my thoughts of food had to go somewhere. Really, I was obsessed with food. To alleviate the emptiness of hunger, I poured over recipes in my monthly subscription to Gourmet magazine and organized the refrigerator like a Nazi. I dreamed of meals I’d one day cook, but never eat, or drive by restaurants I’d never try.
Dear friend, I invite you to come back for the rest of the story to celebrate the release of Jamie Ivey’s book, If You Only Knew. I promise it gets better!
Today marks the third Sunday of Advent. The Tiniest Tiny is on the verge of losing her first tooth; I’m feeling all the feels. Before long, a dairy-free version of Alice Currah’s “Spicy Sausage Kale Bean Soup” is reheated on the stovetop. Leftover Thai food is thrown into the microwave; and two-thirds of our children refuse to eat it. Eventually, our family gathers around the oak farm table in the dining room to light the Joy Candle. As the flame of the pink candle flickers and comes to life, we set our eyes on whatever is lovely and good, to the dawn of about to get better. This is the song of old, the story rising in me.
