I love things that allow me to be physically involved. More than once I’ve woken up before dawn on snowy mornings and grabbed a shovel so that I could clear the path on the sidewalk and drive-way in the crisp, quiet morning. There is something beautiful in seeing the result of your body’s muscles and bones working together to accomplish a job.
My personality, purity culture, and the way I understood how “fatness” worked in regards to relationships were the perfect storm to set me up for this damaging relationship.
We are justified. We are sanctified.
this very short story originally appeared on my blog Mashena.
If fat people are why children in India don’t have food, then the average-sized people (or even the fat people who are “working on it”) do not have to examine their own complicity in these global structural sins.
On Sunday nights we crowded chairs around a table, pulled out mismatched dishes, and took turns cooking a meal to be shared with everyone. I don’t recall anyone ever “apologizing” for their food choices – making a comment about how they would get fat if they had the desert, that they would need to run to work off the delectable homemade bread, or any other number of all-too-common conversations that normally surround tables of fellowship.
Body, this I promise you: I will not squeeze you, strain you, or compress you to meet an unattainable ideal. I will not wish for another body simply because the world has not yet learned how to embrace your greatness sufficiently.