Three weeks into the journey, by the grace of God!

Every pair of pants fits better. Some things fit that didn't fit before. Most importantly, I can move easier and have less pain. There's still a long road ahead, but there is hope. For the first time in  a long time, there's hope.

What do I mean by a long time? Well, there was a gap of about six years in writing this blog. After a series of family deaths and some huge disappointments, I didn't feel victorious anymore. I didn't feel like I had anything to say. After years of being that busy person who volunteered for everything, I felt rejected and useless, like my contribution was over.

This, of course, was not how God saw things, but the enemy slowly convinced me otherwise. Isn't that always the way?

Did I forget Ephesian's 1:4?
  "For he chose us in him before the creation of the world to be holy and blameless in his sight."

God chose me and who am I to question His taste? He loves me with all my warts - and still does even when I'm on injured reserve for an extended period of time.

Our response should be to live for Him and not to shrivel up and die because we can't do the things we used to do. That is, however, what I did. I lost sight of the fact that the form of our servanthood can change.

Thankfully, that little epiphany I wrote about in the last entry has led to hope. Hope of becoming more active again. Hope of not feeling like I'm letting people down. Hope that if I'm never completely back to normal, I still have worth and purpose to God.

God is truly good.

 

Not the endpoint

I don't know how I got to this point, but I know it's not my endpoint.

Maybe it was the tough decade - the combination of losing a sibling, three beloved aunts, and finally a parent. Maybe it was compounded by working for five years in a dysfunctional environment and other disappointments.

Somewhere along the line I stopped caring and lost my fight.  Me, the person who refused to fail over and over.  I knew God never gives up on me, but I did.

I gained a lot of weight. I used to walk 5-10 miles a day, but with an already dodgy back and a badly stretched ligament, I couldn't go for a walk anymore. In fact, I don't do anything anymore that requires me to stand in line. After a few minutes, it's unbearably painful. That means no museums, no concerts, no long shopping trips, no hiking, no puttering the garden. It means not helping people move, not helping with clean-up days at church or community projects. I miss these things so much.
I know losing weight will improve this - it has before - but that was before I gave up altogether.

It was someone else's panic attack over the proposed Republican health care bill that shook me into reality.

"What will we do when we're old? We won't be able to get our arthritis medication? We'll have to grow marijuana in the back yard," proclaimed someone in a similar and even less healthy state.

"Wait a minute!" I thought. "Why are we planning to be handicapped? Why aren't we fixing this when it lies within our power to do so?"

Why live a defeated life and be less than God intended for me to be? Why live a life without the activities I love when I don't have to? The only thing stopping me is me.

With that epiphany, I'm going to try again.

It's not going to start with starving and counting calories. No more unrealistic goals this time. It's going to be a matter of making healthy choices and increasing physical activity a little at a time - as my body allows. My leg has healed, but my back is still an issue.

I didn't get this way overnight. It was one bad choice at a time. I'll fix it one good choice and one prayer at a time.

Small and permanent changes.

There is no endpoint in this fight.