Love, Jimmie

There is a number by which I define myself. It isn’t a pretty number. There is no symmetry to it, nor does it have any symbolic meaning.  It does have power, though.  Every time I step on the scale, the number that I read determines the type of day I am going to have.  Not only does it make or break my day, it also is the number I use to set my value.  I allow that number to dictate every part of my life.  I think my friends will like me better the smaller that number is.  I will bring more value to the company for which I work if that number never reaches certain digits.  I become less worthy every time that number rises. 

There is a second number by which I define myself.  This one is much smaller yet again, there is no beauty or symmetry or meaning in that number.  It does have power, though.  I look at the tag in the back of my jeans to determine if I will have a date in the near future.   I look at that tag to get a read on how people feel about me.  That tag can make or break a smile in an instant.  That tag is hated or loved based on what it says, and in turn, when I hate the tag, I’m not overly fond of myself.  When I love the tag, suddenly I am beautiful and confident and worth something.

Often, I am surprised when I am invited out by friends and the reason is that they just want the pleasure of my company.  It catches me off guard nearly every time.  It’s like perma-surprise.  I offer to bring cookies or a blanket or something, and marvel when they say, “No, just you.  We like you.” 

I look in the mirror to fix my eyes and my hair.  I check to make sure that everything is where is supposed to be.  Then I spend some time wishing my skin weren’t so pink and that my eyes were only one color.  I lament my nose and the imperfections that arrive on my face with every year that passes.  I see the weight I carry and wish it would visit other areas of my body.  I wish it would stop loving me so much and just go away already.  I see tall, taller than the average woman, and alone in my bathroom I am okay.  But stand me next to a petite woman and suddenly I am Amazon. 

Why am I so focused on myself anyway?  The measure of my heart cannot be found in a number.  Neither can my kindness or my intelligence or my affection or my talent.  Why is it that I struggle to see myself outside of the measure of a scale? Why can I not just be who I am without the angst of wanting less of me or a prettier me or a different me than me? 

I’m working on that.  I’ve been working on that for a while now.  A good friend of mine and I were talking about resolutions.  It was months ago so please understand this is not prompted by a need to fill space around the holiday or beat the subject of New Year’s Resolutions to death.  Anyway, she said that a few years ago she decided to make no more resolutions but that she would simply live a life she believed in. A life she believed in.  Instantly I was captivated.  What did I believe in?  How could I live my life that way?

I made a list.  My list is not complete, I don’t think, but I have a good idea of what motivates me and what I want out of this life. The piece of that I’ll share with you today is this:  I believe that I am beautiful.  I believe that beauty is determined by many things outside of perfect skin and excellent measurements and bleached teeth and I believe that I possess those beautiful qualities.  I measure myself by my heart and my Spirit and my love, not by my numbers.  This is probably the biggest struggle of my life yet I will conquer it.  I am conquering it.  I have conquered it.

I am beautiful, and that is enough for today.   

Before time was, before I was, He whispered into the void.

I am coming for you.  I will save you. 

There was no Earth.  There was no light.  There was no form, no sun, no moon. 

I am coming for you.  I will save you.

The rumblings started in the midst of nothing, deep and powerful, groaning and surging.  Angels gathered, seraphim and cherubim, warriors readying for the fight.  Spirits culminating, swirling, twisting, fighting, spreading, a tornado, growing, growing, growing, overlapping one on top of another.   The beauty was blinding, terrible, glorious. 

And it was good.

I am coming for you, He echoed through the darkness.  I will save you.

And then there was light.  And it was good. 

Time began.  A nation was birthed.  A world was destroyed.  A world was reborn.  The Father wept, His heart broken over the sheep that strayed, that stayed away.  Still, He loved.  He spoke.  And then . . .

A Baby was born.  There was straw and a manger, a mother and a father. A  Father. 

I am coming for you, He cried.  I will save you.

The Baby grew.  He learned and prayed and loved.  Behind Him, warriors readied for a battle, and in readying for the battle, they fought, spirits culminating, swirling, twisting, a hurricane, overwhelming, growing.  It was glorious; it was terrible.

I am coming for you.  I will save you.

The sheep went astray.  The sheep, which He loved above all else, turned away from Him.    

The Hero rode in on a donkey.  Regal, bearing the weight of the world, He rode the donkey and was celebrated by the few.  He was majestic, yet humble.

I am coming for you, He called from his seat on the burro.  I will save you.

They beat Him.  Lashes across the back, one, two, three.  Four.  Five.  Six.   Seven.     Eight.        Nine.          Ten.            Eleven.              Twelve . . . . .

Thirty-one. 

Thirty-two. 

Thirty-three. 

The crown of thorns dug into His skull, blood running down His face.  Wrist to the wood, WHAM went the hammer, once, twice, three times.  Wrist to the wood, WHAM went the hammer, once, twice, three times.  Feet to the wood, WHAM went the hammer, once, twice, three and four times.  Hoist the wood, slam into the ground, pierce The Side.  He died.  The Hero died. The temple veil was torn in two, from Heaven to Earth.  God cried out. The Earth shook.  The Hero delivered Himself to God’s mercy, and He died.

I am coming for you, He shouted from the grave.  I will save you.

I turn my back on Him.  I walk away from Love.  I embrace pretty things and I am empty.  I take my life and break it, shards scattered all around me, but the shards glitter and shine.  Pretty.  Empty. 

I gather the shards and offer them to The Hero who accepts them.  He puts them back together.  It is glorious; it is terrible. 

I am coming for you.  I will save you. He handed me the life. 

The enemy is coming.  He has been coming all along.  He pursues me with a relentless passion.  He knows no love, can accept no love, brings no love, but he brings the appearance of love.  He brings the appearance of beauty.  He brings the appearance of wisdom.  I follow it.  Pretty. Empty.

I am coming for you.  I will save you.  The Voice is louder.

I hear Him.  Save me from what?  From you. 

I am coming for you.  I will save you.  He thunders. 

I hear Him.  Save me from what?  From His wrath. 

How?  How will You save me?

Love.

The enemy is destroyed by a Breath.  The enemy is destroyed by a Light, glorious, terrible.  He is destroyed by the Word.   In a moment, the blink of an eye, in the whip of a hummingbird’s wing, the enemy is defeated.  Like that, it is over, that quickly.  I have been retrieved from the maw of death, plucked from its very edge.  He came for me.  He saved me.

He is my Hero.  He stands tall, His power so great, so terrible, so glorious, and it resonates throughout the Earth and none can withstand it.  There is no discrimination, only Love.  He came to save us all, each person, each heart, each soul.    

It all began before it ever began.  My Hero.  Happy Birthday.