Intersection

I hadn't thought about it for ages and ages, so I'm not sure why, at that particular intersection, on that particular day, in broad daylight, it came to mind, but there it was.

My memory kicked in abruptly and took me back in time. I was coming off of a late night shift. I'd spent my evening caring for a wonderfully bright and challenging Down's Syndrome baby. The proximity of that shift to my earlier client had left me without a dinner break so I steered our mini van into the nearest Wendy's drive-through for a near-midnight supper.

Keenly aware of the extra weight that saddled my stressed muscles and bones, I was embarrassed by my fast food forays. Pounds settled on and around my taxed frame, causing pain, mobility problems, and constant humiliation. But I was hungry and alone and looking for the comfort that only a carton of fries and a tub of coke could offer.

Eating and driving requires some skill. I had a system of balancing and lodging and placing my various treats so that I could access them easily and safely and in the exact order that I always consumed them: fries in the cup holder nearest my seat, Coke in the one beside. Burger in hand. Bite of burger first, then fry, then a sip of soda.

I was shoveling food into my mouth -- fast. Shoveling and driving. Scarfing the food down without taste or awareness. Madly seeking the comfort of carbs, I pulled to a stop at a well-lit intersection, stuffing a particularly large mitt full of fries into my mouth when I felt that I was being watched.

I was being watched. A small car loaded with young, beautiful, sneering girls had hit the red light at the same time. They were watching. They were pointing. They were laughing.

A fat woman stuffing her fat face. Or some such. I couldn't hear their words or read their minds. But I think I made an accurate assessment of their thoughts and intent.

I was...what? Destroyed? Crushed? Humiliated? I was sick. Sick of myself and my killing behaviors. Sick of the pounds and the pain. Sick of being stuck and ashamed. Sick of depending on seat belts that weren't designed to support my girth. Sick of hiding. Sick of ugliness.

All of this came over me in a wash of fear and relief and uncertainty and hope while I sat at another intersection just the other day. Excess pounds have disappeared (and stayed disappeared for almost two years). I don't snarf fast food as though my life depends on it -- often -- and never at night. I don't fear the jeers or cruel glances or averted gazes of an embarrassed public so much any more.

I imagine, on some level, I have those girls to thank for that. I don't know what part that snap-shot memory played (plays?) in this journey toward health, but I'm guessing it does play a part.

We can be so quick to fuss and bother about the painful, prickly, jarring moments of our lives. It's easy to believe that God is unkind and mean of spirit. It's not a stretch to think that He's orchestrated circumstances to somehow get us to shape up or get growing -- or, much worse, to simply harm us.

God is no such God. Rather, He'll change those awkward, tearing, cruel times into something seamless, healing, and productive. He didn't put those french fries in my hand, nor did he put the sneers on the faces of those young women. But He transformed a moment of ugliness into a part of the catalyst that would move me toward healthy change.

I adore Him for that. Wildly. Deeply. Gratefully. He is such a God. You have a sorrow right now. You have a physical wrong, a mental glitch, a brutal addiction, a festering offense. Your God did not heap those things on you, but He will redeem them for you. He is good. Always. And this dark moment will, in time, become a reminder of Light. Of salvation. Of rescue. Of healing.

Set the french fries aside. Dump the burger. Look those young and so-much-to-learn women square in the eye and grab 'hold of the truth that this time is not for always! There are other intersections with other you's not so far off.