In a few short weeks, I will tell my story in our Sunday morning class. I’ve been scheduled to do this for a few months, but February seemed so very far away that I’ve done precious little other than think about it.
It’s time to start writing.
I’ve pondered this — how do I fit almost 50 years of life into a 35 minute segment of time? —and I’m not sure I have the answers.
Do I tell the story of my very disordered and dysfunctional childhood?
Do I tell the story of my ups and downs with food and weight and body?
Do I talk about growing up HA and trying to be the oh-so-perfect-picket-fence family only to discover that it doesn’t work?
But I don’t think that’s who I am.
Who am I?
What do I know to be true?
From an early time, I’ve known there is Truth. There is something bigger than I am who can and will hear my story and my cries for help that come from hurt and anger. I know that sometimes that Truth steps in and grants requests in very obvious ways and sometimes that truth lets things be, but I’ve always known that Truth operates from a place and love, compassion, and grace — even when I couldn’t call it that, I knew that love, compassion, and grace was its vantage point.