Measuring life in bags of potatoes

I have officially lost 20 pounds.  That's 2-10 pound bags of potatoes. Looking at it that way, that's a lot of weight. The strange thing is that I don't feel like it's gone. I guess I don't even miss it.  The thought that I even had that much to lose is almost ludicrous to me. But I did. And I have at least 2 more bags of potatoes to go. Maybe 3.

I had a reward for my first 2 bags--I bought a tall non-fat chai latte from Starbucks. It was satisfying; but it seemed to bring my cravings back. I fought it off with fat. Bacon, eggs, butter, cream--and I didn't cave to the crave. I was going to get a manicure, but I think I'll wait until I either hit the next size down or until I've lost the next bag, whichever event comes first. The Trim Healthy Mama way of life can be difficult to measure in pounds.

I seem to have a slight stevia intolerance which showed up when fall allergy season hit. This is putting a damper on my sweetener. I'll work it through and figure out if it's only seasonal or if I can get away with a few days with it and a few days without it.

Leading the victims in grace

Blaming the victim for the crime is a very real issue. I have been guilty of casting doubt upon victims myself and that has been a shameful thing on my part.  That indicates that the victimizer had no control over his/her actions.  This attitude pretty much absolves the victimizer and pummels the victim into terrified silence.

I don't do that anymore. The victim is just that: a victim who deserves compassion and warmth. The victimizer is a sinner who deserves to be brought to justice.  (This part is not within my power because I am not law. The former part is absolutely within my power because I myself am a recipient of grace.)

I have seen for myself how often the victimizer receives the grace and continues to perform his nefarious deeds. I have seen victims fall into obscure oblivion or become angry and destructive themselves. 

I ran across an excellent treatise on the matter of not further driving these wounded into darker holes and of not allowing the wounders to continue digging the holes in the first place. 

You can download the PDF here. It's about 42 pages but it's easy to read. I know my blog doesn't get huge traffic and traffic has never really been my goal. But, if you've just wandered by, go ahead and read it. 

Once we become aware of the victimizer's methods, we can better look out for our weak and our wounded. 

The Worst Sort of People

 There are people who are merely annoying. They are mostly harmless. They just don't know when to stop. Then, there are people who are dangerous. 

The dangerous ones are the manipulators who almost effortlessly go through so many contortions in a situation that you are amazed that they got to where they are. But they have to do this. They have to twist and turn in order to make the situation be all about YOU. They don't mind ignoring plain truths. This situation must not be about them. 

Sometimes we get trapped by these manipulators. I mean, they can seem to be the nicest of people.  But sometimes we catch on; or we catch them at it one too many times and we put an end to it. They can't stand that. They have to maintain control and when you have them figured out, they've lost control. So, you walk away and they don't. They continue to beat it about. They malign you; they mock you. 

Yet, you are are relieved. The strangest sort of relief comes when you call the wickedness by name. The wickedness loses power. 

Others may seem to go along with the manipulator; but don't worry. Pray for the followers, actually. You see, the followers will be eaten up as well. Once the manipulator has gone through everyone else, his little circle of followers is all he has left.  

As you suffer this maligning, just remember that Creator of all sees this too. He knows where the wicked dwells and He knows who is righteous.

Because it was there

I sometimes look at the titles I choose to read and question my sanity. Then, in a moment of clarity, I realize that books are meant to be read. If I don't read them, maybe no one will. I shall consider myself the Pitier of Lonely Books.

I sometimes think that I will be judged a book snob. Then, in a moment of clarity, I realize that I don't read for anyone but myself. 

If you were to ask me why I chose to read some dusty old thing long forgotten, I suppose that in most cases my only answer could be, "Because it was there."

Well, there is a feeling that comes over me when I touch one of those long-forgotten tomes but any attempt to describe the feeling would be lost on the average reader. (Not that I am above average, no. I just read differently from most people I know.)  There is also a feeling that overtakes me when I touch the cover of some old book. Yes, I will raise my hand here and admit that I read Lucile and I would likely read it again.

So, if you find me reading something weird or unique, just remember that more than likely it was there.

Random writing prompt

The air was gray with the smoke from a dozen forest fires. Pedestrians hurried with cloths covering their noses to find the easier air of indoors.

A Different take on Fat Shaming, or I think I can.

I looked at myself in the mirror and the image that stared back at me wasn't me.  It wasn't the me that God created; it was the me that I'd created in darkness. When my heart ached, I turned to food. When I needed a nap and felt like I just didn't have time to take one, I turned to food. When I was bored, I turned to food. I was turning to food to satisfy all of my needs.  The only thing is that it didn't solve anything. It hurt everything. I gained 20 pounds in a year.

There's all this talk about "fat shaming." Well, blah. If you are fat and ashamed, that merely means you know something needs to change. That's where I was.  I tried the gym. I worked out until I was exhausted and unable to get out of bed for a couple of weeks. I went for 3 months and lost 6 whopping pounds. That wasn't good enough. In the exhaustion, I gained it all back and then some.

(If you are fat and don't care, no one can shame you because you don't care. So, either you care or don't. If you care, do something. Change it because you know that isn't the real you.)

Over time, I began to accept that I was fat. That's when it dawned on me that the person in my reflection wasn't who I really was. That's when I began to know something would change. I just had to find what.

From previous posts, you know how I deal with constant exhaustion. You know I don't want to be this sick person that I always am. I want to be vibrant; I want to healthy. 

Enter Trim Healthy Mama. I had a friend mention it to me once. It was planted in the back of my brain. But then another friend announced that she'd lost a great amount of weight and all along she'd been talking about how well she was eating. Then I began to see that I had other friends who were on the plan. I began chatting with them. I asked questions. 

And then I did it. I ordered the monster book. (There's a new edition coming out so I'm not going to post a link.) And while I waited for my book to arrive, I stopped all sugar and overly-refined foods.  And I lost 2 pounds immediately. Then I lost 4. And now I'm sitting at 10 pounds down.

Mind you, 6 pounds was the most I'd ever lost on any diet. But this isn't really a diet. I'm eating so much good food and I get to eat until I'm satisfied. 

But there's more. With this weight loss, I'm seeing other things happen. I don't need two cups of coffee to get going in the  morning. I might only want half a cup. The constant pain in my shins has lessened to a very great degree.  My constant sore throat is gone. I have been able to plan chores and do them (without my supplement, mind you). I survived VBS week which was immediately followed by grocery shopping. The tired I felt was an honest tired and not the embarrassing sort of tired. My skin has cleared up. 

My weight loss is slow compared to some who started about the same time I did. I tend to get a little jealous. But look, my body has a lot of healing it needs to do. Things I didn't know were wrong are changing. My spirits have lifted. I'm listening to sermons online again as opposed to drowning my fog in Farmville. (Trust me, THAT one is huge.)

Now, I'm not saying Trim Healthy Mama is a cure-all. I may still need the supplement at times. I am saying that eating well is sort of amazing. For once, I am encouraged in a "diet." And for once, I am seeing glimpses of who God created me to be and not this me that I created.

When the memories began

I looked at the map. I found the school. I didn't look for the market; I forgot. I changed the map settings and I saw the images. Real images of things I both remembered and forgot.

It's a parking lot. There used to be a small playground with a glorious little sandbox. Not as though we didn't have enough dirt, because we did. We lived int he desert and there was dirt. But there wasn't sand. And I was small. Maybe the sandbox wasn't really as large as I recall. Yet, where's the harm in a child's memory?

I moved the map, panned a bit west. I saw the cattle guard. And the church. And a concrete pad that would have been a bit larger than the now missing trailer.

In my wild imaginations, I have a car and I pull up outside the cattle guard. I'm little again. My lunch box is metal with a red plaid design and I'm terrified that my little feet will slip between the rails as though they were hooves. I draw my hand across the concrete barrier--there's one on either side of the guard--and I recall how I scooted across it every morning, scraping my lunch box. I give a sad little laugh at those days when my fears were so small and no less real.

I now look into the property and wonder if it's still a church. I see the shed is gone. The mesquite tree stands though. 

I can't help but giggle as I remember the races after church to see who could stomp the most loco weed pods. I can still hear them popping. 

I can see where one of the ranchers pulled up in his truck one day to introduce his new dogs. One was named Blue. I remember Blue because she had two different colored eyes. I was amazed.

I see the porch where the fellow brought a tarantula in a jar that we all hovered around after church. Some of the kids held it, but I was too wise. I watched from a distance.

Then, in my dreaming, a woman comes out and calls to me. "Can I help you?"

"My dad was the pastor here when I was young," I answer. "Is this still a church?"

She smiles but doesn't answer. She cannot because she isn't real and doesn't know the answer. But she bids me come and see. I pull the car in and feel the tears.

~~I remember, I remember/ The house where I was born~~

No, not born, but most of my memories begin here.

She leads me into the church and I laugh.

"Pretty much as I remember it, "I say. "I had to come over to practice piano and I hated it. It was so big and so lonely. And dark. I left the door open one day a bird flew in. That's the only thing I remember about piano practice.

"We would walk back through this hallway to the kids' rooms for service, Junior church. My mom taught. They numbered the chairs and chose a quiet seat prize that way. One morning, I saw the number they drew and it was my chair. I was extra good that day.

"Then for business meetings, if there were no kids to play with outside, my brother and I would go back into the trailer. And play Lava. But Jack, one of the ranchers, was smarter than we were. He came in and caught us running on the furniture and he got after us.

"Jack is a pastor now. In Nevada, I think I heard."

We go back outside and I show her where the chicken coop was. I tell her how careful I was gathering the eggs; but it was hard because I had to climb up to get out while holding the basket. I point out where the cows were gathered when my brother preached to them. I pointed the opposite direction and told her that's the way my dad and I were walking home when I was attacked by fire ants.

I share with her local stories, like the one about the  rancher who was struck by lightning on mulitple occasions. I tell her of the girl who collected rattles from the snakes her dad killed.  I tell her of the prison escapee who ended the days of my walking to school. I ask if there's still a prison there.

But she doesn't answer. Of course she can't answer because she isn't real and doesn't know.  But she manages to enjoy my memories.