In my youth I could consume almost anything I wanted without consequences. Cold pizza the morning after a sleepover was a staple. A road trip filled with copious amounts of fast food stops was no big deal to my digestive tract. Wading waist-deep in the thirties I found long ago that those days were well in the past. The food I put into my body started to matter a whole lot more to my gut. After hours on the road with all of my meals passed through the window I find I crave something good for me. My body all but screams for a plate of fresh veggies.
The same can be said of how active I was then versus now. It required little effort to go on hikes, ride my bike for hours, and spend the winter days running back up snowy hills after sliding down time and again. My husband signed up for a 5k race with his company a couple of weeks ago and I decided to join him in his efforts to prepare for it. Every inch of me was screaming by the end of our first jog (which in all honesty consisted of a lot of walking breaks on my part). The stairs have become my arch-nemesis. Chasing my children around leaves me winded. I am uncertain I was ever truly in shape, but I can say with certainty I am not in shape now.
My physical health has been an object of much concern over the past five years and I have undergone a multitude of tests trying to get to the bottom of the concerns. While I do not think it will solve all of my problems, I cannot dispute the benefits of being active, eating well, and staying hydrated. When I get up and move consistently there are some issues that are alleviated. Drinking several glasses of water each day increased my appetite and decreased my persistent nausea. Avoiding those foods with Mc in front of them yields a happier gut.
I know the things that make me healthier overall and yet I find it difficult to stick with any of them. It requires effort, discipline, sacrifice and challenges. A toned body isn’t just handed to me. I cannot skip meals, shovel in pizza after eight o’ clock at night and then wonder why my body is in a state of disarray. If I never get up and move I cannot expect my endurance level to grow. It is refreshing when I consistently do the things that make my body feel better, but it is hard. Plus, the good results can take time to show. It’s not instantaneous. The same is true of maintaining spiritual health and exercising your spiritual muscle. It may sound cheesy, but stick with me.
After a string of events that pummeled our family with negativity and hurt in our walks with Christ, our walks slowed. I was crawling. Despite the hurt I went through the motions, mostly for my children’s sakes. I knew deep down I would get back on my feet someday and did not want to cripple them because of the spiritual desert I had stumbled into. So, I kept on reading the Bible to them every day. I put sermons on on Sunday morning, took notes, and then did my own Sunday School lesson for the kids. I prayed with my son and daughter in turn at bedtime, so they drifted off to sleep in the security of knowing that God was in control.
Then my heart started to grow harder. God seemed farther and less like Father. My prayers cried out in physical pain, warring with the physical and the spiritual, felt like they were being shouted into a void. They became pleading whispers. My desire to find a church faltered; I felt it was impossible, so I stopped looking. I was jaded. I ceased my Sunday morning supplement of sermons and lessons.
It became easier and easier to overlook the things I knew I should be doing to build up my faith because it required too much effort and I was not seeing immediate results. I started consuming less of the media that reinforced the positive messages God wanted written on my heart. It left a bitter taste. It was a constant reminder of His distance, His silence, my nagging doubts, the inner-conflict I desperately wanted to squelch but no longer had the willpower to do what was necessary to overcome.
I was starving spiritually, wasting away to nothingness, but could not chew on the words on the pages of my Bible anymore. When the effects of a life without God being first and foremost in our home started to overflow onto the children I got angry. That anger kept me crawling along enough to continue praying and pleading to God on their behalf.
Then my family decided to move. I struggled with the conflict of hope and anxiety over what awaited us in our new home. Hope said that it was an opportunity to get back in shape, to find a new church and community to nourish our family, to invite God back in wholeheartedly. Anxiety argued that people are people no matter where we go and they are going to let us down, so we probably wouldn’t find a church. Besides, I was still me whether on the west or east coast, so what was relocating going to really change anyhow?
I half-heartedly spent the better part of four months looking for a church to visit. There was always a reason when Sunday rolled around and at this point in my sloth-like walk I was admittedly unwilling to give up my week-end. I had got to a point in my life I never anticipated…Church was no longer the norm.
Still, my heart ached. I was craving fellowship with Christ and the church. In my spiritual sickness my body cried out for the sustenance that would give me life again. I wanted to run in my faith, not inch along in agony. I wanted to say with assurance “it is well with my soul.” Then an older couple knocked on our door and invited us to join them on Sunday at their church. The excuses popped up in my head, “but…” I squashed them down. We didn’t go that Sunday but a different tug was on my heart. I felt we should go, despite my concerns and fears at the idea of stepping into a church again.
Last Sunday, we went to church for the first time this year.
Man, did it feel good! The anxiety was there, the fear was present, doubts danced in the back of my mind, but it felt good. The familiarity of the feel of a hymnal in my husband’s hands, shared between the two of us; a lesson from the Bible feeding my soul; and the warm welcome we had not felt in a long time all went a long way to reminding me of why I need to do what it takes to get my faith back on track. It was like the excitement I felt after my first attempt at jogging with my husband. Sure, I was discouraged at how slow I plugged along, but I did it. Sweat pouring down my face, huffing and puffing…but I did it. And it felt good to know that I put in the effort!
I cannot expect to jog a mile with my husband without multiple walk breaks if I don’t build up to it, though. Expecting to feel energetic, healthy and glowing with little sleep, processed foods galore and no exercise is like expecting my faith to be strengthened by avoiding the Bible, consuming more of what the world offers, and not fellowshiping with the saints. An apple every now and then isn’t going to negate the garbage you eat the rest of the time, any more than reading a verse here and there that your friends post on Facebook is going to negate the garbage you watch the rest of the time.
Just like I am trying to establish good habits to make me and my family healthy and in shape, I am working on getting back to the habits I took for granted that kept us rooted in the Lord. It is painful. It requires effort, discipline, sacrifice and challenges. I may get hurt again. I may not see the benefits immediately. Sometimes it seems like I am not making any headway. Will I keep going? I have to. Whether I crawl, walk or run, I need to make sure I am doing so with Christ. I need to keep going, because you don’t get in shape by doing nothing at all!
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