healing

ON BEAUTY

/ jessicaivaska / 2 Comments

Photo by Habila Mazawaje on Unsplash

I just finished reading The Mockingbird: The Beauty Issue. (The Mockingbird is non-profit print magazine that Erik subscribes to that I have come to really appreciate.) As I flipped through the pages, a multitude of questions popped into my mind.

What is beauty, really?
What do I believe about it?
Who or what have I allowed to define it?
 
Growing up in the 80s and 90s, I fell into the trap of believing that what I looked like mattered as much as (or more than) anything else.
 
I thought that if I looked “right,” I would be admired. Respected. Loved.
 
The scary thing is that I simply accepted the standard of beauty set by magazines, advertisers, the fashion industry, and Hollywood.
 
I didn’t question it.
I didn’t consider they could be wrong.
I assumed that to be beautiful, I had to conform.
 
So for years I tried, which left me depressed, struggling with my body image, and never feeling good or beautiful enough. But as I read through The Beauty Issue, I began to question my old thoughts.
 
Who is it that says a flat stomach is more beautiful than a round one?
Who says that thin and tall is more beautiful than short and stout?
Who says that long, highlighted hair is prettier than a bald head?
Who says that grey is the best color for my living room walls?
 
More important than “Who says it?” is “Why the heck have I believed them?”
 
Like a flash of lighting, I realized I don’t have to believe it anymore! And then, Romans 12:2 popped into my mind.
 
“Do not conform to the pattern of this world but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.”
 
I’ve spent a whole lot of my years trying to conform to the world’s standard of beauty, and by doing that I’ve actually been a part of the problem.
 
By complimenting people when they lose weight, I’m saying that skinny is beautiful.
By admiring someone’s smooth skin, I’m saying that wrinkles should be erased.
By telling someone how great they look after having Lasik, I’m saying that people who need glasses aren’t as attractive.
 
All this really hit home for me the other day. I was in the car, listening to the radio and a catchy song came on. I started to automatically sing along.
 
I knew all the words.
Verses.
Bridge.
Chorus.
 
But I hadn’t ever stopped to think about what the song was saying on a deeper level. As I listened, I realized the song was all about women dancing for the admiration of men.
 
WHAT?
 
I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve sung along with it for years without ever questioning the lyrics meaning. I’ve bobbed my head to it and tapped my feet. It’s got a good beat. But now I’m realizing that’s not enough.
 
Disgusted with what the singer was saying, I changed the station. But as I scrolled, I discovered most of the hit songs were about lust, sex, and physical beauty. Sometimes it was veiled, but it was always there.
 
So I turned off the radio. I decided that by listening to it and singing along, I was celebrating the lie that what we look like (and who we attract) matters more than anything else.
 
Ok, back to Romans 12:2.
 
I’ve spent too long conforming to this world.
I’ve spent too long letting society tell me who I should be and what I should look like.
I’ve spent too long believing that beauty is finite, when really, it’s infinite.
 
Even though I’ve spent years hearing about the impossible beauty standards our world sets, it’s taken me until middle age to realize that I’ve been part of the problem. By trying to match the world’s standard of beauty, or following trends, or whatever you want to call it, I have actually fostered it.
 
By trying to conform to it, I’ve said that it’s ok. That it’s right.
 
I don’t want to live that way anymore.
I don’t want to let the world tell me who I should be or how I should look.
I don’t want to keep nurturing a false ideal of beauty.
 
Instead, I want to celebrate the things that God says are beautiful. That type of beauty is nothing like what you’ll see on Instagram or TikTok. It won’t be on the cover of People magazine.
 
It’s too vast.
Too infinite.
Too  varied.
Too real.
 
True beauty includes bruises and blood.
Tears and sweat.
Broad smiles and chipped teeth.
 
Most importantly, it goes beyond what you see.
 
Rewriting my definition of beauty isn’t easy. I can already see that I have a long way to go. But I’m grateful that it’s starting and I’m grateful that The Mockingbird spent the time and money to put out a magazine that’s helping rebellion bloom in my heart.
 
I have a choice.
I get to choose to turn off the radio.
I get to choose to put down the magazines.
I get to choose to stop scrutinizing myself in the mirror.
 
You have a choice, too.
 
I know I’m not the first to recognize this problem. Just last month, I went to see the musical Hairspray  with some friends. It’s based on a 1988 film, and the storyline proves that people have been talking about (and wrestling with) false beauty standards for decades.  My prayer is that those conversations not only continue, but that someday the voices proclaiming real beauty — and all its many definitions — will be the loudest.
 
Following a standard of beauty is just another way of trying to people please, which dims your true beauty.
 
The beauty that God gave you.
The beauty that reflects His creativity and love.
The beauty that He delights in.
 
People will try to take that beauty away from you. They’ll tell you that you should change. Don’t listen. Even if the voice you’re hearing is your own.

83

/ jessicaivaska / 12 Comments

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Eighty-three days ago, I had a heart attack.

It’s hard to write about because it’s hard to believe, and even harder to process.

But facts are facts.

The sun rises every morning. It sets every evening. When it rains, things get wet. And almost three months ago I had a heart attack.

I didn’t realize what has happening at the time. It was nothing like they show in movies. I didn’t fall over clutching my chest. It hurt, but I could handle it. Afterall, it was the middle of the night. So I took some Tylenol and tried to sleep.

I didn’t even tell Erik until the next morning. Concern swept over his face. He wondered if I needed to go to the doctor. I waved off his question. The pain was better. I’d just wait and see.

But then I got to thinking.

I still didn’t feel right. Something had happened that morning while I was running. I almost blacked out. I got crazy nauseas. That’s not normal, but because I’ve run five marathons, I know that some runs are hard.

Plus, it was hot — in the 90s, with a humidity factor like a sauna. I told myself that I must have gotten over-heated. The chest pain later that night must have been from that. Yep. Heat exhaustion. Or maybe I was just anemic. The symptoms matched.

I had some routine blood work scheduled for a few weeks out, but I decided to do it early. I sent my doctor a message saying what had happened and asked him to check for anemia when the tests came back. The nurse called the next day.

No anemia. Everything looked great.

Then the Holy Spirit must have nudged me, because before she could hang up I told her what had happened. I said that I still had pain when I exerted myself, but that it was better. I figured I just needed more rest.

If she could have forced me to come in, she would have. But instead she pressed as hard as she could and then made me an appointment for a few hours later.

Fast forward through some more tests and that night I end up at the ER, being told I was going to be staying the night.

And then the next morning, the cardiologist walks in.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said with a straight face. “You’re too young, too healthy. It doesn’t make sense.”

Great. Then, I’ll just go home.

“You had a heart attack.” Those words came out of his mouth and I would have lost any poker game I’d been trying to play.

“No one told you yet?” he asked.

Nope.

Rushed into more tests and then surgery to have a stent placed to open a blockage, another night in the hospital and the next evening I finally got to go home.

Two nights may not sound like much, but I felt those hours. I know Erik did, too, as he sat next to me in one of those squeaky, vinyl reclining chairs you only find in hospital rooms.

So there it is. I had a heart attack. A mild one, as the doctor told me, but still a heart attack.

What do you do with this type of news?

If you’re like me, you try to figure out whyit happened. But sometimes, there just aren’t answers.

Sometimes you can run 15-20 miles a week, eat healthy, not smoke, not drink much, never set foot in a fast food restaurant, be in your 30s and have a heart attack. And sometimes you just won’t be able to make sense of it except for genetics being at play.

But the thing is, as true as it is, the moving on is hard. My desire to want to control everything leaps to the surface as I figure out how to change my diet, dig into books about how to recover, think about stress management and try to start exercising again.

83 days in, I still don’t feel great. I still have some pain. I’m still tired. I had another test today, I was sure the news would be bad. But the doctor called to say the damage that had been done from the heart attack has reversed itself. My heart is healing.

It’s a strange thing when you brush against your mortality and I’m still not sure what to do with it.

But I’m learning to lean. I’m learning to lean on Jesus. I’m trying to trust that He’s in control. I’m choosing (ok, trying) to believe that He is good. I’m choosing to see my lack of control as something I can grow into, something that God-willing can be a good thing, can give me freedom. What that freedom looks like I don’t know. But I hope to taste it soon.

BEDSIDE MANNER

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Maybe you haven’t been there, but I’m willing to bet you have.

You’re sick, or have had surgery, or delivered a baby, and you need care. You need gentleness. You need reassurance that it’s all going to be ok.

Some doctors are good at it. Others aren’t. In fact, some are terrible. I had a procedure a few years ago and the doctor said she’d call Erik to tell him how it went as soon as I was in recovery.

She never called.

She didn’t tell us how it went. I was sent home drugged and wondering if it had been a success. It was a minor procedure. Something this doctor does multiple times a week. But for me, it was huge. It was my body. My life. I needed to know all the details, and yet, I got none.

The unknown — combined with the after effects of anesthesia, my body healing, and my sensitive soul — left me in a cloud of despair. I couldn’t shake it.

The pain from the procedure wasn’t that bad, and yet something in me was falling apart. I called to find out how it had gone, and was told, “Fine.” I said I had been extremely emotional and asked if that was normal. The reply I got was, “Well, some people have strange responses to anesthesia.”

That was all.

I was broken, bloody, and felt alone in it. And yet, that’s how all of us are in this world.

Maybe we aren’t literally bleeding every day, but we are broken. There is pain, there is hurt, there is abandonment, rejection, and betrayal.

We don’t merely need procedures and bandages to fix the injuries and sop up the blood. We need someone who will hold our hand while we heal.

We have that. In Jesus.

I forget this far too often. Instead of letting Him hold my hand, I search for someone — or something — else to calm my racing mind. But those brief moments when I am with Him, when I am raw and bare and He is bandaging me tenderly, holding my hand, telling me that I am not alone, those really are the best.

Let’s try to do that more, you and I. Let’s let Jesus be Jesus. Let’s let Him bandage our wounds and clean up the blood, all while holding us and telling us that everything is really, truly going to be ok.