So, today I’ve been thinking about fattening things.
I must confess, I derive a lot of pleasure from chewing and swallowing the kinds of foods that cause one to be fluffy. There aren’t too many things I enjoy more than a hearty meal or a heavy snack. Unfortunately, tasty and fattening have been purged from my vocabulary lately, because I just finished a three-week, five-hundred-calorie-a-day fast in which I wasn’t allowed to eat bread or dairy or processed sugar or fat of any kind.
I wasn’t supposed to drink caffeine either. However, I told the holistic nurse who supervised this “toxin cleanse” that, if she expected me to go twenty-one days without eating a piece of yummy whole-grain bread, or enjoying my beloved goat cheese with apple slices, or drizzling olive oil on steamed vegetables, or savoring one tiny dark-chocolate-covered almond, then she would simply have to allow me a few ounces of Diet Coke every afternoon. That is, unless she wanted me to be cleansed of sanity too!
I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to subsist on one grapefruit, five strawberries, six paper-thin slices of turkey, and twelve asparagus spears per day for almost a month, but I found it to be quite taxing. I became lightheaded within the first twenty-four hours and within forty-eight hours I found myself wandering around the house aimlessly or slouching on the couch staring off into space, because evidently I wasn’t eating enough to fuel basic brain activity.
By the third day, my stomach had hardened into a tiny, angry, acidic knot, and my legs trembled when I walked up or down stairs. Then I started seeing stars and brilliant burst of white light when I ran. Of course, the nurse advised against doing anything more strenuous than walking during the course of the diet because of the severe caloric restriction, but I thought maybe running would help me forget the fact that I was starving. Plus, I’ve read that physical exercise releases the same endorphins as having sex does, and being a single, celibate, middle-aged, desperately hungry woman, I figured I could use all the endorphins I could get.
At the end of the first week of this self-imposed fast, a dear friend gently questioned my capacity to continue nibbling like a supermodel for two more weeks and said she thought I should immediately head to Wendy’s for a cheeseburger. I think she was alarmed that I was sitting across from her in Starbucks weeping softly with a white-knuckled grip on a cup of Splenda-sweetened green tea. With eyebrows knit together in concern, she then asked if I was sure it was God who convicted me to limit my food intake.
Interestingly enough, He hadn’t. I didn’t choose to cut certain foods and drinks for my diet for spiritual reasons. God didn’t tell me to fast last month. Frankly, I’ve always subscribed to my friend Lisa Whelchel’s food philosophy, because she insists that if Jesus hadn’t wanted us to eat carbohydrates, He wouldn’t have ever referred to Himself as the “Bread of Life”! I just wanted to be a little more responsible about what I was putting into my body. I reasoned that now that I’m in my late forties, it’d probably be a good idea to be more intentional about maintaining my health by eating cleaner, less-processed, lower-fat foods. Plus, I had several pairs of really cute jeans hanging in my closet that were too tight, and I assumed that following a caloric-restrictive diet for a while might help me lose a few pounds and squeeze back into them.
Little did I know how very spiritual the fast would become, because the lightheadedness soon gave way to an elevated sense of awareness. Having an empty stomach actually lead to a less-cluttered heart and mind. Without the distraction of Frappuccinos and french fries, I quickly realized there were more toxins clogging my soul than there were triglycerides clogging my arteries. The extra weight I was carrying in my spirit was much more dangerous than the fluff I was carrying around my hips and waist. And just as I numb my body’s need for healthy nourishment when I gorge on junk food, I had also numbed my soul’s need for confession — for cleansing — when I stuffed myself full of me-first rationalism.
When I stepped on the scales a few days ago, the arrow was pointing to a number twenty-three pounds less than it did a few months ago. It’s the weight I used to lie about on my driver’s license back when state governments imposed such indignities. I can now wear those darling boot-cut jeans that used to cut off my circulation. Mind you, they’re not “skinny” jeans by fashion magazine standards, but I didn’t find them in the plus-size department either. And of course, I have more energy, more stamina, and stronger nails. (Actually, I’m not sure about the fingernail part, but that’s what the brochure advertising this particular diet promised.)
More importantly, for the moment my heart feels significantly lighter. It’s not weighed down by emotional fatty deposits like, Why do I always have to be the one who says “I’m sorry” first? Or If God isn’t going to give me a husband and children, why doesn’t He at least bless me with a best-selling book, a high metabolism, and small pores? Today — well, at least this morning — those kinds of toxic thoughts that sometimes clog my soul are gone. I am fasting from whiny narcissism and a sense of entitlement. Right now I’m content just being a sturdy, mistake-prone girl who is absolutely adored by a perfect Redeemer!
Jesus provides a heart-healthy cleanse that helps us jettison pounds of unattractive, jiggling pride.
Excerpted from Stumbling Into Grace by Lisa Harper (Thomas Nelson). If you missed Lisa Harper on LIFE TODAY last week, you can watch her program at lifetoday.org.
