“On the contrary, who are you, O man, who answers back to God? The thing molded will not say to the molder, “Why did you make me like this,” will it?”
-Romans 9:20-
“She is very fat,” he says casually as he small talks with my friend & points to me.
I look at him & his accusatory index finger is like a fist to the gut.
He curves his arms to frame his midsection with at least a foot of space on each side to emphasize my overwhelming girth.
The empty space between his arms & body houses my shame & guilt.
I avert my eyes, intentionally ignore the comment & use body language that I unrealistically hope will create the optical illusion of a less voluptuous me.
I default to being hurt & apologetic about existing in a world too small (-minded) for me.
Once again, here I am, inconveniencing people who just can’t seem to fit me into their idea of acceptable & good.
This Nepali shopkeeper agrees with perpetrators in past experiences & sadly, on occasion, with me.
As I grow weary with actively opposing popular opinion, I surrender & adopt the standards I detest, I join the masses in believing I am not beautiful, it seems easier some days.
I take the yak leather bag I plan to purchase from this man & use it to hide my stomach, a purely instinctive act learned from years of knowing that I am not something to be shown off.
He called me “fat” before he called me anything else.
Like it’s my name.
It’s not, in case you were wondering.
My name is Lacey.
And…what if I’m pretty?
You know?
Like…what if I’m creative & created by the most creative Creator; a beautiful creation?
What if Anorexia & Bulimia are the medical names for the ghosts that follow me around reminding me that deprivation & self-hatred look good on me?
And what if I fight tirelessly to prove them wrong everyday?
What if I’m a masterpiece?
And what if that’s not an arrogant statement…what if it’s God’s opinion?
What if I’m His handiwork?
And what if I’m sick of telling the Great Artist that He screwed up & put too much flesh on my lower half & one too many rolls on my belly just because the general population is not quite satisfied with the living sculpture that is me?
I’m surrounded by a crowd of judges, unqualified art critics.
What if they have no authority?
What if I trust in God’s expertise?
His every brushstroke, shade & line?
What would happen?
What if I’m sick of being clay that talks back, trying to convince the Potter of His mistakes?
What mistakes?!
He makes no mistakes.
And who do I think I’m dealing with?
And who do I think I am to tell Him what’s appealing?
I have been indoctrinated since the cradle, & I seem to have the wrong idea of beautiful.
Who am I to convince the inventor of beauty that I am unfit for such an adjective?
What if I’m sick of focusing on how esthetically pleasing I am to strangers & I resolve to focus on how internally pleasing I am to my Maker?
What if this body is not my home?
What if it’s temporary & perishing?
What if one day we all go back to dust?
What if I look in the mirror sometimes & see cute, interesting, & lovely?
Would I admit that?
Or am I afraid of being proven wrong?
Would I admit that I rebel against a society that I give consent to oppress me & I actually delight in my appearance sometimes behind closed doors? Away from voices that tell me I shouldn’t love myself in my current state…
Where only good eyes see me.
Only the Lord’s & mine straining to see like His.
No eyes like lasers, knives or microscopes.
The secret place,
Where I ask myself: what if I’m pretty?
What if I’m utterly gorgeous?
What if I’m beautiful?
What if I’m enough & not too much?
Then what?
“She is very fat,” he says.
This is merely a case of mistaken identity that I’ve been caught up in for years.
Very fat?
No.
Call me Lacey, a beautiful product of the immense creativity of the God of the universe, just like every other man, woman & child.
