One head, two hands, two feet, some other stuff between. A beating heart, eyes that see, a mouth that says “I love you.” My body is a temple, designed for a purpose. My legs carry me from place to place, my arms lift children to the sky and coffee to my mouth. My body works as it is meant to work.
For years, I’ve been tormented by ugly thoughts of an ugly body. I rejected its’ worth. My mind fought against it, hating it and hurting it. Comparison and envy, unworthiness and disgust took root in my soul. I was at war with myself.
I didn’t sing because I didn’t believe in something so broken creating something beautiful. I didn’t dance because I didn’t believe I could dance to please myself instead of someone else’s ideals. I bared it all—left nothing up to the imagination. My mind fought against my body—a downplayed battle between light and darkness taking place in my very own heart.
“You’re beautiful,” sounded to me like “at least you have a good personality.” “You’re not fat,” sounded to me like “I’m so glad I don’t look like you.” The devil got inside my ears and twisted their words before they could even reach my mind.
I’m here, in month 3 of the World Race. My arms just painted pieces of a mural that my eyes love to look at. My hands are covered in paint. I’m wearing leggings with more holes than fabric and my pale, prickly skin shows beneath them. I’m wearing a tank top that doesn’t even try to hide my untoned arms. My hair is in a 2-day-old bun that I can only assume isn’t up to my pre-race standards. I wouldn’t know, I haven’t looked in a mirror.
On Saturday, I wore a swimming suit to the beach and I felt the sea water wash over my skin—cool and salty. I saw a video of myself running into the water and instead of the dimples on the backs of my legs, I saw the joy in my face and heard the laughter coming from my mouth.
Without makeup, curling irons, heels, and dresses, my body feels naked. Bare. Exposed. Every picture I see of myself feels raw. But I don’t wish for those things back. I’m falling in love—slowly but steadily—with my body. With myself. With what I can do.
What I’m about to type is a recurring mantra. I don’t quite believe it yet, but I do believe that the more I say it, the more real it will become: my body is a temple, designed for a purpose. It works as it is meant to work. It doesn’t matter what size jeans I wear or how even my complexion is; it matters what it can do. And I can do a lot.
Being here, in Chiaquelane, Mozambique, has been respite for my heart and body. We work every day with 85 preschoolers. With them, my body has value. It has purpose. My mind learns bits and pieces of their language and my mouth tells them I love them. My ears hear their laughter and my stomach tightens when I can’t help but laugh in return. My legs are used as big, comfy seats. My chest is a pillow.
But being here, in Chiaquelane has brought to light a flaw in my body’s design I’d never before considered.
My hands are not enough. No, my two hands are not enough.
They grab my hands, my fingers, my wrists. They pry tiny fingers off of my own and replace them with theirs. They slap away the hands of their competitors and clutch me tightly. There are never less than five who want not one but both hands on mine at all times. Lucia cries when she takes her hand away to wipe her eye and finds that—in that split second—her spot on my wrist has been replaced by another tiny hand.
When it’s time to leave, I have to use all my strength to peel their hands off of me. It can usually be done with the promise of a high five and a wave goodbye.
My hands are rough. They are covered in paint and mosquito bites and calluses from the past. My fingernails don’t do a good job of hiding the dirt beneath them. There is a scar on my knuckle, a bump from where my pencil rests, and a watch tan line around my wrist. To my eyes, they are not beautiful. But to my heart—and to the Father’s heart—my hands are the most beautiful parts of me.
My body’s biggest flaw is not my wide feet or frizzy hair. It’s not my big hips or chubby cheeks. My body’s biggest flaw is that it’s not equipped with more hands.
Hands to wipe away tears. Hands to boop noses. Hands to tickle bellies. Hands to wash feet, to serve instant maize, to braid hair, to tie shoes. Hands to hold.
My hands will hold countless hands this year. Big hands, small hands, dusty, dirty, hands. Each time my fingers wrap around another, I will know without the shadow of a doubt that my hands are doing what they were created for. That my body is a temple, fulfilling its’ purpose. That it is working exactly as it is meant to work.
