334916_10150371224688949_11473_o
334916_10150371224688949_11473_o

Last night, Dave asked me a question: "How would the you of five years ago have read that post?"

Five years ago I wouldn’t have read that post. Or, I would have read it and cried.

Five years ago, my body couldn’t carry a child.

We were a year into infertility. For me, infertility carried both sadness and shame. My body didn’t work right. It couldn’t do the one thing I wanted it to do.

My body was a miracle then too.

I couldn’t carry a child, but I could run. Someone told me once to find the tallest hill near my house, and to start running up it. I overcame a chronic foot injury, and by the end of the summer, I ran from my house to the top of Griffith Park once a week. I was strong.

I ran a half marathon, and ran it faster than I had ever imagined running. I was strong, and I was fast. My body did something right in a season when nothing about it felt right.

But the foot injury caught up with me. Six months later, I had to cancel my next half marathon because I couldn’t run. I couldn’t even walk without pain.

My body was a miracle then, too. I couldn’t run, and I couldn’t carry a child, but I could love the people around me with my hands and arms and ears. I could paint, teach, listen and laugh.

Right now, I cannot run. I can’t even walk far. But I can write. I can make dinner for friends and clean my house. I can sing.

Our bodies are amazing.

But what happens when everything we have is taken away? When our bodies are sick? When our bodies are weak?

I don’t know.

I am a body and I am more than a body.

I am what I do, but I am more than what I do.

My body is a miracle, and my worth has nothing to do with how beautiful it is or how functional.

At the bottom of it all is this: I am beloved. Nothing else matters.

Thank God for grace.

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