Faith's Findings

   Don’t “they” say the first step to solving a problem is admitting there is one? Well, here: I have a food addiction. I have an unhealthy lifestyle. I am fat. There are those words staring me in the face. The words have now been given life in the form of an admission and I now control what happens.    For so long, too long, I have tried to lose weight, but I never really wanted to admit I was fat and in an abusive relationship with food. Good day? Rewarded myself with food. Had a bad day? Drowned my sorrows in bites, felt fat? Ate cake! Felt skinny? Ate cake! You can even scroll through old blog posts where I have poured myself out about wanting to lose weight. Here’s the deal: I was so focused on losing weight that I instantly became a failure. What I needed to focus on was a lifestyle change: a healthy mindset that overflowed into the physical realm.       Since forever, I have struggled with my weight. I know how it is to look in the mirror and see labels of “fat” and “not go

*This is a paper I wrote for my Women Writing in War class last semester.*             Independence does not always equal aloneness, but rather that one knows who one is, aside from another person or society’s ideals. Independence means charting one’s own destiny.    I come from a long line of independent, hardworking, and successful southern women, but the definition of success for a woman is still debated in southern culture. The first college graduate on my maternal side of my family was a female and ultimately, my mother. Before her, the women in my family were successful in the home and working outside of the home to help provide for the family. As times change, much can be said about the slow change of women’s success in the Southern culture.             Sarah Morgan kept a diary during the Civil War and while her diary addresses slavery with ignorance, her words show the internal struggle of a woman in the south. Sarah was an insecure woman who felt stuck socially without

My family not so randomly watched The Passion of The Christ Sunday afternoon. I say not so randomly, because I believe it was an appointed time though not planned. With every slap of the leather; every tear of his skin; every sigh of agony; every strand of His hair soaked in blood; with every cling of the hammer to the nail in His hand; I cringed; I jerked and I cried for when the camera showed the actor looking into the camera, the still small voice that is very much alive said “For you, Faith, and you were worth it.” Can we talk about how humbling that is? How heartbreaking that is? Because I am Judas, who turned him in for 30 pieces of silver; I am Peter, who denied him three times before dawn; I am the laughter of the mocking crowd; I am the arrogance of the Pharisees. I found myself so angry at “those people” who crucified my Lord, but I am “those people.” How unworthy I am and yet, here I am, on my face before my Lord. And as the blood dripped from his nail pierced hands,