I love weddings. I love to hear my husband officiate. I love to remember my own vows as an echo of God’s own covenant vows to His people. I love celebrating beautiful brides. I love watching the groom’s face as his bride appears for the first time. I love it all. But at the most recent wedding we attended, I nearly let my thighs steal all the joy.
I live a healthy lifestyle. We eat fairly well. I try to work up a decent sweat daily in some form or fashion. But the values and priorities of our lives have squished out spare time for the more intense workouts I used to love. As such, my thighs are not what they once were.
I know that I could rearrange our lives to get my thighs back to their best form. I could write less. I could leave less responsive time in my life for my boys by proactively scheduling hour long workouts. I could quit my part-time job doing women’s ministry. But I haven’t, as I have not felt compelled or called by God to do so.
Normally, I let my thighs be my thighs, whatever size they may be. But, as I was dress shopping for recent weddings, I let my thighs (or more correctly, I let LIES) get the better of me. It seemed, in those terrible, fluorescent lights of the dressing room, that my thighs had taken on their own zip code.
I did not like what I saw. And my discontentment opened the door for my eyes to follow in their own sinful suit of comparison. Her legs look great in that dress. She is older than me, but her legs look great.
I had allowed the age-old Enemy to hit me in a place of vulnerability. And then I let the lie linger until it nearly stole my joy.
The same repentance that led to life when I first came to Christ led me to life this weekend.
Christ enabled me to repent and be restored to the joy of Him being the great prize, no matter the size of my thighs. He gently showed me that I was letting my own image eclipse the fact that He allowed me to be His image-bearer. He reminded me that not only had He gave me physical eyes, He had also opened up blinded spiritual eyes to see Him, myself, and others, not as the world defines them, but as He does.
I wish I could say that being in my mid-thirties made me immune to high school fears. I wish I could say that being the pastor’s wife at the wedding meant I had reached full confidence in Christ alone. Alas, I cannot.
But I can repent and cling to Christ. I can remember that these thighs have enabled me to bring three boys into the world. They have enabled me to go on walks with my husband. They have sat criss-cross applesauce holding a Bible and journal. They have allowed me to stand and declare the Word of God to kindergartners, college students, and women.
Don’t get me wrong, I aim to take good care of them, but I refuse to let their size dictate my worth or confidence. I want my life to be marked by a dogged, yet Divinely-enabled obsession with finishing the race set before me. I want my eyes to be far more fixed on the great prize than on the size of my thighs. I want these thighs to walk me in confident initiation and service to others until the day that I sit on Christ’s strong thighs and see Him face to face.