Homebody

And then one day, all alone in your closet, your favorite jeans button up again.

The zipper doesn’t catch, but your throat does.

You were just trying them on, to see “how far you still had to go.”

But then you remember: the realest you? She’s been right here all along.

Growing, while technically reducing in size.

Stronger than denim, bigger than tags: infinite as the sunrise.

Maybe they would’ve fit a while ago, honestly. But you were preoccupied. Finally. With things more important. Like her. And her sisters. And your whole, entire, intricate health; the way your body needs your soul and your soul needs your mind, and on and on, and repeat again.

You pull on a black pair, just to be sure.

And though it blends right in, like the bark of an oak, a groove from an earlier time—you see it, then you feel it: the black elastic hair-tie still looped through the pants’ main button hole. The tried-and-true homespun maternity trick to offer some give as you grow.

Well, as you and that baby grow.

Together.

Forever.

Your throat releases the quietest plea, heard barely by even you, upon the realization that you won’t be needing that trick, not ever again.

These jeans fit, too.

Quite perfectly.

You hated this weight.

You wished it away.

So why are you crying, sweet girl?

It’s OK.

Tears are welcome here.

This is the same closet floor where you prayed her into existence.

— —

For all of these years, and all of these months, through my bed-ridden days and the run, spun miles, I’ve come to think of my baby pounds as guests in the home of my body.

Unwelcome at first.

Resented for sure.

Cursed more than once.

But, over time, softening their host.

Igniting transformation, beginning with the dustiest cracks.

Surprising her with their strength and kindness and grace.

Sanding down edges, throwing out trash.

Fortifying her very foundation.

Letting the natural light in.

Showing her the way of self-love.

Reminding her how God sees her; the best on the street.

On all streets.

Desirable.

Unshakeable.

Worth absolutely everything.

I’m onto the very last ounces of baby weight I’ll ever lose. And would you believe me if I said that it’s a little bittersweet watching them go?

They were never meant to stay forever.

I’ll be healthier when they’re gone.

But as I watch them leave, I’m blessing them.

I’m thanking them.

I’m nostalgic for their restorative powers as they start to slip out the front door.

Taking the donuts, leaving what I need to ensure I won’t ever thirst again.

Making sure I know that sometimes:

I’ll still want a donut.

And I can have it, and I can love it.

There was a day long ago when I wouldn’t have touched a fried food with the tip of my pinkie.

I’m grateful for every last lesson these pounds have taught me during their stay.

I’m finally not mad that they had to arrive in the first place.

Freedom.

Resilience.

New eyes to see.

Never crying in front of my house’s mirrors again.

My daughters are watching.

Nobody important has ever weighed my goodness or my value by a scale but me.

It’s time to keep marching forward.

— —

You look back down. What do you do with the grace in your hands, in the form of a ratty hair-tie?

You reach up to the jewelry case holding your most precious stones. You slide the hair tie inside.

The only place it belongs.

In there, right here.

Your favorite room in the house.

Where God’s presence dwells and resounds for you, mysteriously and unmistakably.

You pull on the blue jeans again.

All these seasons, and all these scars, and they feel exactly the same.