Lyndsey Medford

justice + joy

Bible

no more avoiding mirrors

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Avoiding mirrors is surprisingly easy. You don’t even register their existence; your eyes just slide on past. You put up a block.

Any time you are unavoidably faced with one, you move on as quickly as possible, because all the mirror shows you is anxiety and shame. Every “not ___ enough” that’s ever attached itself to you glares out from that image: not tan enough. Not clear-skinned enough. Not skinny enough. Not tall enough. Not athletic enough. Not skinny enough, not skinny enough, not skinny enough—and then the second blow falls as you try to turn away. You’re not confident enough. Not feminist enough. Not spiritual enough to trust that this body is good.

How did this supposedly feminist idea of self-confidence become just another impossible quality on the list of things women “should” be, accomplish, perform? Who decided that after a lifetime of gaslighting and abuse, all we’d need to heal would be a poppy lipstick and a peppy media campaign?

I don’t remember a time before mirrors showed me shame on both of these levels: that I couldn’t make my body fit the ideal, and I couldn’t make my heart not care. When shame turned to anger, I turned that anger on myself. This seemed like a simple mind-over-matter problem: if I could only convince myself to believe a better story, I’d take back the mirror’s power, find some way to look into it with grace and dignity and joy.

But when I began to make peace with that too-true image, it wasn’t because I figured out the right tactics. I didn’t change my beliefs through sheer force of will; nor remind myself that others had bigger problems than mine; nor placed myself before the mirror constantly like some sort of self-administered exposure therapy.

Instead, I think things began to change the day I discovered I had a mind-in-matter problem—the day I learned that we are our bodies.

You are your body.

I am my body.

That is the day I began to live a better story.

See, the writers of the Bible didn’t believe in mind over matter. They believed, simply, in matter. To the ancient Hebrews, breath was life. Literally. Your “spirit”—the thing that makes you you, your life-force, is your breath.

They had little to no conception of an afterlife; just the grave. When they argued about eternity, they didn’t talk about heaven, but about resurrection.

The Hebrews knew, as science has only recently understood, that emotions begin in the body.

They understood that creation—the material world, the dirt and air and trees and skin and sweat and fat—was made by God, very good. Not as some sort of testing ground for our spirits or minds; as a work of art. Very good. As it is.

They believed no one exists apart from their body. All that careful Sunday School division between heart and soul and body? Completely read into those texts from our modern viewpoint, inherited from the Greeks.

And because you, according to the Hebrews, are one thing, not hard to pin down, you are just the you that exists at the intersection of your body and breath—because of that, faith for them is not something you believe, it is something you do. It’s not an idea or an old story but a living, immediate thing; it is the way you encounter the world and the choices you make in light of the things your community knows about God.

And so faith that this body is good is not a mind game or a happy feeling, but a choice to inhabit this skin as if it were actually a very good home.

My body was never an image in a mirror, something to look at from someone else’s perspective and pass judgments over. My body is this right-here self, this beating-heart-bundle of today’s emotions and sore muscles—and it exists to worship God like the rest of creation, just by its very existence, exactly as it is. I exist to fill up these lungs, feel through these nerve endings, stretch out these limbs to touch my beloveds, just as much as I exist to think profound thoughts or pray pretty prayers.

I’m not afraid of mirrors anymore, because when I see this body, I see a very good self. If this body is my God-breathed self, the very idea of others’ expectations for us is incoherent. I’ve learned that my body has its own will, once I stop trying to submit it to strangers’. I’m not afraid anymore because when I look in the mirror, I’m no longer encountering myself by surprise, but greeting the fond familiar. I’m living as my body, experiencing myself as matter, loving and being with all of me.

I came here to tell you this whole summer—on the blog, on Instagram, on the Justice and Joy email list—is going to be a manifesto on prayer and self-love, leading up to the release of my guided journal, Making Friends With My Body and God. It’s about how choosing to inhabit our God-given flesh can be a prayer, one that in turn helps us breathe God’s wholeness and shalom into this fractured world.

Because even as my life is moving me slowly and steadily into activism-world, prayer and self-love only become more central to my daily life. The further outward I look in my hopes of making change in this world, the further inward I travel in hopes of staying grounded, humble, and joyful, with God in it all. And the more clearly I see that each one of us has the chance to ripple out love and peace in our own radical way, starting with that inner work.

Besides, if politics is about the organization of bodies, don’t activists deserve to feel at home in ours?

It took years, years of chronic illness and biking through snow and dealing with my weird purity culture hangups. There was quitting caffeine after 10 years of daily coffees, some backpacking in the mountains, my feminist rage at the medical industry, the crippling loss of gluten in my life. And there was a lot of awkward, uncertain, probably-wrong prayer. A lot of fighting and tears, and trying-too-hard and being-too-mad-to-try-at-all, before I came to the quiet places where God whispered to me about how to sit down in my soul, give up control, wait, accept, listen, be.

Oh, and also there was more feminist rage.

Some of those stories are in my book, and some of them aren’t. Maybe some of them will make appearances along the way of this summer’s launch (subscribe to that email list, friend!). Maybe some of them still belong to my body, who hasn’t released them yet.

But what’s most exciting to me is that your story is going to be in this book. It is part essay, part illustration, part Scripture meditation—and it’s a guided journal. It is full of questions and space for scribbles and notes; and each chapter centers on a practice you can use to try this whole embodiment thing. This whole hello-to-myself thing. This God-is-here thing.

It’s never been mind-over-matter. It’s never been you against yourself. Your body is one of your greatest sources of wisdom and strength, and that’s why this world has turned it against you for so long.

It’s time to let go of the stories about what’s wrong with you, and live into a story about what is true: that you are very good. You’re allowed to do it one day at a time. We can do it together.

The days of avoiding mirrors are numbered.

P.S. If you’re as excited about this scary, thrilling, absurd, daily, subversive journey as I am (NOT POSSIBLE, BTW), make sure you sign up for the email list. And the book is looking for a launch team to help share it with the world—if you want an early, discounted, signed copy, send me an email, DM, or comment here (ASAP). I’ll be reading and journaling through the book with the launch team and I would love to see you there!

we need to talk about bodies.

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The middle school locker room. The other 99% of the day, I could generally pretend not to have a body, but in the fluorescent seventh-grade gym, there we all just…were. I remember my routine: find a corner, try to shrink, change as fast as possible, wear an indifferent face so no one will think you’re a baby. Make an exit. Breathe again.

Middle school bodies will never not be awkward and maybe a little painful. But that constricting feeling—the fear others will find out I have a body, and a complicated relationship to it—remains with me well into my 20’s.

How many of us are still trapped in the middle school locker room when it comes to our grown-up bodies? Deeply embarrassed, but trying to seem brave; feeling immensely lonely in a room full of people who actually share our exact feelings and issues.

This tragedy repeats itself over and over because shame breeds shame. It festers in darkness and tightens its grip on its victims day by day. That feeling of unworthiness will suffocate you, feed on your joy, it will isolate you so that you have no chance of hearing the truth.

The only way to break its neck is to gasp out your secret and then wait for the sky to fall, and if it does, well, that’s better than dying silent and hiding.

I thought I knew about shame, but then I wrote a devotional last year about making friends with my body and God. It was surprising, the places I’d feel shame trying to tiptoe back in. Writing about food or stretching would suddenly feel like I was recounting all the details of some terrible, intimate secret. Or a voice would whisper, you’re too small, you don’t have this all figured out, you’re too young to write about this.

On my better days, I realized that voice was a signal I was in exactly the truth-telling place I needed to be.

See, our culture has done alright in the last few years at acknowledging it’s hard for women to love our bodies. But we’ve rushed on trying to muster Girl Power, thinking we could skip over the work of healing. We’ve told each other to be happy, be confident, be yourself—and in the process we’ve failed to make room for one another to admit we’re grieved, insecure, fractured.

So the shame buries itself deeper and goes on gutting us.

Writing my stories and confessions about my body taught me that even though bodies are intensely personal, there’s no use pretending they’re really private. Our bodies are the only site we have for meeting other people. Our weight, our health, our sexuality, our race and gender and ability, our comfort and discomfort with our own flesh affect every person we meet.

When we try to keep our body struggles and victories to ourselves, we’re denying the reality that we need others to share the journey with. I am making friends with my body and God, but I also have to reckon with my parents and grandparents, my pastors, my middle-school bullies, my best friends, every boy I’ve ever kissed and every man who’s ever stolen my smile.

I can’t do all that alone.

I needed late-night stories; safe warm hugs; conversations with my best friend about body hair. I needed to confess my sexual “indiscretions” to friends and hear the same confessions back from every. Single. One of them. I needed to eat and drink and sing and swim and cobra-pose with other people. I needed to hear my own brave, shaking voice, telling the truth, unlock sighs of relief from others who didn’t even know they were holding their breath.

Alone, you can start to rattle your cage. But get a few people together and you can pull down the whole damn prison.

Bread, Sex, and Other Devotions helped me find my little brave voice. Now I’ve created a getting-started group guide to help you find yours by discussing it with a circle of friends. Whether you hope sharing your stories and struggles will help you find deep healing, or you just need some accountability to actually finish the thing; whether you circle up your closest friends, a group you’d like to be closer to, or a few middle school girls—it’s time to end the silence.

Once your group gets started, send me an email, too—I’d love to Skype in on a session (or stop by if you’re in Charleston).

All you need is your people, the free downloads, and yummy snacks (always yummy snacks). So don’t wait. There’s not going to be a “good time” and you’re never gonna get un-scared. And that’s what’s beautiful about it: you get to be brave. You get to decide that today is the day, this year is the year when shame doesn’t win.

This Clueless Teacher

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I am no expert on daily life for first-century Jews in Palestine, but if you are, I’d love to hear from you!

Martha had never told anyone how much she liked rocks. No one had ever asked, for one thing. But the older she got, the more special the secret seemed. She knew, even if she didn’t understand, that the adults would laugh if she tried to point out the beauty in each one, the intricacies of pattern, color, and even weight that distinguished them from each other. And now that she was approaching ten years old, the other kids would laugh, too.

Today, Martha’s hands and eyes inspected the bit of limestone in her hand while her ears strained to listen to the men’s conversation. Silly as it was to care so much about rocks, trying to learn about the intricacies of the Law was even more futile, but Martha couldn’t help it; the wisest of the men could discover such great truths in even the smallest sentence of scripture. Whenever she got the chance to listen and understand, Martha felt for the rest of the week like she could see farther. It felt like she was storing up more secrets, even more beautiful than her stones.

“Martha. MARTHA!” She spun around at the edge in her mother’s voice and hurried toward her, framed in the door of the house. In a few steps, Martha had the baby on her hip, but she knew she deserved the scolding that came anyway: “Are Mary and I supposed to play patty-cake until you’re good and ready to wander back inside? Are you going to explain to your father why supper’s not ready?” Martha’s mother turned to light a fire, still muttering about chores that hadn’t been done, as Lazarus and Gideon nearly bowled Martha over. They were so engrossed in their swordfight that Martha didn’t bother to yell at them; she picked up a piece of string from the floor and sat Mary on a chair instead. Martha pretended to tie the rock onto Mary’s wrist. “It’s so you’ll remember the scriptures,” she whispered. Mary seemed to consider this for a moment. “Spitchers!” she replied, throwing the rock on the floor with gusto. Martha moved to throw it back outside before anyone could accuse her of bringing in more dirt.

Martha had dumped out her rock collection many years later when her husband moved to the family home, but she had never stopped straining to hear the religious teachers—and no one had stopped doting on Mary. They had all indulged her fantasy of never marrying for so long that they hardly noticed as Mary actually became an old maid. When Martha’s own husband died, she mourned him dutifully, but soon found her life with Mary and Lazarus quite cozy.

Everyone in the village had expected her to invite the traveling teacher to lodge with them. Martha had a knack for concocting huge meals out of thin air and an infamously immaculate house. Still, she had heard her heart beating in her ears as she awaited Jesus’s reply; when he spoke, it was as if every glimpse of beauty she’d ever gotten from the Torah readings suddenly coalesced into a pattern, simple but captivating—one that she knew had always been there, but never quite believed she’d understand, let alone see, on earth. This man didn’t just theorize about Shalom. He described the Kingdom of God. He was the Kingdom of God.

Of course Martha had started preparing before she’d even asked, but at his acceptance of her invitation all the tasks before her became suffused with joy. Never before had she been so proud of her talent for hospitality or so excited to share it. She sang as she dusted and scrubbed, and tried to appear modest but terribly busy in her conversations at the market. She tried, too, not to mind as she caught glimpses of Lazarus and Mary listening to the teacher in the square while she hurried home, arms loaded with produce.

By the time the whole group bustled in the front door, the realities of pulling off a dinner party had overtaken the thrill. Martha had been hoping for Mary’s return for hours. No matter how many eggplants she chopped, it seemed she still needed more. Her feet ached and her back was in knots.
“Thank God you’re here,” she breathed, grabbing Mary’s arm when she walked in after the guests. “We missed you!” Mary said with bright eyes.
“Well, that’s nice, but I need…” Martha trailed off as Mary returned her attention to Jesus and walked away.

It doesn’t matter she thought,  the plan will work well enough without help. Mary has never been very attentive to household things, and it’s my own fault for spoiling the girl. Martha thumped a bowl of nuts onto a table and checked the lamb: right on schedule. Mary just doesn’t understand how the world works. She’s making a fool of herself, as if she thought she belonged in the middle of that group of men. She found herself setting dishes on the table a little more loudly than normal. How can Mary sit there, seeing how many people they had to feed, and act so entitled? Martha moved the lentils off the fire. The bottom layer had burned; that would mean a lot of scrubbing later tonight. The thought of cleaning up after all this made her want to cry. Why had she invited Jesus here in the first place?

Jesus. She knew what to do. Grabbing a wine glass, she walked out of the kitchen and offered it to the first person she saw. Then she leaned down next to Mary, who sat at Jesus’s feet. “Lord,” she said, certain that he would make Mary see sense, “Don’t you care that my sister has left me to do the work by myself? Tell her to help me!” Martha moved to take away a hand-washing bowl, pretending not to see Mary’s shocked expression.

“Martha…” His voice was calm and inviting, but she was already scanning the room for tasks that needed to be done. “Martha!” She turned back around and made eye contact with the teacher for the first time. The kindness in his face made her want to cry again. Here would come his thanks, his recognition of her work.
“You are worried and upset about many things, but only one thing is needed. Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her.” Martha stared from Jesus to Mary for a minute, both of them appearing to genuinely hope that she would plop down next to Mary on the floor. Then she swept back into the kitchen.

Only one thing is needed! All that is needed is for everyone to sit around playing patty-cake until dinner magically appears! Later she would think that Jesus himself had inadvertently helped her, because she was so angry she hardly noticed her hands making the rest of the preparations. Once they all made their way to dinner, though, she was so relieved to have a seat and a glass of wine that her frustration quickly dissipated. In Jesus’ company, the group was lighthearted but sincere. At his words, they felt for the first time that they could be good, as the teachers had always admonished, and that it would be a joy to do so.

The food was impeccably done, and compliments abounded. Once Jesus even asked for her opinion on a theological matter, with such simplicity that she answered frankly before she even had the sense to demur. She blushed deeply, but Jesus’s friends seemed unfazed. “Yes, I think you are right there,” Jesus answered, and carried on. Martha vaguely knew that water and wine glasses were sitting empty, that the bread was gone and the centerpiece was askew. But the words that had continued to ring in her ears no longer galled her; she felt the truth of them. Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her. So perfection had been taken away from Martha just as it always was. Didn’t Jesus care more about her than about her napkin folds?

A couple of hours had passed when Martha felt a hand on her shoulder. “Hey Martha,” Mary whispered, “Where’s the baklava? I’ll bring it out.”

For a moment panic seized her. Utter despair followed, but just as quickly came resignation. She had forgotten to make dessert. Martha glanced around at all the contented faces, chattering but always with Jesus in view. She stood up and pulled Mary into the kitchen. “This is it,” she said, scooping some dried dates into two bowls.
“Oh, Martha…” Mary said.

“What’s done is done,” Martha said quickly. The women made no grand entrance, but simply returned to their seats and offered the dates to their neighbors.

They were the best dates Martha had ever eaten. Juicy and sweet, winey but bright, the best of the summery fruit remaining alongside the deep caramels of aged sugars. In a blink, across the table, Martha could have sworn Jesus raised a date to her in a toast for just a second before attending to another guest’s earnest question

“Martha, it was an honor to sit with you at your table today,” Jesus said as they filed out the door.
“I hope I will see you again soon,” Martha replied.

Later, cleaning up, Martha noticed something odd on the table. There, at Jesus’s place, was a beautiful rock, not exactly unusual but with a pattern and a heft she thought she recognized. Mary glanced over, too.

“Inconsiderate of people to bring extra dirt inside, don’t you think?”

Martha only smiled.