Beauty IS the Beast

Ancient beauty in an English castle

The other day while I was riding my bike through our subdivision, I saw a very attractive teenager walking up her driveway. At least I thought that's what I saw.

And then she turned around.

It wasn't a teenager, or even a twenty-ager. The strikingly beautiful woman with long shiny blond hair, stylish size 4 skinny jeans and awesome boots, was 50. I know this because I met her and her young daughter ten years ago.

Ah, her daughter. That's another story. Keri, as I'll call her, was chubby, nondescript, and shy from the day she was born. Now nearing twenty, she's still, well, chubby, nondescript, and shy.

How must it feel to grow up with a drop-dead gorgeous mother? I thought, pedaling my bicycle. Usually it's the other way around - we moms fade into the background as our lovely daughters come into full bloom. That's hard enough. But to be the plain-Jane daughter of someone who turns heads wherever she goes?

Gotta be rough.

But don't we all live on some sort of comparison hamster wheel? There's always someone prettier around to compare ourselves to and make us feel that we just don't measure up. A sister ... cousin ... neighbor ... co-worker. And it's rough.

Then I remembered something from my book, More Beauty, Less Beast. It was in the chapter called, "Not Just Plain Vanilla," about the tendency we women have to focus on the external rather than the internal to feel more beautiful. It can become an obsession if we're not careful.

"The real issue is our dependency upon augmentation of our God-given appearance for acceptance and self-esteem, whether through makeup, surgical alterations, or high fashion. How dependent are we on external fixes to feel that we fit in? Are accepted? Are attractive?

Papa God created us, each and every one a masterpiece - in our natural state, rough-hewn and raw. And He loves us lavishly, just that way.

Not one of us is plain vanilla! Our flavor comes through the creative passion of our Master Designer, not how we decorate ourselves."

I hope sweet, dear Keri realizes she can be mocha mint chocolate chip if she wants to be. Because her unique flavor comes from the inside out.

So what flavor are you?

How To Dissolve a Worrywart (Part 2)

Be sure to scroll back to Part 1 before continuing with Part 2.

Check out these simple-to-implement solutions for dissolving worrywarts:

1. Postpone worry. Set aside 15 minutes a day as your Designated Worry Time (DWT). Then, whenever a niggling fret tries to worm into your brain during the day or night, jot it down. Then forget about it until your DWT.
2. Morph worry into prayer. Fretting is not productive. Prayer is. Prayer is the nerve that innervates the hand of God. When you do get to your DWT, turn each problem into a prayer request and turn it over to the One who can actually do something about it.
3. Become a busybody. When you realize you’re beginning to worry about something, redirect your thoughts by giving your brain – and body – something else to do. Action defuses anxiety. Get your hands busy and your mind will follow.
4. Go to your happy place. Another gem for worry-redirection, especially late at night when your whirling mind won’t let you relax. Imagine that you’re in the special place that brings you calmness and happiness … maybe the warm surf of a favorite beach, or a lovely mountain trail. Ahh. Feel the anxiety melt away.
5. Rest in the Word. Another great worry-buster for restless nights when you’re more uptight than a twisted thong. Reflecting on a favorite scripture brings peace to your soul. Say it aloud then let it roll through your mind over and over until you can think of nothing else.
6. Perform emotional triage. Sort your nagging concerns into two piles: those with outcomes over which you have no control, and those that are potentially solvable. Give the first pile to the Lord, turn your back on it, and focus on the solvable problems. Once you come up with an action plan and begin seeing results, your worry will diminish.   

  

You know, worry is the result of putting our faith in the wrong place – in ourselves (instead of Papa God) to figure it all out, maintain control, and provide protection from what might harm us.

We don’t have to be worrywarts. Our loving Father really will take care of us if we just let go of our worries and trust Him. Things may not always turn out the way we want, but they’ll always turn out the way He wants.

“Don’t worry about anything. Instead, pray about everything. Tell God what you need, and thank him for all he has done,” Phil. 4:6 (NLT). 

*More about defeating fear in my new book, Fear, Faith, and a Fistful of Chocolate (Barbour Books). Excerpts, reviews, and purchase info at www.DeboraCoty.com

How To Dissolve a Worrywart (Part 1)

Have you ever been secretly scared that if you stop worrying, the very thing you’re afraid might happen most definitely will?  

That somehow the energy generated from your fretting is the force field keeping the dreaded outcome at bay, and if you lower the force field for even one minute … Blam.  Annihilation. Devastation. 

The end of the world as you know it.

If you’re like me and the majority of folks, I’ll bet you’re picking up exactly what I’m putting down right now.

Yep, worry makes the average woman's world go round. We have watched our mothers and grandmothers worry themselves into a tizzy, and we’ve learned to do the very same. Fretting and stewing and fussing seem perfectly normal because we’re so used to it. We’ve fooled ourselves into thinking we’re doing the responsible thing by agonizing over our dilemmas. 

And the scariest thing is that we're passing this legacy of lunacy right on along to our children. When will the cycle ever be broken if we don't do something about it? 

Worry is a type of fear that loves to masquerade as responsibility. By dwelling on our troubles, we think we’ll somehow become enlightened with magical answers that will change inevitable outcomes.

Is there any other way to intimately care about our family and friends besides obsessing over their problems? 

Well, actually there is. “Don’t worry about anything. Instead, pray about everything. Tell God what you need, and thank him for all he has done,” Phil. 4:6 (NLT).

Stay tuned for Part 2 for some simple-to-implement solutions for dissolving worrywarts.

*Adapted from Fear, Faith, and a Fistful of Chocolate (Barbour Books). 

Listen to the Birdies Teach

This morning on my prayer walk, I happened upon a pair of cardinals on the ground at a neighbors house, apparently shopping for a nice grass seed breakfast.

They were so busy pecking here and there, they didn't notice me or my nosy dog approach. But Fenway sure saw them.

He began straining at his leash for enough leeway to get up close and personal with the new couple on the block, but I held him back so I could study them a spell.

The little mister, in his gorgeous flaming crimson suit, became aware of us first. He skittered a bit closer to the female, in her much more subdued red plumage (like a faded housecoat), who was preoccupied with her shopping list. When she still didn't look up as he hopped about in a distressed little "Hey, Edna, pay attention, will ya?" circle, he just up and flew away.

At first glance it looked like the cowardly thing to do. Desert your woman at the first hint of trouble. Don't hang around to help, just go do your own thing. Humph. I was totally indignant on her behalf. She just kept on pecking away at her chores, oblivious to the potential danger not ten feet away.

I found myself channeling to my little feathered sister, "You deserve better than him, honey. Good riddance. What a jerk!" when the twit suddenly chirped a piercing chirp from a nearby branch so loud it made Fenway and me both jump.

The lady bird immediately looked upward to where her fella sat perched high above the fray and flew directly to his side. I can only surmise he had squawked something along the lines of "Edna, get your tail feathers up here RIGHT NOW!" He then gently tapped her beak with his (could that have been a kiss peck?) and together, they gazed down at Fenway and me, both gawking up at them.

Oh. Apparently I was mistaken. He wasn't leaving her. He was leading her. The same way Spouse sometimes leads me when I won't listen the first time he makes a suggestion. The way Papa God sometimes leads me when I'm too busy to hear His voice.

Oh. Maybe I should try a little harder to pay attention in the first place to those who love me and are trying to look out for my best interest, instead of staying immersed in my must-do list.

Oh.

The 5 Faces of Fear (Part 2)

This post concludes The Five Faces of Fear, so be sure to scroll back to Part 1 so you'll be up to snuff before continuing. I previously posted the first two of my five basic fear categories, Spurting fear and Saturating fear, from my new book, F3. Here are the final three "S" categories:

Savory fear: The delicious thrill elicited by a specific, controlled thing or event. This is an intentional, emotion-driven temporary fear that we subject ourselves to because we know there's no real danger (or damage) involved. It's fear within the parameters of our safety zones, like riding roller coasters, driving fast, or entering a House of Horrors.

Simmering fear: The fear of the unknown, of things we've never experienced but have developed an underlying dread of based on other people's experience and our own speculation. Simmering fears include fear of the future, dependency on others, loss of employment or possessions, and the great unknown, death. The what-if's, my own personal nemesis that loves to keep me awake at night, also falls in this category.

Sovereign fear: Born of respect, this is the subjection under which we willingly place ourselves to those in authority, such as our parents, teachers, pastor, bosses, spouse, and above all, our Creator. Did you know there are over 100 scriptures advising us to "fear God" Oh, not in the sphincter-pucker sense, but through awe and respect due to the sovereign, powerful, almighty Commander of our universe.

Regardless of what category your specific fear monster falls into, naming it, confronting it, and boldly yanking off its mask is the only way to defuse its power over you. Because tolerating our fear monsters only makes 'em growl louder.

Which fear monsters are currently stalking you?

The 5 Faces of Fear (Part 1)

Do you find yourself hocking up anxiety over and over like a Guernsey regurgitating her cud?

Does worrying about the what-ifs suck the joy out of your soul?

If so, you're not alone.

My goal for my new book, Fear, Faith, and a Fistful of Chocolate, is to introduce a few simple but effective tools to help us find comfort, healing, power, and peace through our struggles with the often paralyzing and debilitating fears that prevent us from fulfilling Papa God's purpose for our lives.

The first step in defeating these fears is to recognize the monster hiding behind the fear mask. There are as many different fears as there are diets in this world, but for the sake of simplicity, I've grouped common fears into five basic categories, all beginning with the letter "S". (So that this doesn't get too long, I'll start with the first two on this post and cover the next three on the following post.)

Spurting Fear: Raw, reactive emotion, not unlike blood spurting from a fresh puncture wound. This is naked emotion. The unpremeditated, gut-level, internal reaction incited by something that makes us break out in a cold sweat, quiver like a tower of Jell-O, and maybe even toss our cookies. Your reactive choices are fight, flight, freeze, or freak out. An example of spurting fear would be glimpsing a snake slither through the grass at your feet.

Saturating fear: The invasive type of fear that often originates in childhood and permeates our adult lives in ways we don't always see. These fears, often manifested as phobias, are enmeshed within our personalities. Saturating fears are probably the hardest fears to eradicate because they soak into our personalities and become so enmeshed in the fiber of our being, we have difficulty recognizing their individual threads. An example would be an underlying fear of abandonment that pervades your adult relationships because your father left your family when you were small.

As a side note here, saturating fears can be benign and still affect our thoughts and behaviors. An example is my hat fetish. I had no idea why I've always chosen to wear hats most of my life until an innocent comment by a childhood friend a not long ago flashed me back to a long-forgotten (I thought) humiliating incident about my messy hair in the sixth grade. Oddly enough - or not - it was about that time I bought my first hat.

Ah ha.

Hats, of course, are neither good nor bad, but it was quite enlightening to finally understand the root of one of my seemingly random long-standing behaviors.

How about you ... are there any saturating fears influencing your habits and decisions?

(Tune in for Part 2 next post.)

Appearances Can Be Deceiving. Or Not.

Think he'd react if I gave him some pit sugar?

Stoic. Unresponsive. Stone faced. That's the way some people appear. But appearances can be deceiving.

Take this fellow with the red plume, for instance. His job is to be stoic ... unresponsive ... stone faced. But he's not as out of it as he appears - he's quite alive. And uber aware.

His mind is fully operational. He's feeling lots of things (like "Crimey! I wish this daft American would get off me blinkin' foot"). He just doesn't show it.

When I read back over my previous post "You, too, can be a showstopper," (two posts ago) about the mostly dead audience who fooled me, it brought back to mind another memorable unresponsive person I dealt with about 30 years ago.

At the time I was the occupational therapist in a skilled nursing facility (read: Nursing Home). I had been out of OT school all of about two years and had accepted the job because I didn't really mind working with the elderly population. My job was to see my patients either in their rooms or down in my therapy hovel for about thirty minutes a day to keep their upper extremities limber and them functioning in order to return home after a stroke or debilitating injury.

One afternoon, I began making my rounds upstairs on the orthopedic floor to treat the patients who hadn't made it downstairs that morning.Things went swimmingly with my first few patients and then I entered Mr. Maloney's room.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Maloney," I chirped in my usual cheerful manner. "I'm here to do your therapy." He was sitting in the chair beside his bed, eyes half closed, slightly listing to the starboard. This is the normal posture of eighty-year-olds at 2 p.m. 

Without further ado, I grabbed his arm and began ranging it (short for performing Range of Motion) as I always did - first the shoulder, then elbow, then wrist and fingers. Hmm. He seemed a little stiffer than usual, so I commented about it. Mr. Maloney continued staring straight ahead as he always did, not bothering to comment as I chattered away while giving him a good work-out.

But suddenly I noticed that his chest was not moving. I stopped ranging him and spoke louder. "MR. MALONEY - ARE YOU FEELING ALL RIGHT?" Then I stuck my finger beneath his nose. No air moving in. No air moving out. Uh oh.

I dropped his arm like a hot potato and stepped back. Yup. He was unresponsive for a good reason. Mr. Maloney wasn't just mostly dead.

So I did what any good therapist would do. "I'll go get the nurse now, Mr. Maloney. Don't worry - there will be no charge for today's therapy."

A chocolaty good Easter story

A worthy winner of my Choc-OUT contest

If you've followed my books, you know I'm a loyal Cadbury girl (Cadbury milk chocolate with almonds is one of my all-time faves!).

With Easter rapidly approaching, amid the lavish presence of the seasonal Cadbury Cream-filled Eggs, I thought it fitting and proper to share with you this awesome chocolaty, faith-inspiring story that I recently came across.

This is a story about a girl named Helen. Helen Cadbury, to be precise.

Helen was born in 1877 into a wealthy Christian family. Her grandfather, John Cadbury, and great uncle, Benjamin Cadbury, had founded a cocoa and chocolates company in Birmingham, England. Helen's father and uncle, Richard and George Cadbury, had then relocated and expanded the factory, and Helen and her seven siblings moved into Moseley Hall, an ancient estate with secret rooms and underground cellars, lakes and wooded acres, which was to be their home for much of their lives.

I picture a smaller version of Downton Abbey ... with a lot less drama.  

The entire household met before breakfast every day for ten minutes of Bible reading and prayer.

Then when she was twelve, Helen attended a street revival with her father, held in a poor section of the city. There, she felt a still, small voice compelling her, and she went forward at the alter call, a well-dressed rich girl among the poorest of the poor, to accept Christ as her Savior. From that day on, she had a new purpose in life: to share the joy and light of Jesus with her friends.

Helen began carrying her huge Victorian Bible to school, but because it was so clunky and cumbersome, her father gave her a small New Testament she could put in her pocket. Helen read from it to her friends every day, and led many of them to faith in Christ. Soon all the girls were sewing pockets into their dresses so they could carry the little Bibles and began calling themselves the Pocket Testament League. They gave out New Testaments to anyone who promised to read them. A policeman was one of the first in the community to receive Christ after being given a Bible.

The Pocket Testament League still exists today, over 100 years later, and has expanded into a world-wide movement, having given away over one hundred million New Testaments or Gospels of John.

So never let it be said that Papa God can't use any of us - including a little girl - in mighty ways. Helen Cadbury Alexander Dixon passed away in 1969 at the age of 92. And today I will enjoy a scrumptious Cadbury bar in her honor.

Won't you join me?  

You, Too, Can Be a Showstopper

Deb hoofing it through England

I was recently speaking to a mixed group of men and women of a church denomination rumored to be the "frozen chosen."

And sure enough, they seemed to be. Frozen. 

The kicker is, I'm a humorist, and so the point of my talks is to draw a smile from my audience. Maybe even a chuckle or a guffaw. Occasionally a profound belly laugh.

But nothing was happening here. A profusion of nothing, actually. One lady in the back almost showed her teeth. Once. But maybe that was a grimace. Or a hot flash.

And when I finished my most hilarious story, I think I might have heard a snicker. Or it could have been a snort. I felt like I was rolling around the toilet bowl in a slow flush, about to go down the hole of no return.

I had to remind myself that I couldn't really know what they were feeling, although their collective body language appeared to scream "catatonic." They did seem to be warming up as I kept hacking away at the granite that was their faces, and by the end, there were actually a few smiles. Not a lot, but a few. At that point, I was happy with crumbs.

To my amazement, as the fine folks filed by my book table on their way out, nearly all of them bought books and thanked me for coming. I couldn't believe how many times someone stood before me with a solemn expression and said something to the effect of, "That was wonderful. I haven't laughed that hard in a long time." 

Go figure.

Life is like that, isn't it?. We never really know the effect we're having on other people ... how much of us is rubbing off on our family, friends, co-workers, neighbors. They don't necessarily show it, but they're internalizing bits and pieces of us all the time. Just like we are of them. Little pieces that fit together like a puzzle to make us who we end up being.

And maybe one day, before the show's completely over, we'll take the opportunity to tell them how much a part of us they really are. How much they've meant to us. Because they probably don't know it from our poker faces.

And then we can slap each other on the backs and say, "That was wonderful. I haven't loved that hard in a long time."

Do It With All Your Might

A mighty banyan tree - love 'em!

I rushed into the women's restroom at the Plant City Strawberry Festival last year with five minutes to spare before my girlhood swoon faves, Air Supply (now grandfathers with gray hair but still singing just as swooningly), were to go onstage.

I noticed right away that this restroom was different. Unlike the grody, grimy, get-your-business-over-quick-and-flee-this-nasty-place fare we've come to expect from public toilets, this one actually gleamed.

It had, in fact, a sort of ethereal feel to it, if you can imagine as much from such an unlikely place. There was no black icky grime in the corners, no misplaced sprinkles or puddles on the floor, no graffiti on the stall doors. You actually wouldn't mind setting your purse on the spotless floor of your cubical, except that you didn't have to because all the hardware - door locks and purse hooks - were not only in place, but sparkling brightly.

A faint whiff of gardenias was in the air. And someone with a very pleasant voice was cheerfully humming. 

It was ... well, lovely. 

I momentarily forgot I was in the bowels of a county fair midway and thought, "Now this is the kind of place you'd like to kick back and stay for a while."

Upon exiting my stall, I noticed two white-uniformed attendants busily polishing counters and sinks and realized one of the ladies was the source of the lively humming that perked up the place. I couldn't help but comment about the surprising cleanliness of the bathroom. She smiled from ear-to-ear and said, "There's not a speck of dirt beneath, behind, or across our seats. You can go to any other bathroom in the whole park, and trust me, you'll come back here... we're the best!"

I left that bathroom grinning and uplifted from the obvious pride this woman took in her work. A scripture came to mind: "Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might," Ecc. 9:10.  

Whatever, it says. Regardless of the lowliness or loftiness of the job before you, do whatever it is with all your might. And be proud of the fruit of your labor. You will not only please your heavenly Father, but will be infused with a strengthening dose of self-worth and purpose.

I don't know about you, but for some reason, I'm suddenly in the mood to scrub my potty.