My Jewish Mother

I am a fraud.

I’m a fake.

A hypocrite.

When I preach on Sunday, you can see it. Be honest. I know you do. When I counsel self-control, I know you have to be questioning the validity of my advice.

I struggle and I cannot seem to control myself. I eat too much. There, I said it. I love food. I love to cook it and love to eat it. I love the sensuality of it. I eat when I am happy, I eat when I am sad. I eat out of frustration and I eat out of boredom. I have no self-control in this area. And thus, I am obese.

I have fought this issue of weight my entire life. I can remember as early as nine or ten years old being called the fat kid. I have dieted and exercised on and off again my entire adult life with limited bouts of success and long periods of complete breakdown. I’ve tried diet plans, exercise regimens, hypnotherapy, counseling, and accountability groups. None of these have had long term success for me and many have been utter failure. I’ve faced disappointment time and time again.

Four years ago, I was diagnosed with Type II diabetes. This is worse than a death sentence. This disease is degenerative and wreaks havoc with your internal systems. Heart attack, kidney failure, liver problems, nerve damage, cancer, neuropathy, digestive issues, blindness, immunodeficiency, and limb amputation are just some of the issues that arise from diabetes.

I don’t want to die from a case of the stupids. Even more importantly, I don’t want to live as a pain-ridden, feeble, invalid for years because I cannot control myself. I have a beautiful wife and two lovely daughters who don’t deserve to watch me destroy myself.

So, here is where I am at today. Just over two years ago, I was at 320 pounds. I managed to lose about 40 pounds of that myself, working out until I reached a plateau that I couldn’t seem to get past. I joined a program called Medifast where I have slowly lost about another 15. This doctor-supervised weight loss program really works. I’ve seen it work in my life and in others, but still I struggle. I don’t follow the program as I should. I cheat.

Several weeks ago, I was speaking with one of the program counselors and she asked me why I was having so much trouble and going so slowly. I listed several reasons (most to do with my own failings), but I also mentioned that when I do well, the counselors are nice and encouraging, and when I fail, they just seem to get more peppy and encouraging. I told her, “I need someone who can kick my butt when needed, someone who will tell my when my excuses are bullshit, someone who can encourage me and love on me when necessary, and someone to guilt me and shame me when it’s called for. In short, I need to find me a Jewish mother.” She looked at me slyly and smiled, saying, “That, we might be able to do.”

The next week when I came in for my appointment, the owner of the company came out and said, “Rodger, you’re with me today.” She met with me and told me that she didn’t want to waste her time or mine, but she was taking me on as a special case. She then got serious and had a long hard discussion with me. Be careful what you wish for, you might just get it. The punch-line to this joke is that I found out that night that Ilyne IS Jewish. And she is a Mother and Grandmother. So I guess I got exactly what I asked for.

So, now I have a Jewish mother. She seems like a nice lady, but, boy is she tough. Maybe she is exactly what I need.

One of the things that she suggested that I do is to tell everyone around me what my struggle is and ask them to help. So, here goes:

Please don’t go out to lunch with me. Let’s do coffee, instead.

Please don’t give me food as a present. Just spend some time with me.

If you see me eating anything that isn’t a small amount of protein and a salad, please say something.

If you care, please ask me about my progress and encourage me when you see me.

Hold me accountable. Smack me around if need be.

I appreciate any help I can get with this.

I don’t want to be a fat guy anymore.

I don’t want to be a fraud anymore.

Man of Steel?

I have long had a working theory of life that says, ‘women are much stronger than men.’ I have seen this born out again and again in other people. It flies in the face of Victorian thinking of women as ‘the fairer sex.’ This last week, it was brought to life in a very real way for me.

I observed this from an early age. Whenever someone died in our community, there was a machine that began moving. Women came around each other, cooking meals, comforting each other, dropping kids off at school, and cleaning house for the hurting family. The men always seemed to hang out in another room laughing and joking, however, even from an early age, I saw the tightness around their eyes and the speed to anger during these times. They never faced the pain and never dealt with the loss.

When I was first out of high school, I worked for a time as an apprentice to a blacksmith. One thing I learned about steel is that if you expose it over time to heat in a process called annealling, the steel is stronger because it is flexible. But, if you take steel and suddenly heat it and suddenly cool it, it becomes brittle and will break or shatter.

As I have grown, especially since working in ministry, I have observed this more and more in people. Women are like willows along a river bank, bending in the wind, supporting each other through intertwined branches. Men try to stand alone against troubles and end up breaking when it becomes too much. Obviously, there is some generalization to this, but I can say that experience has shown me that this is more true than not.

There is a reason that you see many more single moms than single dads. This could be the reason that many widowers follow their wives into the grave within a few months, but many widows continue on for years. It likely has some bearing on the difference in life expectancy for men versus women.

As a husband and dad, the hardest thing for me is to see my wife or daughters hurting. I want to take the pain away, to protect them, no matter what it takes. I would walk through broken glass, run through fire, or stand in the way of a bullet to save any one of them. I have long been a man who could handle emergencies, keeping a cool head when others lose theirs, seeing the route out of trouble and directing others when the going gets rough.

But, what do I do when the chips are on the table and there is nothing I can do to affect the outcome? How do I deal with that place where physical strength and mental knowledge are useless to make a difference. What happens when it is my wife or child on the line and there isn’t anything I can do about it? That’s where I find my breaking point.

This last week, I watched my wife show a strength beyond what I ever realized that she had. She had practiced pregnancy exercises, relaxation techniques, pushing past pain. Together we educated ourselves on the issues of birth and pregnancy and made choices on the care and medical intervention that we wanted. When it came time for labor and delivery, she heroically faced 26 hours of intensifying contractions without medications that might harm the baby. She handled it well.

We had two ladies with us who handled it all well too. Zabrina, our doula stayed through the whole experience, supporting, encouraging, and educating us. Our dear friend Kris was also there, helping out, timing contractions, and encouraging Becky.

I handled it well too. I was there for the education and practice (not to mention the conception). I exhorted her, encouraged her, and took care of her. I prayed with her, rubbed her back, talked her through the pain, told her how beautiful she was, held her hand, and brushed her hair. I stayed strong, buoyed by her example. If she could handle the pain well, then I could walk by her side and help her through it.

That was all well and good until the circumstances were taken out of our hands. After 19 hours, she was dilated 9 cm and almost there, but six hours later, there was still no change and the contractions were not strengthening to push the baby out. Her blood pressure was getting dangerously high and she was weakening. Two doctors were in conflict as to what to do. One suggested Pitocyn to increase the contractions. Our doctor was called and he said that could be very dangerous, possibly hurting the baby or my wife because he believed the baby was stuck (shoulder dystocia). As they began to discuss the risks and dangers to both mom and baby...

I broke.

I have known two men who went home from the hospital as single fathers of a brand new born baby with no wife due to death during or after delivery. It still happens.

The combination of being awake for 40 hours and physically and emotionally charged for 26 of those hours had stripped away any defenses that I had.

I broke.

I laid down with my wife and held her, wanting to protect her to take the damage on myself.

I broke.

The nurses and doctors came and went, but I wasn’t much use.

I broke.

Fortunately, my wife stayed strong and helped make the decisions. Fortunately, Zabrina and Kris stayed strong and helped through those important moments. Fortunately the doctor and the nurses did their duty well. My beautiful wife and my lovely new daughter are safe and healthy.

I recognize the truth of male weakness in this area. I’m not sure what lesson to take away from it all, I can only share my observations at this point.

From now on, I hope that all I have to face involves easy stuff like bullets, flames, and broken glass. These I can handle. Just like Lois Lane to Superman and Mary Jane to Spiderman, the women in my life are my greatest strength and greatest weakness. I'm just glad that I have such a tough wife who is able to leap tall buildings and stop trains with her bare hands.

Thank you Becky, Thank you Zabrina, Thank you Kris, Thank you Dr. Holeman and most importantly, Thank you dear Lord.