Made to Crave

Have you ever read something that just REALLY hit home? Like really. When someone literally says exactly what you do or how you feel... even to the point where you wonder if someone has been videotaping your life and making money off of you? Today, that happened to me.

My mother-in-law handed me the book Made to Crave by Lysa Terkeurst, and literally everything I read is touching me. It's almost freaky... the author even states that the night before she visited a nutritionist she scarfed down Chef Boyardee Pizza- her childhood favorite- pizza from a box. This was and still is my fave. That and raw RagaMuffin mix- hmmmm Do we see a pattern here- processed food from boxes?

I can't wait to continue reading this book- It's very Christain based, and I love it- and would reccomend it to anyone- Here is an excerpt that I could have written word for word:

I roll over and look at the clock. Another day. Beyond all reason and rationality, I slide out of bed and strip off everything that might weigh even the slightest ounce as I head to the scale. Maybe today will be the day the scale will be my friend and not reveal my secrets. Maybe somehow overnight the molecular structure of my body shifted and today I will magically weigh less.

But no. I yank out my ponytail holder- hey, it's gotta weigh something- and decide to try again. But the scale doesn't change its mind the second time. It is not my friend this day.

Vowing to do better, eat healthier, and make good choices, I head to the kitchen only to have my resolve melt like the icing on the cinnamon rolls my daughter just pulled from the oven. Yum. Oh, who cares what the scale says when this roll speaks such love and deliciousness.

Two and a half cinnamon rolls later, I decide tomorrow will be a much better day to keep my promises to eat healthier. And since this is my last day to eat what I want, I beter live it up. Another cinnamon roll please.

The next morning I roll over and look at the clock. Another day. Beyond all reason and rationality, I slide out of bed and strip off everything that might weigh even the slightest ounce as I head to the scale. Maybe today will be the day. But once again it isn't. I yank out my ponytail holder and try again. But no.

Vowing to do better, eat healthier, and make good choices, I head into my day only to find myself making more excuses, rationalizations, and promises for later.

Always later.

And the cycle I've come to hate and feel powerless to stop continues. Who could I talk to about this? If I admit my struggle with food to my friends, they might try to hold me accountable the next time we go out. And what if I'm not in the mood to be questioned about my nachos con queso with extra sour cream?

I'll just tell them I'll be starting on Monday, and they'll be fine with it. They don't think I need to make changes.

But I did need to make changes. I knew it. Because this wasn't really about the scale or what clothing size I was; it was about the battle that raged in my heart. I thought, craved, arranged my life too much around food. So much so, I knew it was something God was challenging me to surrender to His control. Really surrender. Surrender to the point where I'd make radical changes for the sake of my spiritual health perhaps even more than my physical health.