Satisfying my real hunger

I grew up fat.

Not fat enough that people on the street pointed at me and laughed. But I was that fat in my head, so they might as well have.

When my mom took us kids back-to-school shopping at Sears, my sister got to pick out school dresses in the normal girls’ section, but I had to pick out dresses in the section called Pretty Plus.

What I learned about beauty from a froufrou prom dress

Recently, the newspaper where I work sent me to cover Cinderella’s Closet, an event sponsored by a small group of Christian women. They’d collected more than 300 prom and bridesmaid dresses, and transformed their church’s fellowship hall into a one-day boutique. Then the women invited local high school girls to come choose dresses for prom—for free.

I started working on the story during the event’s planning stage. As I took notes, I looked through the racks of dresses. My eye kept returning to a pale green and yellow “fairy princess” dress. All the women loved it, but none of them fit into it.

Then one woman, Dana, suggested I try it on.

Sometimes selecting the right sentiment is a challenge.

My daughter, Alison, sends the world’s best greeting cards. One of my favorites pictures an odd, gangly girl with crooked glasses and teeth coming in at various stages of growth. I keep this card on my desk at work, and whenever I look at the picture I laugh.

A few years ago my other daughter, Laura, sent me a Mother's Day card listing her top ten reasons why I'm the best mom ever. Number six stated, “You always say, ‘You won't always feel like this’ when I'm feeling hopeless, and it instantly comforts me.” She addressed the card to Mama Jesus Kennedy, her nickname for me, and inserted two dollar bills I still have.

I hope my daughters enjoy selecting cards for me. And I wish I enjoyed buying cards for my mother.

How I’ve recognized and treated the symptoms

Ever since my husband’s open-heart surgery last year, I’ve been hyper vigilant about my heart health. Maybe a little too hyper.

I’ve relaxed a bit now, but I was taking my blood pressure several times a day. (It’s always low.) I pop fish-oil capsules and baby aspirin daily. I haven’t eaten pizza in months, and I’m pretty much caffeine free.

Despite my newfound vigilance, I started experiencing heart palpitations shortly after my husband’s operation. So I went to my family physician and told him I thought I had “contagious heart disease.” He told me there’s no such thing, but he took an EKG anyway. When the test results came back normal, he said the palpitations could be from the stress of my husband’s ordeal, and told me I shouldn’t worry so much.

I'm desperately trying to get back on track.

In the last few months, I’ve been dealing with two parallel problems.

Problem #1: I’m stuck at a weight-loss plateau. Five years ago, I joined Weight Watchers. A year later, I’d achieved my goal, losing 37 pounds from my five-foot, one-inch frame.

Losing the weight was incredibly easy: Since my husband worked out of town, I only had to cook for myself. For nearly a year, I lost steadily, never hitting a plateau, never yo-yoing one pound up, one pound down.

Being twice her age, I didn’t think I’d fit in with her circle of friends.

A few months ago, I attended the Laura Isaacs Appreciation Barbecue. Laura’s a coworker at the newspaper where I work. At 24, she lives with her cat, Spock, and loves Hello Kitty and ballerina flats.

I don’t remember what was going on in Laura’s life at the time—boyfriend problems, I think. The impromptu barbecue to celebrate Laura was fellow coworkers Cristy and Shemir’s idea, and it took place at Cristy’s apartment.

I kept dwelling on how I should be the one looking that good.

At a dinner party a few years ago, I encountered an acquaintance whose job involved planning parties and events. She’d lost a lot of weight and looked incredible in her sleek black dress. She didn’t have to do any of the actual work at the party; she had “people” for that.

That’s when the green-eyed monster—envy—attacked. I don’t have “people,” I thought. I don’t even own a black dress.

The more I thought about her, the more I hated her. Even though I know all the biblical admonitions against it, I couldn’t stop envying this woman. The harder I tried, the more envy I felt.

And why I praise God for it

I’m sitting in yet another hospital waiting room.

Ever since my husband, Barry, first underwent open heart and quadruple bypass surgery 15 months ago, I’ve been in this waiting room—or one just like it—more times than I can count on one hand, waiting for him to come out of the operating room.

In little more than a year’s time, my vocabulary has increased to include words and phrases such as aneurysm, atrial fib, and EP study with ablation. They all mean I have to put on a cheery face, kiss Barry good-bye, and promise I won’t worry about him or forget to eat lunch and lock the garage door at night while he’s in the hospital again.

This superficial, neurotic need to have everyone like me was awfully tiring.

My name is Nancy, and I'm a recovering Nice Person.

As a Nice Person, I rarely said “no,” especially to things I really, really, really didn’t want to do. Because I couldn’t stand the possibility of someone thinking badly of me, I bought vacuum cleaners and encyclopedias I didn’t need. I agreed to activities I had no business doing—heading up a committee, teaching a class, organizing a rummage sale. And I was the first to be asked to bake 47 dozen cookies by tomorrow or chaperone 150 middle-school girls—because I was too nice to say “no”!

Forgiveness tastes so good.

Recently, a woman I’ll call Jill wrote me after reading my book about being unequally yoked, When He Doesn’t Believe (WaterBrook). She’d grown up in a Christian family, had always been involved at church, and had had a vibrant faith. But then she moved thousands of miles from home for college and, well …

It’s a common story: Girl stops going to church, stops feeding her soul and spirit, and meets boy. The boy isn’t a Christian, but he’s awfully cute and so nice, and they get married.

Then the girl starts longing for Jesus and returns to her faith, and the boy is indifferent or antagonistic. Either way, the girl feels lonely, confused, scared—and guilty.

What could possibly be wrong with helping my daughter to be healthy, happy, safe, and strong?

“The Parable of the Neighbor Lady” is a story I made up several years ago after a futile attempt to control the universe, or at least the part of it my youngest daughter inhabits.

Just barely 20, she’d moved 500 miles away from home to create a life of her own. Because I wanted her to succeed in this new venture, I set out to “help” her.

Since I couldn’t reattach her umbilical cord, I made do with several phone calls a day, just to say “hi” or to tell her about job leads I’d found online. I sent regular care packages of toilet paper, microwave popcorn, candy, books, gift cards, bath towels, and cosmetics.

I paid for a gym membership so she could exercise and meet people. I even wrote letters to women’s ministry leaders at churches I thought she should attend, asking them to pray for my daughter and maybe invite her to church.

Why I'm trying to stop being a compulsive, neurotic bed-maker

The other day my husband made our bed. While this gesture isn't noteworthy in and of itself, my reaction to it is.

To give you some background, Barry grew up with a mom who made his bed every day. When he joined the Air Force and had to make up his bunk, he paid people to do it for him (or so he says). Then he married me, a compulsive, neurotic bed-maker.

Our system works well for us. As long as I can make the bed every morning exactly how I like it, life can go on.

At that moment in the market, I realized?if only partially?all

I call it the Frozen Peas Moment. It’s the event many moms long for, especially moms of daughters.

For my mom and me, it happened when I was about 25.

My family and I had just moved to California near my parents, and I’d gone to the market with my mother. As we pushed the grocery cart down the aisles, I stopped at the frozen vegetable case—right in front of the peas—and looked at my mom.

I don’t think I’d ever really seen her before that moment. When I was a kid, my mom was basically the person who cooked my dinner, nagged me to take out the trash and do my homework, and drove me to the mall so I could be with my friends.

What I'm learning through my feeble attempts at adult relationship

Last year my granddaughter’s best friend was three-year-old Braden, because he lived next door and had a trampoline. Braden liked Caroline because, at four, she was someone other than his baby brother.

Except for the occasional meltdown when one or both of them were tired, their friendship worked well. Then Braden moved away, Connor moved in, and Caroline has a new best friend.

Why can’t adult friendships be that easy?

Nancy Kennedy is the religion editor/feature writer for the Citrus County Chronicle, a daily newspaper in Crystal River, Florida. She also writes Grace Notes, a weekly faith column that runs in about a dozen newspapers. A retreat speaker and book author (whose credits include Girl on a Swing, Lipstick Grace, and When He Doesn’t Believe), Nancy’s also a member of the Advanced Writers and Speakers Association and has appeared on radio programs such as Family Life Today and Renewing the Heart. Nancy’s been married to Barry since 1975, and they have two daughters, Alison and Laura, and a granddaughter, Caroline. A lifetime member of Weight Watchers, Nancy loves watching lizards play on her front walk, eating sushi, flying to different cities, and eating cake with buttercream icing. Visit her website: www.nancykennedybooks.net.