I've had an ongoing battle with my weight since I hit puberty. I just love food. And wine. And I have this terrible habit of celebrating with food when I hit my weight-loss goals. Also of comforting myself with food. I knew I was a comfort eater the day my boxes arrived in England from America. The movers stacked all the boxes into the smallest room of our house, and you couldn't even walk in. The room was full floor to ceiling with boxes, a veritable mountain of boxes. Our freezer was in our back garden in a spider-infested, dimly-lit shed. I took a spoon outside, took out the Ben & Jerry's and stood there devouring the Caramel Chew Chew right from the tub until I felt strong enough to face the mountain.
I've realized this summer that not only am I sabotaging my dreams of the perfect body when I behave this way, I'm sabotaging my intimacy with God. Physical fitness and spiritual fitness cannot be separated, at least not in my world. When I choose food to give me comfort instead of letting the Comforter do his job, I become a bit fatter and a bit more deaf to God's voice, which has definitely happened this summer as I've lost all routine and all discipline!
But I took up arms again today. I went for a run, skipped my evening glass of wine, and am going to bed with my Bible instead of the trashy novel I finished last night. Let the battle begin. Again.
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