“Self-Care Week” OR “Why I Can’t Let Myself Take a Vacation in February”

I don’t know why it can be so ridiculously hard for me to stop working, but the last couple of weeks I have learned that it takes hard work to not work – hard, necessary work.

Next week, I am taking a week’s vacation.  It is completely random for me to take a week’s vacation in the middle of February, especially when my husband and children will not be taking time off.  This year, however, I have some extra vacation time and I felt strongly that I needed to force myself to use it.  (Yes, I know, poor me having to force myself to take vacation!).  But it really is weird to know I’ll wake up each day next week, bring my kids to school, and then….go back home.  This feels especially odd as we go into a church season that is especially busy and when there is lots to do.

The thing is, the theme of rest and healthy life rhythms has come up in my life a lot lately.  I run three different small groups where we have talked about this in the last month. I have taught about the importance of taking daily, weekly, and yearly times of renewal.  I have heard the words come out of my mouth: “These are times when we step back to remember God can handle things without us.”  I realized I also need to live these words, too.

So I declared this all-by-myself-vacation “self care week” and planned to take time to look after my body and soul.  I made a dentist appointment, a hair appointment, and an overdue date for lunch with a friend.  

But it was not easy for me to fully embrace this gift of a week off.  It took more work than I want to admit to say “no” to doing “just one thing.”

I am part of a team that is planning a conference the first weekend of March.  Recently,  we were trying to set up our next meeting and we were having a hard time finding a time to meet that worked for everyone. I mentioned that I wasn’t free next week. Not a single person asked why.  After a few minutes of brainstorming dates, and still finding nothing, I said: “Well, if it makes it easier, I could meet next week. It’s no big deal.  I’m just taking that week as vacation.”

And the whole group said:  “NOOOOO!!!”

Then I said: “Yes I am taking this week off in the middle of February and I can’t believe how hard it is for me not to give in and do things.”  

They all understood and encouraged me not to give in to my temptations to do “just one thing.”

Three out of four Wednesdays a month I run a small group for pastors.  I realized that if I missed our gathering for my “self-care week,” then I would miss seeing them twice this month. To avoid this, I planned to meet with them on my week off. It was only a couple days ago that I told them that I would miss next week.  They were totally fine with it.

Then I said: “Yes I am taking this week off in the middle of February and I can’t believe how hard it is for me not to give in and do things.”  

They all understood and encouraged me not to give in to my temptations to do “just one thing.”

I also run small groups every Wednesday night. I see God working in these group, and so I was also going to meet with them on my week off.  You can probably guess what happened – I told them we weren’t meeting, explained why, they said no problem.

Then I said: ‘Yes I am taking this week off in the middle of February and I can’t believe how hard it is for me to not give in and do things.”

They all understood and encouraged me not to give in to my temptations to do “just one thing.”

(Sometimes, I am a slow learner).

Finally, I had to ask myself why this was so hard for me (if you’re counting, I had planned to do not just one, but THREE things on my “week off”). I came up with three reasons.  Maybe you will resonate with them.  

I Feel Guilty

I don’t like not doing things I committed to do.  When I say “I know we usually meet this time but I can’t do it,” I feel an almost crushing guilt. I feel selfish and unreliable and irresponsible.  I don’t like feeling guilty, so I do things I shouldn’t to help me avoid that feeling. (The unfortunate thing is that when I do things to avoid feeling guilty I often end up feeling other emotions I also don’t like, such as resentment – a blog for another day).  

I Feel Too Important

I focus on the importance of the things that need to be done.  We need to meet to plan this conference. I need to have this meeting. I need to lead my group. I see the value in the things I’m doing, perhaps sometimes too much.  And the truth is…

I Don’t Want to Feel Unimportant

If I can simply “skip” something, then I have to admit that it may not be essential after all.  If I can take a week off from activities, then maybe those activities aren’t actually that important.  If I’m not needed for everything, every week, maybe what I do doesn’t matter that much.  That is hard to admit.


Because I MUST admit that…

I need to take time off.  

I’m not saying that what I do isn’t significant in the long run.  But I need constant reminders that I’m not what I do.  I need to sit in the truth, regularly, that God can work without me.  I need to learn to trust.  I need to remember that the world keeps spinning when I take a breather.

(I also need a dentist appointment…)  

It may seem like a silly thing, to have to work so hard to accept this week off, and I’m not proud of how much discipline it has taken for me to do it.  But now I’m really looking forward to waking up on Monday and letting God look after things for 8 whole days.  The good news is – God can handle it.

Do you struggle with these things too?  Join me in remembering – God can handle things; self care is not selfish.  Repeat. 

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My Wonderful Birthday Gift (*Received Five Years Too Late)

Well, if you follow me at all you know that I was a leetle uncertain about turning 40.  That big grown-up number freaked me out for all the wrong reasons.  I’m happy to report, as often happens with things that I worry about, everything turned out just fine.  In fact, more than fine, turning 40 was wonderful. There were cakes and cards and friends and flowers and special gifts and four kinds of soup made by my husband for my party.  

And also, there was my friend Jane – my surprising gift at 40 that has left me with good lessons and a full heart.

To tell you why seeing Jane* (not her real name) on my 40th birthday was so special, I have to go back a little in my life and get really vulnerable.  I actually have to go back nearly five years, which really makes me feel ashamed as I write it and have to confess how long I let this story go on.  

Five years ago my sister died, and I had to learn to negotiate a grief for which I was not ready.  As a pastor, I had been around grief and studied grief a lot and there were some things that I knew about it.  One of those things was that during a season of grieving, you can feel like people let you down.  It is easy to feel hurt and disappointed when people don’t give you what you need.  As I prepared to grieve, one of the things that I prayed for was that I would hold those kind of feelings lightly.  I admit, I’m a person that remembers things. And notices things. I knew it would be easy for me to keep a running list in my head of the people who had NOT sent a card, those who had NOT sent me a message, those who had NOT supported me in the way I wanted.  I said to God: “I have lost my sister and I don’t need to lose more. Help me to be forgiving. Help me to be open hearted.”  I tried really hard, and it mostly went okay but there was one area where I failed: my friend Jane.

Jane and I were VERY good friends, with a long history.  We met during university and there was a season when I literally spent EVERY weekend at her house.  By the time my sister died, we weren’t seeing each other all that often simply because we live a couple of hours apart and life was busy.  Still, we always stayed in touch, and there was a special place in my heart for her. I considered her one of my dearest friends.

Then my sister died.

And I didn’t hear from Jane.

To be honest, I didn’t think too much of it at first.  God was answering my prayer to protect me from keeping tabs, and I knew that life was busy for her.  But one day I shared a post on facebook about a certain author who was coming to speak in Hamilton with whom I had some pretty big issues. That afternoon, I received a long message from Jane asking me to reconsider my stance.  

I wrote her back almost immediately sharing further why I was concerned about this speaker, but as I wrote I realized that the reason her message bothered me had nothing to do with the speaker at all.  I was hurt that I hadn’t heard from her at all since my sister died a few weeks before, but that she had found the time to write me over this really inconsequential issue.  To her credit, Jane wrote back immediately with a sincere apology.  She shared that she had been thinking of me and praying for me, but she hadn’t known what to say about my loss. She was ashamed that she had not written sooner. She begged my forgiveness, and I replied saying that she had it.

But something shifted in my heart.

I know, she could not have done any differently than she did.  We all make mistakes and she owned hers and apologized. (I am someone who is VERY indebted to friends being willing to forgive me!).  However, while I  forgave her, my feelings about her changed.  I lost interest in being in touch.  I stopped making any effort to connect to her, I didn’t respond to comments on facebook, and when she suggested getting together I didn’t write back or I found excuses.  

This lasted for a couple of years, but as my grief abated, so did my hurt feelings towards Jane.  I realized my grief had made me less able to cope in a healthy way with the situation.  However, I never made any effort to follow up with Jane.  I kind of left things as they had been.   

This brings us to a few months ago, and a Sunday morning when I was getting ready to serve communion.  (This is a practice of eating and drinking together as a church to remember what Jesus did for us).  This particular Sunday as I led communion, I asked people, as pastors often do, to consider if they needed to make anything right in their heart before receiving communion. I asked them to consider if they held any grudges against anyone and if there were relationships that needed reconciliation. I invited us all to close our eyes and ask God to show us if we needed to fix any relationships.  I admit it, when I closed my eyes, I thought to myself: “Wow, I’m so glad I’m not in conflict with anyone in my life.”  And in that moment it was like God flashed a billboard in front of me with this word: JANE!!!!!!

And I knew it was true. I knew I had wronged her.  Yes, she had done something that had hurt me. But she had apologized. She had made countless efforts to make it right. And I had dismissed her.  She had deserved better from me. She had deserved for me to have a real conversation with her. She deserved better than me simply freezing her out.  We had been good friends for so long, and I had not treated her well.  And even though I had not held hard feelings towards her for several years, she had no way of knowing that.

I still put it off for a bit. I wasn’t sure what to say: “Um, you may not know this but I said I wasn’t mad and I mostly wasn’t mad but I was kind of mad and I’m really sorry that I didn’t keep you in my heart, even if you didn’t know that I wasn’t.”  I was worried I would make things worse.

Then I was getting ready to turn 40.  And I was making a list for my husband of friends to invite to my party that he might not remember.  As I put Jane’s name on the list, I wondered: “Would she know I really DID want her there??”  

It was time.

I wrote a very long, very weird message.  I explained what I had done. I told her that I didn’t have any excuses, except that grief is weird and sometimes makes no sense. I apologized that she got caught in the cross hairs of my loss.  I asked her to forgive me – all the while saying that I was EXTRA sorry if she didn’t even know what I was talking about.

But of course she did.  She had noticed – how could she not? She wrote back a long message saying how glad she was that I wrote. She apologized to me AGAIN (she really is a good friend) and, with more grace than I had shown her, forgave me.  She even forgave me considering, as I since learned, that SHE was suffering during that time with some struggles of her own, that I’m sure only felt worse when a good friend froze her out. 

And on my 40th birthday she drove 2 hours with her husband and 4 kids on a snowy Sunday afternoon to celebrate with me.  It was the highlight of my day.

What a gift at 40 to sit down with an old friend and catch up on five lost years. What a gift at 40 to remember that no door has to stay completely closed – to know that there is always time and space for new things.

It took turning 40 for me to really ask myself: “What do I need to make right?” and to be willing to do it.  It didn’t have to take that long – I could have written Jane at 36, or 37, or 38, or 39.  I’m sad I didn’t do it sooner.  But if it took turning 40 to do it, I’m glad that 40 happened.  

All of this long story is to say this: if you’re reading this, don’t wait for 40.  Or 50. Or a deathbed.  Or a crisis.  If there’s a name flashing in front of your eyes as you read this, do what you need to do.  Offer the apology.  Ask forgiveness. Make space for the new thing.

It’s such a good gift!

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Facing Forty: Yes, I Need You To Tell Me to Suck It Up


In just a couple of days, I will turn the big 4-0.  As I approach this milestone, many people have asked me how I feel about it.  “Well,” I answer, “To be honest, I am pretty much freaking out.”  

Listen, I want to be able to say that I am feeling grateful and eager and confident as I start a new decade. I want to be able to write about how fortunate and blessed and happy I am (which is true) as I look back to what these last forty years have brought me.  I want to be able to celebrate and anticipate the good things still to come, because I trust that God is always doing a new thing (which is also true).  But it is also true that every time I hear about my upcoming birthday and the number that goes with it I cringe and want to put my fingers in my ears.      

I’m not okay with feeling this way. It flies in the face of everything that I value.  I believe that being an adult and gaining experience is wonderful. I find it frustrating that we live in a culture that idolizes youth, and feel that our obsession with being younger is both harmful and unnecessary. I think forty is a great age and that I should be grateful to reach it, because (as my dear sister used to say), what’s the only alternative to turning forty?…NOT turning forty.

So I need to suck it up.

And you all have my complete permission to tell me to suck it up, knock it off, and pull my crap together. I don’t need validation, sympathy or encouragement.  I need to stop believing the lies that getting older is a bad thing. I need to stop weighing myself and my accomplishments against others and some idea of what I “should have” achieved by now.  I need to see forty years as a blessing instead of a benchmark. I need to stop obsessing about the deepening wrinkle in the middle of my forehead.  

I need what I think a whole lot of us need: truth tellers.  I need people who will tell me this truth again and again – that I am as loved and valuable and whole at forty as I was at 20, 25, and 30.

That I will continue to be loved and valuable and whole with every decade I am given to live, no matter what I accomplish, create, achieve or complete.  That I don’t need Botox for my forehead wrinkle because, seriously? Get over it.   

Tell me the truth – that God has only and will ever only call me to follow Him one day, one year, one decade at a time.  That he doesn’t have a rubric for measuring how I’m doing.  That He doesn’t keep “top 40 under 40 lists,” and that He isn’t looking at the ones we make either.

Keep telling me the truth friends, and, if I whine a bit and say: “But forty!”  “But old!”  “But when did this happen?”  you also have my permission to smack me (lightly) on the side of the head.       

I’m guessing I’m not the only one that needs to remember this. I am finding myself thinking of two experiences of birthdays for me as a teenager.  The first was a game we played at sleepovers (our birthday party of choice as soon as we all turned thirteen) called the “best and worst traits” game. We would go around the room and say everyone’s best and worst trait.  (And, yes, this went about as terribly as you can imagine it would in a room full of teenage girls). Either way, we kept playing and I always got the same answers.  “Your best trait is your honesty and your worst trait is your honesty.”  What they meant by this was that I had a slight tendency to say things that did not need to be said, but that I felt obliged to say simply because they were true.  It did not always go well.  (Thank you God for giving me forgiving friends).

The second was that I always had the first birthday of the year.  I was the first of my friends to turn 13.  The first to get my license.  The first to officially reach adulthood on my 18th birthday. Now I’m the first to turn 40.  And on this occasion, I’m going to be the same Leanne I’ve been since age 13 and offer some unsolicited truth, whether you’ve asked for it or not, simply because I’m the first one to get here.

I know a whole lot of you are freaking out just as much as me.  I know we don’t know how we got here or when we suddenly became the age our parents were when they seemed so ancient. I know that on the inside we still feel like those teenagers walking down the road to the arcade on a Friday night.  I know our forehead wrinkles and grey hairs still surprise us when we look in the mirror. I know we look at our kids or our aging parents and we wish we could make time stop.  

And I know we need to suck it up.  

Our lives may not be exactly as we pictured or hoped that they would be. But we have 40 years for which to be thankful and, hopefully, many more years to come.  To all the 1978 babies out there, let us, in our 40th years be people who speak and hear THIS truth: we are loved and whole and valuable at this age, and every age to come.  Instead of lamenting 40, let’s celebrate it.  

(And if anyone tries to tell you any differently,  don’t invite them to the sleepover).

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The Grieving Woman and the Christmas Story

I remember that Christmas when what I wanted most in the whole world was to be having a baby.  We had been hoping to have children for a while, but after some tests we were waiting for an appointment with fertility specialists.  It was November when we got the news that conceiving on our own might not be possible, and I was devastated.  As Christmas got closer, the last thing I wanted to hear about was pregnancy and babies – and here we were entering a season where a story involving those exact things was all around me.  Every pregnant belly made me jealous.  Every baby in a stroller made my heart ache.  And every mention of the miracle of the baby born at Christmas made me wonder why I couldn’t have a miracle for me.  

In the end, we were one of those couples that had to cancel the appointment at the fertility clinic when we found out we were having a child.  We only knew the pain of longing for children for a short time, so I can’t pretend to understand the experience of women who have been on a longer, harder journey than me. However, that season of heartache did teach me something:   Christmas can be a painful time for women that long to hold their children and are unable to do so.  This includes women who have wanted children and not been able to conceive, those who have miscarried and those who have outlived the children they loved.  

When we read stories in the Bible, I always encourage people to look for where they see themselves in the story. But where does a woman who has had to come to terms with infertility find herself when she reads the story of Elizabeth conceiving in her old age?  Where does a woman who has miscarried see herself as she reads of a joyous birth, something she never got to experience with her baby?  Where does the grieving mother, facing the first Christmas since her child has died, find herself as she sings of “mother and child” and aches to hold her own child again?

When you feel so far from Elizabeth, from Mary, and from the joyful mothers in the Christmas story, where do you belong?  Is there a part of the story that can feel like yours? I have been reflecting on this question often this Christmas and I can’t shake the desire to share this message for those who need to hear it: broken hearted women ARE in the story. We just don’t talk about them as much.

Many of us will know the famous part of the Christmas story that says some “wise men” came to find Jesus.  Because they were looking for a king, they logically talked to the current king, Herod, about where to find the new king that had been born.  Herod’s scholars directed them to Bethlehem, where it was said the Messiah would be born, and Herod asked them to come back after they had found the child.  His intention, however, wasn’t to worship Jesus, but to kill him.  The wise men decided not to return to Herod, and when Herod realized he had been tricked, he wanted to do all he could to prevent another king from taking his place.  He ordered that all boys in Bethlehem, aged two and under, be killed.  By the time this happened, Mary and Joseph had already taken Jesus from Bethlehem, so his plan failed.  Instead, it led to the murder of completely innocent babies – babies that were loved and wanted and cherished and held and longed for by mothers who had to let them go.  The Bible describes the devastation by saying:  A voice is heard in Ramah, weeping and great mourning, Rachel weeping for children and refusing to be comforted, because they are no more.

How great the wailing must have been.

Each time I read this story, it takes my breath away. I can hardly handle the thought of opening my door to find a soldier there to kill my child.  I can’t imagine the anguish. I can’t fathom the pain in those mamas’ hearts.

I know why we don’t dwell on this story at Christmas, but sometimes I think maybe it deserves a little more airtime.  Sometimes I think there are a lot of us who need to remember that there is sadness in the Christmas story too – that there were mothers who had their dreams shattered alongside those who had their dreams come true. The hurting women are part of the Christmas story – the ones with the empty arms and  the broken hearts.

Yes, the Christmas story is ultimately one of joy. But it never demands that those in pain be forgotten. It doesn’t sugar coat, cover up, or forget heartbreak.   We always stop the readings before we get to the awful part on Christmas Eve, but it strikes me that Scripture never left it out.  God didn’t say: “This is too sad.  It’ll bring people down.  Let’s not mention it.”  It isn’t justified or explained away. It is simply acknowledged and named and allowed to be.

I know we forget this in churches, especially at Christmas time.  We don’t always want to make space for the sad stuff, and this can make those who carry sadness feel forgotten.  For that, I am sorry, and it is why I want to say it again: if you are a grieving, hurting, longing, dream-shattered women – you belong in the story, too.  Alongside Mary and Elizabeth are the mothers who mourned. There’s space for your loss there, and there is space for you. 

When you’re ready, and when you’re able, I know you’ll see the hope in the story as well. The Christmas story shows us that the impossible can become possible through the power of God.  Your impossible may be believing that there can be joy in your life again. Have hope that Christ’s coming can make even this true.  One day.

But, this Christmas, if it’s not the day, and you are more broken than joyful – you don’t have to wait to feel you belong in the story.  You’re already here. It is, after all, for your sorrows that Christ came.  





Red Threads and Invisible Women

One of the common things that I hear when people talk to me about women being preachers,  particularly among those new to the idea, is the statement:  “I’ve never seen it.” Sometimes this is a statement meant to express a simple lack of experience, often said with regret. Other times it is meant to make a point – that if women were meant to have such a role, then surely, the argument goes, there would be more examples from history at the ready.

As if not hearing the stories of women means that the stories don’t exist.

As if forgotten voices somehow never spoke at all.

As if we can work with the assumption that history is kind when it comes to remembering women.

As a graduate student studying to prepare for ministry, I wrote a paper about the history of women pastors in my denomination.  For years, I took pride in being able to say that the FIRST woman ordained within our particular baptist family was a woman named Muriel Carder, ordained in 1947.  I knew a lot about this “first” ordained woman.  I had read the minutes of her ordination council!  I knew most of the debate at her ordination council was not about biblical teaching, but about whether she’d be physically able to baptize large men (as well as a heated discussion regarding a comment she’d made about dancing).  I knew that the strength she showed to have her own call validated paved the way for women like me to follow our call.  I knew about our history, or so I thought.

Then last week my husband, who works for our denomination, asked me: “Do you know who the first ordained woman was in our denomination?”

I was offended. “Ah, yeah,” I answered.  “Muriel Carder.”

“I thought so, too,” he said, “but you know what we recently learned? There was a woman named Jennie Johnson who was ordained in 1909 in the United States, and moved to Canada and worked in one of our associations!” Yes, Reverend Carder was the first woman our denomination ordained, but there had been an ordained woman serving decades before her.   

I was thrilled to hear this story, but I was also sad. Where had her story gone?  How had I never found it?  How had it not been shared by now?

And what other stories have we lost?

The sad truth is that women have always been disappearing from history, and that these disappearances happen as much in the Church as anywhere else.  It’s what allows too many to say: “I’ve never seen it,” and to assume that means it never happened. It’s also why we need to tell the stories when we know them – and advent is a wonderful time to do that.  

Advent is the time in the Christian Calendar which leads up to Christmas. It is the time when Christians remember the waiting and the longing of those that yearned for the birth of a Messiah.  As we remember, we often look back at all the pieces of the story that culminated in the birth of Jesus.  And to remember that well, we have to remember the women in the story.   

One of these women was named Rahab.  We meet Rahab when God’s people, who had been wandering in the desert for 40 years, were getting ready to come back to the promised land.  The tricky thing was that there were now other people living in this land.  When they came upon one city, called Jericho, two Israelite spies went inside the town, surrounded by a wall, to assess the situation.  While they were there, they went to the home of, to use the Bible’s terms, a “harlot named Rahab.”  Having heard there were spies in her house, the king sent soldiers to get the spies at Rahab’s home.  But she protected them.  She hid the spies and told the soldiers they had already left.  Why did she do it? She explained to the spies that she believed they followed the true God.  She asked that, in exchange for her protecting them, that they protect her and her family.  They agreed, asking her to hang a scarlet thread in her window so they would know what house to protect when they came back to the city.  When Jericho was later destroyed, Rahab and her family were saved.

There are so many things I like about Rahab I hardly know where to start.  Rahab was clearly a woman who got stuff done.  She hid the men under flax she was drying on her roof, flax that she must have been preparing to sell or use in her home.  She had scarlet thread at hand – likely, many think, she worked making dye as well (most people didn’t have ready access to red thread). This, of course, was besides her work as an innkeeper, and in her, um, other profession.  She was a woman doing what she had to do to care for her loved ones.  Even when asking for protection, she insisted her FAMILY be saved as well. What a woman! 

Rahab had an important role in the story, protecting the spies and God’s people.  And what I really love is that she was never forgotten.  In fact, generations later we read her name again, in the beginning of the story of Jesus which starts with his family line – and says: Salmon was the father of Boaz, whose mother was Rahab, Boaz the father of Obed, whose mother was Ruth, Obed the father of Jesse, and Jesse the father of King David.

Jesus, famously was “of the line of David.” That’s right – Rahab was Jesus’ great-great-great, etc. grandma!

I love that in this genealogy Rahab is not skipped, explained away, or hidden behind her husband. I love that in a genealogy in the Bible we see a story: That women matter, that their voices belong, that they count.  That, in the story of God, they are NOT INVISIBLE.  

I preached about Rahab this week, and when we were done, I gave everyone in our church some red thread.  I asked them to write the names of women who were part of their story on a piece of paper attached to those threads and to hang the threads on a branch – because women are in the family tree of Jesus, and they are in the branches of all our stories.  


As I looked at all those red threads, I felt deeply the need to declare again what I believe to be the work of God: to make visible those who have been made invisible.  To let them stand out like bright red yarn on a brown branch. 

This advent, let’s do it.  Let us be tellers of their stories.

Let us hang the scarlet threads and remember the women woven into our lives.  Let us remember that no woman should be silenced.  Let us acknowledge that women have been speaking even when we haven’t always heard.  Let us allow them to speak.  Let us never say that never having heard a story doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.  Let us keep looking and digging and searching for stories that are lost, and celebrating the stories still being written.

Let us, this advent, remember women in the story, and all the marginalized, forgotten and nameless whose stories we never heard.  And let us, at Christmas, celebrate the miracle of a child born in obscurity – incubated, birthed, and nursed by a woman.

Not forgotten.  Not silenced.  Not invisible. 

Remembered.  Heard. Seen. 

THIS is the word of the Lord – thanks be to God.  


Me and My Thigh Gap

I have always hated my legs.  Well, at least I have hated them for as long as I knew that your legs were a thing you could hate about yourself. I have memories of shopping for shorts in grade seven and complaining about them then, so I am working on  27  years of leg hatred.  

The reason I have hated my legs is because I have always believed them to be too skinny.  Now, before you roll your eyes too hard at me, let me elaborate.  It’s not so much that my legs are “too skinny” as that my legs (and, to be fair, my arms) are skinnier than the rest of my body.  For me, it is a PROPORTION issue, one that, I assure you, has been pointed out to me my whole life.


  • “Wow!  I never noticed how skinny your arms are!” (this is usually followed by the person putting their fingers around my wrist and illustrating to me how skinny my wrists are).
  • “Wow! I never noticed how skinny your legs are!” (this has sometimes – though less frequently – been followed by the person putting their fingers around my ankles to illustrate how skinny my ankles are. And yes, many people can put their fingers all the way around my ankles. MANY PEOPLE).

I’m not saying this was always said as a criticism, but it was often followed by tips on how I could build muscle mass in order to make said arms or legs BIGGER.   And I don’t ever remember it being followed  by anything along the lines of: “And hey – they’re so NICE!”

As a leg hater, I have spent most of my life avoiding wearing shorts and shorter skirts.  Capris are my friend.  When I buy skirts or dresses I look for ones that fall below the knee (thus covering my “too skinny” knees). I also don’t wear leggings.  Besides the fact that I believe leggings are mostly a torture device designed to make my legs feel like they CANNOT BREATHE, they also draw too much attention to my “spindly” legs.

Anyway, after years of leg-hating and leg-covering and looking for ways to minimize my “problem legs,”imagine my surprise to discover a number of months ago some truly shocking news:

My legs are now totally in style.

It all boils down to this thing that I didn’t know was a thing, that is actually a real thing and apparently an important thing and a thing that many women go to great lengths in order to achieve.  Friends, I have a THIGH GAP.

In case you don’t know what a thigh gap is, it is when you stand up and there is a visible space between your two standing thighs.    And it is ALL THE RAGE.  I just did a quick google search about thigh gaps and I seem to have achieved what, in the words of one article, is now “the holy grail of women’s bodies.”  

And here I’ve been trying to hide my holy grail all this time!

I admit, this is a lot to take in.  It’s quite a change to suddenly shift my leg-worldview after nearly 30 years. I really wasn’t prepared for cultural leg expectations to veer in my favour. I mean, here I am, with a closet full of capris, and I can finally wear shorts! NOW my legs are the right legs.  Wouldn’t it be nice to go back to 13 year old Leanne trying on shorts and hating her legs and tell her to hang tight, because in just a couple of decades her legs would be exactly right?  

Well, I’d like to go back to 13 year old Leanne.   And I’d like to talk to her about her legs. But I tell you this:  I wouldn’t talk to her at all about some stupid, idiotic thigh gap to make her feel better.  And I wouldn’t tell her that her teeth were going to look fine when the braces came off. And I wouldn’t tell her that the frizz in her hair would tame itself eventually, or that there would be people, one day, who would think she was pretty.

I would tell her “Buy the shorts.”  And wear the shorts.  Not because your legs are the “right” legs – but because it’s hot out, and shorts are comfortable.  I would tell her to stand proud with the exact body she has been given, no matter what it grows into. I would tell her she has been made wonderful, and I would hope that she would spend the next 27 years certain of that, and that it would have nothing to do with whether her legs were muscular enough for the 1990s or had a big enough thigh gap for the 2010s.

I can’t say it to 13 year old Leanne, so instead I’m going to say it to anyone out there who may be reading this:  Buy the shorts.  Or the dress.  Or the jeans.  Buy them and say: “Well look at this lucky piece of clothing that gets to be worn on my perfect-for-me body.”  Wear them and know: “I am wonderfully made”  That’s what God says about us, actually.  And, funny enough, no mention of skinny legs, or a thigh gap.

Honestly, when I started googling about thigh gaps today, it didn’t make me happy that I had the “right look” in this regard.  It made me sad for all the girls and women looking in the mirror and saying: “I’m not good enough.”  Because of a thigh gap. Can we call this what it is?  Complete and total CRAP.  

I still have a long way to go.  There’s lots I don’t like about my body, and I rarely think it’s fully wonderful.  I’ve been lying to myself for so long that the truth becomes harder to believe. But the truth is NOT that my legs are now good enough.  The truth is that they always were.     

So I’m wearing the shorts.  




Why the Bible is Hard, Confusing and Frustrating (and other thoughts from my “Post-It Note Bible”…)

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This week, my sermon was from a part of the Bible that talks about how awesome the Bible is. The author of this particular text raves about how God’s word is their source of light and their foundation.  When I saw the passage (Psalm 119: 129-134, for those of you wondering), I groaned.  Why? Because I knew that when you preach from Psalm 119, which I’ve done before, there’s really no way around getting to the part where you say: “So, all of you, read your Bible more.  It’s great!  You’ll love it!”  

And to be frank, after 12 years of preaching and having said some version of that countless times, I’ve grown a little skeptical of the value of saying that anymore. It’s not because I don’t think people should read the Bible, especially followers of God. It’s that even those who love God very dearly don’t always find that an easy thing to do.

Let’s be blunt:  The Bible can be hard to read.  It is a dense book, with lots of unusual and ancient concepts.  It is not always chronological.  It doesn’t give a lot of explanation of some of the things that it is addressing.  There are some weird, bizarre and even gruesome stories, that make people ask: “Was God okay with THAT?”  Frankly, if I had a quarter for every time someone said to me: “I tried to read the Bible and I got as far as Leviticus before I gave up,” well…I would probably have $10.  People ask: Why read what I don’t understand? (Even if I wished I did!).

The Bible can feel big and intimidating.  The one sitting closest to me as I write this is 900 pages of VERY small print, in two columns.  My guess is that it would be more like reading 3000 pages if the same words were printed like a regular novel is today.  “Where should I even start?”  someone might ask.  In fact, to pick up the Bible and just start reading where you open the page can be completely jarring.  

I think of the scene from the television show “30 Rock” where the character Liz Lemon tries to distract a crowd at church by Bible reading and opens to the verse:  “But Zipporah took a flint knife, cut off her son’s foreskin and touched Moses’ feet with it.”  Now, as someone who has spent a lot of time studying the Bible, that is completely hilarious to me (plus, “30 Rock” – I mean, it’s genius!). I can explain the exact context of that story, what it means, and why it even teaches us about God.  But really – what would that sound like to the average person reading it for the first time? Well, it sounds pretty disgusting and disturbing.  I would love it if people who first opened the Bible turned to the lines that said: “I have loved you with an everlasting love,” “I will never leave you or forsake you,” or “I praise you that I am wonderfully made and all your works are wonderful.”  I have not found this happens so often…

And on top of all that, there’s the fact that the Bible doesn’t have the best reputation anymore.  For some people, the most exposure they have to the Bible are the signs quoting Bible verses held by extremists at Pride Marches or messages typed with hate on a Facebook message board. For others, even those who grew up as people of faith, the Bible was often quoted to explain why they were bad people, going to hell, or not allowed to do things that they thought would be fun.

Sadly, instead of experiencing the Bible as a message of love, many people have experienced the Bible like a shotgun that someone used to shoot them in their places of deepest pain.  

Who can blame anyone who wouldn’t jump at the chance to read it who has experienced that?

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So what do I do when I’m slated to preach from Psalm 119, that sings the joy of God’s Word?  What to do when I KNOW I need to share the message that we should read this book, because of all the things it actual is – light and life and hope and direction – when the mere mention of reading the Bible makes so many noticeably start to squirm??

Well, here’s what I did. I remembered that while many people may be hesitant about the Bible, that does not mean they are not eager to know and find God, and that the Bible helps people to do that.  I also remembered that as hard as the Bible is, that it is worth it. Then, remembering that, I did indeed tell people they should read it (or listen to it, or watch videos of it). And then I told them it was okay to have a “post-it note Bible.”

That’s what I call my own Bible that I read when I was nineteen and began to really read the Bible for myself.  Like many a good Christian girl, I had read my one-chapter-a-night since I was a young teenager.  When I had hard days I would turn to the list of topics and see if there was a good answer (funny, there was never a “don’t have a boyfriend” category…).  But it wasn’t really alive to me, until the summer that I worked as a laundress at a summer camp. I had a lot of time alone in the laundry room that summer, moving loads of sopping kitchen towels from washer to dryer and folding staff uniforms day after day, and I decided: I’m going to use this time to read my Bible.  And I did.

And, like so many other people, I had questions.  So many questions, even for someone who had gone to church her whole life.  I’d get to a part and say “This is crazy!!  I don’t get it!  I can’t read anymore!”  This was when I started my post-it note system.  At first, I would just underline or put question marks by the things I wondered about.  But the margins in Bibles are small and I started running out of room.  So, I would take a post-it, write out my confusion and my questions and stick it in there.  I still have this Bible 20 years later, still packed full of the questions of my 19 year old self. I love to flip through it and read the notes again.  It’s fun to see how I understand a lot of what I didn’t then. It reminds me that God has taught me so much.  But many of my questions still have no answers.  In fact,  I have lots of new questions to stick in there… like about why some people get healed and others don’t and whether Jesus knew anyone with cancer and whether my support of universal health care IS what Jesus would have done.

I don’t literally stick a post-it note in my Bible with all my questions anymore, but I still ask questions all the time. I still say: “God I don’t understand this.” Then, I keep reading (or listening, or watching…). I keep going because for all those questions, I can resonate with all the Psalm writer says in Psalm 119: God’s word, when you read it and hear it and let it shape you day after day and year after year, gives life.  

What I’m trying to say is that engaging with the Bible may not always be easy, certainly not at first, so when you begin, you may have a “post-it note Bible” – literally or figuratively.  You may have more questions than answers.  You may get confused, annoyed or even angry.  That’s normal and that’s okay.  As you keep reading (or listening, or watching) though, you will also find the message of love and hope and redemption.  (You may even find yourself late for lunch because you didn’t realize the timer on the dryer went off because you were so engrossed in the book of Exodus).  You may be listening online and hear something that will speak so deeply to your soul that you will never forget it.  You may discover that with every answered question, you are actually eager to learn more.  

So here’s the pitch: Give it a try!  Ask questions.  Start with a part that makes sense (I recommend the book of Mark).  Get a translation that you find easiest to read (a Christian book store or your friendly neighbourhood pastor or ME can help you with this!), or use another method (like listening or watching videos) if you don’t like reading.  Talk to others and join groups that will teach you more.   Also, buy some post-it notes.  They can be super helpful.

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