Lost and Found by Ginny L. Yttrup

single thought down. The other voice, the one raging within, distracted.
    That voice—the voice of accusation—slithered into my mind during those first years of marriage, when I failed to become pregnant. Failed to produce what was expected of me—what I expected of and longed for myself. Since then, condemnation has been my constant companion, even though our infertility was no fault of my own. The voice strengthened following the first surgery, when the initial rounds of antibiotics, burning as they pumped through the IV and into my bloodstream, failed to eradicate the bacterial infection raging first in the incision beneath my chin and then, later, in my jawbone.
    What have you done to yourself?
    How could you be so stupid?
    Why couldn't you be content?
    You don't get anything right!
    With each slur cast, my sense of shame deepened. And in the darkest moments, I hurled blame at others. If Brigitte hadn't made those comments about the "strength" of my chin and how "masculine" it looked . . . if she hadn't suggested the surgery in the first place . . . or if Gerard had defended me, for once, against his mother's attacks . . .
    But casting blame just shamed me further.
    Matthew asked if I blamed God. Absolutely not. I knew from the beginning, and still know, there was no one to blame but myself.
    I walk around the tables on the sidewalk of an outdoor café, the aroma of bread baking and coffee brewing waft from the open door. Today, more than a year after the mentoplasty, that first fateful surgery following the choice I made to fix what wasn't perfect in my eyes—the voice still woos me. Now, when I look back at photos of myself before the surgery, I can't see the imperfection that seemed glaring to me before. Like an anorexic seeing fat where there is emaciation, I saw something in the mirror that was never there.
    "Therefore there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus." The words play in my mind over and over. I try to rest in their truth. But the insistent accusations are hard to ignore.
    Why can't I rest in truth? Rest in my relationship with the One I know loves me most? There are moments of rest. Of joy. A sense of His presence as sure as the scents coming from the café. Like in the solarium the other morning. In those moments, just maybe, I glimpse who I'm meant to be.
    No. That's not it.
    I glimpse who He is.
    All else fades and becomes extraneous.
    Why can't I maintain that focus—that frame of mind?
    How much time have I wasted over the years first serving my beauty, then lamenting over its loss? How many hours wasted on this obsession with self? It wasn't just the physical beauty—it's what it represented. My beauty, I know, is why Brigitte was drawn to me—why she chose me for Gerard. It is why Gerard acquiesced to his mother's plan. He still jokes about the "arranged marriage" but says, "Who can argue with her choice?" Maintaining my appearance, fixing the flaws I saw there, became imperative—it was necessary, in my mind, to please Brigitte.
    And as Skye implied in the park yesterday, I strive to please Brigitte at any cost. Who are you serving, Jenna?
    Who am I serving? Brigitte? Myself?
    The question nags at me as I walk the remaining block to the house.
    I SLIP IN THE front door unnoticed, then stand for a moment just inside the entry and watch as shards of light dance on the marble floor. The sun shinning in the upper windows and through the crystal prisms of the chandelier account for the show on the floor. I think of Skye's words this morning, sometimes we need someone who will illuminate the path. Choice words. God knew they'd catch my attention, just as the crystal prisms catch the light.
    All is still.
    Brigitte isn't here. I'd know.
    How long have I prayed for illumination? For a light to lead me out of darkness? Skye has been an answer to that prayer. Is Matthew also part of God's answer?
    I think of my blog. Even the URL is a prayer: