Why do we Pray?

            If you believe that God is in control, what’s the point in praying? Some people think that the purpose is to leverage from God a favor for themselves or others. This is a recipe for disappointment for God isn’t a poker game where chips are played to get something in exchange.

            However, if you see prayer as an ongoing conversation with God, you might discover that He has reasons for what He does and that He blesses you in uncountable ways.

            We live in a chaotic world. All around us things happen that we have no control over that affect our lives. Many live in dangerous situations where bombs may fall, bullets may fly, fires may rage and hurricanes may destroy. All of these are out of our hands which is a cause for anxiety. God might not be able to stop the bombs and bullets and fires and winds, but He can offer peace of mind.

            God might not do what you want Him to do at the time that you ask Him to act. For example, if praying for a cure for cancer, it might not happen within your lifetime. However, the cure might come along thanks to research and discovery.

            Doubters of the power of prayer might argue that there’s no reason to pray because God already knows what’s going to happen. For example, let’s say you’ve planned an outdoor birthday party for your child, complete with a giant bouncy house. Guests will gather in the backyard for a picnic buffet. Good weather is a must: not too hot, not too cold, not too windy and definitely no rain.

Should you ask God for these things? Why not, for you never know what He’s thinking. He might believe that an indoor gathering is more intimate or that renting a bouncy house is too extravagant considering your finances. Maybe the earth is desperately in need of a good soaking in order to reduce fire danger in your area. But, just because we don’t know God’s response doesn’t mean we can’t pray for the things that will bring us the most joy.

            Some people pray to thank God for blessings in their lives. That’s what I do. Every day I thank Him for my wonderful husband, my three awesome adult kids and my seven talented grandchildren. I thank Him for financial security, for relative good health, for our home and the safe environment in which we live. I thank Him for the sacrifices He made and the patient way He showed us to believe.

            When our hearts are burdened, we might not be able to hear God. With thoughts swirling through our minds there’s no space for God to intervene, to stick in a few words of comfort.

            If we consider our relationship with God as a conversational one, then we have to be prepared to hear. When we offer our thoughts and concerns to Him, we must trust that He is listening. Patience is the next step, for God is busy and cannot always quickly respond. Building that connection with God takes time. This is why we should pray as often as possible. God may be listening as we barrel down the freeway or pull laundry out of the washing machine. He might be present as we mow the lawn or paint a child’s bedroom.

            Talking to God is like talking with a friend. When the friend speaks we listen. Through those conversations we grow closer together. So it is with God. The more we talk, the more we listen, the stronger the relationship.

            Believers who take delight in their relationship with God, who look forward to those times when they can open their hearts and enjoy being in His presence, are often surprised by the blessings He bestows. His voice might not come in words, but in a gentle touch. He might appear in the grateful eyes of an elderly man that you help with his groceries. He might kiss your cheek as lightly as a feather, but most likely He won’t scream at you from the heavens.

            We pray because Jesus prayed. I am not a Biblical expert so I cannot cite chapter and verse, but I know that He prayed with the woman at the well, at the marriage feast, over the meager loaves and fishes and as He was dying on the cross. If Jesus, the Son of God prayed, maybe we should follow His example.

            You pray because you understand that you are not the almighty, that you cannot do everything on your own. You need help, sometimes in the form of friendly neighbors who help repair a fence, a fellow traveler who stops to replace your tire or the minister who lays his hands on your head and bestows a blessing.

            Prayer is a way of surrendering control over to someone else. We’ve been raised to believe that we are in charge of our destiny and only we can take the steps to accomplish our dreams. Insert God into that equation when you accept that you need Him in the driver’s seat. You need outside help that only He can offer.

            Prayer is not simply talking to the ceiling even though it might appear to others that that’s what you’re doing. Often when we pray we do lift our eyes heavenward because we believe that God is up there, somewhere. Looking up is a way of centering ourselves, of giving us a place to send our needs, hopes and thanks. It’s a way of involving God in our lives so that the connection is maintained.

            Just as we use the phone to text and the computer to chat and share photos, prayer is just another way to reach out in our busy lives. We know that God is aware of what’s happening in our lives, but He wants to hear it from you.

            God knows what He wants to accomplish in the world and in each of our lives. He might be waiting for you to turn to Him or He might be waiting for the right moment to act. Whichever is true, He might be inspired to hurry things up when He hears us speaking to Him. Not demanding, but whispering. Not whining, but giving thanks.

            Don’t be afraid to pray. There are written prayers that many have memorized and those are good. But what if you are not one of those people? Can you still pray and will God listen when you don’t use the prescribed words? Of course.

Prayer is one of the most active things you can do for it requires you to do something, even if it’s a tiny step. Prayer may feel like hard work, but it isn’t. Just like learning to ride a bike, prayer takes practice. Even spending just a few minutes each day allows you to build that relationship with God.

Because there are no rules about how often or how long you must pray, establish your own routines. Maybe after a harrowing drive through traffic, you give a quick thanks for getting you to your destination without incident. Perhaps you’ve tried a new recipe and it doesn’t look like the picture. Offer a prayer that it tastes okay and you might be surprised when your family loves it. Just when it’s time to move the clothes into the dryer, the power goes out. When you offer a prayer for help, God reminds you that you can string a line outside.

Prayer can be a form of praise, it can be an offer of thanksgiving, or it can be asking for forgiveness. Prayer can be devotional, meaning that it is a formal recitation from the Bible or a prayer book, or it can be free-flowing, coming as connected thoughts or random bits of praise, supplication or expressions of need.

Prayer can also be an inspiration for action.  It could get you walking, hiking, dancing, and singing. Prayer might spur you to volunteer to build something, to run for a charity, to donate time, goods or money for those in need.

Because prayer can take place in many forms, in many places, for many different reasons, it has no boundaries. We pray because it feels good to do so. We pray because it fills a need. We pray because it connects us to God.

The reasons we pray are endless, but most importantly we pray because it gives us something in return.

The Perils Confronting Classroom Teachers

            My first teaching position was in a preschool organized by the local recreation department. Students ranged in age from two to almost five. They had to be potty-trained, but they still peed on chairs, floors, carpet and outdoor equipment. They weren’t supposed to arrive sick, but they did. They wiped snot on everything in the room, from puzzles to paint brushes. They coughed on everyone and sneezed without thoughts of the safety of others.

            It wasn’t any better when I taught Kindergarten and Third grade. The older students still had accidents when urine pooled under their desks. One boy opened his desk and vomited inside where textbooks and materials were kept. Another threw up on my desk, covering attendance records, my grade book and lesson plans.

            My next full time position was as a Special Day Class teacher for fourth and five grade students. No longer did I have to deal with urine, but these kids, like the younger ones, loved to hold my hand. Considering where those hands had been, like digging deep inside nostrils, and taking care of bathroom needs, all most likely without using even a tiny bit of soap. It was no wonder that disease spread rapidly and constantly.

            Even when I moved to the high school I was not spared the contamination students brought into the room. They coughed and sneezed without protection. They came with pink eye and the flu. They distributed bronchitis and pneumonia germs with equanimity.

            Throughout all these years and changing circumstances, there was one constant: I fell ill. If I was lucky it was just a slight cold. If not, it was pneumonia. As an asthmatic, both were dangerous.

            Advance into the present. Parents want their kids in school and teachers love sharing the classroom with students, not teaching over the Internet. However, what has changed over the past thirty-plus years since I first took over a classroom? Nothing.

            Parents will still send sick kids to school. Kids will still wipe noses and cough all over everyone. Kids will pee and poop and vomit. Kids will want to sit on the teacher’s lap and hold the teacher’s hand. Kids will contaminate materials despite limited sanitation unless done by the teacher, who is then touching possibly contaminated objects.

            Imagine yourself in that classroom with little or no protection. Most classrooms lack AC and those that do have no windows to open to provide some circulation of air. Most classrooms have windows on one side of the room and only one door, on the same side. Some teachers installed ceiling fans in their rooms, at their own expense, but those fans do not provide sufficient circulation to keep people safe.

            Elementary classrooms generally have a sink, but not all do. Those with sinks often have empty soap dispensers. Unless the district provides sufficient sanitizer, the teacher has to buy it. There is limited cleaning done as maintenance are on a tight schedule.

            At my last position, the room was allotted three minutes of cleaning time. That meant a quick sweep of the floor and empting trash cans. Desks were cleaned by me or not at all. I only had time to clean them once or twice a week, at most. Think about the germs that developed in between?

            My students shared textbooks, crayons, markers, rulers and other materials. They were never cleaned. We had one set of dictionaries that were shared by two teachers. They were never cleaned. I shared an overhead projector with two other teachers. It was never cleaned.

            The entire time I taught, over a span of thirty-three years, we never had a pandemic such as the one the world faces today. The flu, yes. Pink eye, yes. But COVID-19? No.

            Considering that districts pack thirty-four students in most classrooms, squeezed together in poorly ventilated rooms, in-person teaching is a disaster peeking around the corner. With little kids the desks can be further apart, but not six feet. High school students have much bigger bodies and so desks are often inches apart.

            Elementary teachers are figuring out ways to use corrals to keep students’ emissions behind Plexiglas or cardboard. If it’s cardboard, how does the teacher make eye contact when the students’ eyes are hidden? You can’t put cardboard corrals around high school desks. Perhaps Plexiglas would work.

            Who’s paying for these dividers? Cash-strapped districts or the teacher? Are teachers expected to supply these devices just as they buy tissue, crayons and paper?

            While I am glad to be retired so that I am not worried about the germs floating around my classroom, I sympathize with teachers who do. If I was still working, I’d have to quit rather than risk my health.

            Parents want their kids in school. So do teachers. In order to make it work, responsibility has to be shared. Parents don’t send sick kids to school or kids who’ve been exposed to the virus. Teachers try to keep the classroom as safe as they can with the support of the district. Districts provide the PPE necessary to make the environment as safe as possible, even if it means buying industrial-size fans for every classroom.

            This is a huge dilemma for which there is no tidy answer. The virus is predicted to be with us for a while. What are the stakeholders doing to prepare?

            That’s the most important question to the most serious threat to public health that we’ve seen in modern history.

Pandemic Woes?

            The mayors of the San Francisco Bay Area announced the pandemic shutdown as we were returning from a trip. My initial reaction was shock and confusion. What will be open? What would I be able to do? How will this change the life I’ve created since I retired?

            Now that we’re all these months into the pandemic response, I have to admit that not a lot has changed. I still go hiking three days a week with a friend, with masks and social distancing.

My two book clubs are held via zoom, making it fun to share thoughts.

I belong to two critique groups that help with my writing. We also meet via zoom, so I’m still getting ideas about how to sharpen my stories.

My Red Hat group went into hibernation as we are all in the older population. The last month, however, we’ve figured out that we can bring chairs and lunch, sit six feet apart and keep in touch.

One addition that I hadn’t planned on was all the free interviews with authors! Several bookstores host these events on a regular basis.

Yes, the pandemic has changed my life, but alternative activities and methods have arisen that allow some semblance of normality. That’s what life is all about: adapting to changing circumstances.

Looks Can Be Deceiving

The author in 1968.

            I recently came across my high school graduation photo from 1968. Granted, it was taken a long time ago, but I still recall how I felt. That time in my life was filled with confused emotions. I was excited about college, but knew nothing in my situation would change because my parents would only allow me to attend the local community college. That meant continuing to live at home, which was not an experience to look forward to.

            I’ve shared stories of what my life was like back then. Let’s suffice it to say that I was miserable. I understood that something was wrong at home, but I lacked the words or experience to understand what it was. As I aged and my knowledge base expanded, I learned the words.

            My mother smothered me and my dad terrified me. I was a middle child, close in age to an older brother who tormented, teased and at times, physically hurt me. I was many years older than a sister who commanded my mother’s attention and could manipulate mom into believing fantastical stories about the evil things I did when mom wasn’t looking.

            My sort-of-safe world was school. No one teased me there because I was invisible. My clothes were made from recycled material, pieces cut out of hand-me-down clothes. My mother chose the styles, so everything was old-fashioned and ultraconservative. I wore saddle shoes that had gone out of style years earlier but they were the only ones I was allowed to have.

            When I look at that photo I see a young woman with a forced smile. She’s showing just enough teeth to categorize it as a smile, but not enough to show joy. The woman is wearing wing-tip glasses which were in vogue back then and her hair is teased and lacquered in a somewhat popular style.

            When the photo appeared in the yearbook, anyone flipping through the pages might stop for a moment and wonder about the pearls. Would they think my family had that kind of money or that they were a gift from a relative? Or would they correctly surmise that they were a studio prop? Assuming they guess correctly that I never owned something so fine, then they might be able to see through the mask.

            I walked the high school halls as a nobody. Academics distinguished me from my peers, but in a social world, I blended into the bricks. To the best of my ability I styled my hair in a contemporary do. I was allowed to choose glass frames similar to what others wore.

            However my physical presence exacted no reaction. No smiles, nods, or words of greeting. I was alone. For four years.

            Is that loneliness reflected in my eyes? In the fake smile? The tilt of my head?

            I think it is, but then I walked in those shoes. All I wanted then was for someone to see me as a valuable human being, worthy to be called friend. Because of my poor self-esteem ingrained and reinforced at home I lacked the ability to initiate a relationship. The person would have to speak first, look my way first, nod first, wave me over first.

But who would want to do that? In high school you are who you are friends with. Anyone wanting to be known would not have called me over. You don’t invite a nobody into your social circle if you’re hoping to rise the ladder. My presence would either have knocked them down a rung or held them on the floor with one foot raised.

You didn’t know me then, so when you look at the picture you see a happy soon-to-graduate girl who’s got her hair done, a smile on her face and a glint in her eyes.

Looks can be deceiving.

Preparing for “The End”

            My husband and I think we’ve got everything lined up for when we die. We’ve taken care of the house and our important possessions. We chose the executor. We gave each of our kids a copy of the paperwork.

            The kids know where I store my passwords, but are there details we haven’t thought of?

            Our kids will become our accountants, bookkeepers, lawyers, house cleaners and detectives. Is this what we want? Or is there something else we can do?

            My husband put together a binder with financial information. Did he include electric bills? Car and house insurance?

            We both completed Medical Directives and gave them to Kaiser. But we haven’t updated them recently. Have our opinions changed now that we are older? Perhaps. That means that we both have to update them…soon.

            Who should get my “real” jewelry? What if my bird is still alive? What happens to her?

            Do my kids know what are religious preferences are in terms of music, funeral or not? Who should they invite? Is it worth it to pay for an obituary in the paper?

            What if one of our kids wants to move to California and live in our house? That impacts the other two. What if one wants my husband’s truck or my car? The truck is old, so probably not, but it still runs pretty good. My car is newer. It would be perfect for a grandkid. Where are the pink slips?

            I could go on and on, but it’s better that I take action. But I don’t like thinking of the end. So I procrastinate, putting it off for another time.

            When I’m supposed to be sleeping, these are the thoughts that plague me.

            What about you? Are your papers in order?

Anything Goes

            The first time I heard this expression I didn’t think it applied to me. I was a follower of rules. Because of my home environment, I understood that straying resulted in physical punishment, ranging from being beaten with a belt, shaken, slapped and humiliated.

            The concept of anything goes was as foreign to me a Greek. There was nothing in my lexicon that allowed me to process the meaning.

            When I left home to attend college, for the first time in my life, no one hovered over me telling me what to do or ridiculing the decisions I made. It was terrifying and rejuvenating at the same time. If I wanted to skip a meal, I could. If I felt like sleeping in and not making my bed, my mother was not there to chastise.

            In essences, I could do whatever I wanted. The caveat was that I had to attend classes and earn grades good enough to graduate with a degree.

            When the Vietnam War protests began, I could march and carry signs expressing my opinion, knowing that my parents would be horrified. There was nothing they could do to stop me. It was only when smartly dressed me in tight fitting expensive suits with ear pieces arrived on campus, did I retreat from the movement. At that moment I couldn’t do whatever I wanted because I knew they were keeping track and most likely taking pictures.

            Once I was an adult, anything goes ceased to have meaning. I had to be present for my kids. I had to forsake my own wishes to teach in order to make sure the kids had food, opportunities to learn and explore, clean clothes and a responsible adult overseeing them. I did haul them to pottery classes, preschool, parks, parties, sports practices and games. I made sure they got to school on time with clean clothes.

            In other words, I was back to being a follower of rules.

            One advantage of getting old is that once again, rules disappear. Anything Goes is truly my motto. I can do whatever I want, whenever I want. I can choose to not do something as well. My life is my own to monitor. I can go hiking with a friend or walk with my husband. I can write or read a book. I can send cards to family and friends or laze in front of the television. Laundry can stack up in the hamper until I feel like washing it.

            The only monitor I have is me.

            I hope that sometime during a person’s life they can fall under the umbrella of Anything Goes. It’s a powerfully liberating concept. Enjoy!

My Shadow Self

Peter Pan taught us that our shadow is a critical part of who we are. When visiting Wendy and the boys, the dog Nana barked, scaring Peter’s shadow so badly that it became unattached. Peter understands that he needs the shadow in order to live his life in a childlike trance and so he begs Wendy to help him reattach it.

For most people, a shadow is simply a dark spot connected to our feet, but to Peter it was a tangible sprite that could dance, play and roust about. It’s not unusual for children like Peter to believe that  their shadows are playthings simply because their shadow follows them about at times twisting into strange inhuman shapes. Growing up means giving up that belief, something Peter did not want to do.

As adults we understand that the angle of the sun on a clear day influences the outline and presence of our shadows. Our morning shadow is different from our noon shadow which is also different from our late afternoon shadow. It we are walking north it takes on one shape, but when we reverse and go south, it changes.

Normally our shadows are representative of our body’s natural shape. The shadow consists of head, shoulders, trunk, arms and legs. Rarely does our shadow approximate our actual size, instead taking on the outline of comic-book monsters with truncated upper bodies and elongated lower. Or the reverse.

There was a time not too long ago when I didn’t like my shadow. It wasn’t its fault, for it only showed bits and pieces of my true shape. That was the problem. My head was always round like a melon, my arms thick as tree trunks, my body wide as a truck. No one likes to look that way in real life, let alone as a shadow on a sidewalk.

But that was who I was: a short, fat woman.

Today when walking with my husband I noticed my shadow for the first time in years. It had changed! The fat woman had been replaced by a trim person. Everything looked in proportion. My head, shoulders, stomach and legs belonged to an average-build human being.

When it followed me, I wasn’t embarrassed. Instead I smiled. It made me proud that my determination to lose weight was reflected in my black shadow companion.

In a way, at that moment I became like Peter Pan. My shadow had been reattached, this time taking the form of the person I wanted to be, not the one I was. Peter might have wanted to stay a boy and live the carefree life of an adventurer, but he also knew the importance of being whole. When Wendy sewed Peter’s shadow onto his shoe, Peter was complete.

When I saw my new shadow, I also became complete. My shadow and I are now friends who can spend the rest of our lives together.

What a marvelously happy ending.

 

Research Junkie

When I finally learned to read I discovered that libraries are an endless source of information. I trolled the nonfiction section looking for anything that caught my interest. The first that I explored was my Native American heritage. Because my mom didn’t know what tribe we claimed, I read every book on the shelves.

I became an “expert” on all things related to the first people. I knew what foods they ate, the clothes they wore, how they traveled, what their homes looked like, all depending upon where they lived. Little did I know that those old books contained limited knowledge recorded as fact.

What was important, however, was the development of an interest in research that would last a lifetime.

I reveled in projects assigned by teachers. Write a paper on a famous person? It might take several trips to the library before I could settle on one.

Trace Hannibal’s journeys? No problem. Research Greek architecture? The same.

When I was at college I discovered the wealth of information in the stacks. I might have a broad idea for a paper which exploded once I got to reading journal after journal. I would sit on the cold floor and pull down one compilation, then another. I’d move to another row and resume researching.

The problem was that I loved the process of discovery so much that I couldn’t stop. It became a compulsion that I still fight to this very day.

For example, I needed to find out the names of countries during medieval times. That was easy. One click and a detailed map popped up. But then I needed an island in Europe, maybe off the coast of Spain. There are islands but I didn’t recognize the names.

I typed in an old name and research appeared! How wondrous! How clever! How enchanting.

But that wasn’t getting me any further than where I currently am.

I moved on to sample names of cities. That was an endless source of information.

What about names of rivers? Mountains?

What was the weather like? How did that influence clothes worn? What kinds of shoes did people wear back then? What did they ate and drink? How did they entertain themselves?

I got stuck in this cycle of discovery that lead me from one topic to another.

When my eyes got tired, I forced myself to stop research.

But then I moved on to another project: fining a recent photo of my daughter. That meant opening folder after folder hoping to find something good enough to print. I didn’t find one, but I did discover images that were ten years old that I would never use for any purpose. They are now gone.

I sometimes wonder why I love research so much. I’ve analyze whether or not it’s a form of procrastination. Do I delve into these projects in order to avoid that which I should be doing? Or am I really engaging in productive work? It’s usually a little of both.

On the other hand I am a curious person. I love meeting new people so that I can learn what their life is like. Part of this is to weigh how my life measures up, the other is to expand my knowledge base. The more information you have stored away, the more conversant you can be.

When I catch myself researching I now force myself to pause and reflect. Do I really need that information in order to write the story I am working on? If yes, then I give myself permission to continue. If the answer is no, then I quit even though it’s painful to do so.

It’s also an addiction. It’s not harmful the way drugs and alcohol can be, but it does prevent me from engaging in those activities that are most meaningful, that bring the most joy.

As with any addiction you need a rope to hang on: something to grab ahold of while an outside force moves you away. For me it can be a phone call or going for a walk with my husband. It could be a news program or a book that I can’t put down.

When the lifeline arises, I have to tear myself away. That’s why I consider myself a research junkie. When I fall into the allure, I need help to get out of the mire otherwise I will spiral out of control.

Born to Shine

Imagine how different the world would be if every child, no matter how rich or poor, heard those words on a regular basis. Think about how special they would feel after their guardian tucked them in at night and spoke those words.

There might be no bullies because, if you feel worthy, you have no need to belittle others. No one would be afraid of trying new things, of being rejected, of being pushed aside.

What a beautiful place the world would be!

As a child I never felt special in any positive way. What if my mom had told me that I was born to shine? Would I have been a different child? Would my attitude toward school have been different? My grades better? When meeting people, would I have been more outgoing because that confidence sat on my shoulders?

I know that I never said those words to my children. I wish I had. I did, however, sign them up for classes and swim lessons and sports hoping that they would discover something that they could enjoy for the rest of their lives. I helped with schoolwork and met with some of their teachers. I volunteered at their schools, as a team mom in little league, as a scorekeeper in baseball and as a soccer coach and referee. I did these things because I wanted to share those experiences with them, but also because I enjoyed it.

Born to Shine. Powerful words. My children grew up to be wonderful adults. They all contribute to society in different ways, yes, but they are helping future generations shine.

If I could go back in time, instead of reading books aloud as I cradled my kids, I would tell them that they were born to shine. As I watched them struggle in sports or academics, I’d say those words and then watch the effect they had.

Even though I don’t recall a single word of praise or encouragement, I told myself that I was born to shine. Perhaps not in those exact words, but the message was the same. Often I thought I was lying to myself, but I persevered nonetheless. When I was feeling inferior to my siblings, I’d think of the things that I could do better than them.

For example, I was the better athlete at a time when girls played few sports. I picked up languages quite quickly and enjoyed learning about different places and cultures. I was an excellent math student, so good that I got a full-ride scholarship.

But I also struggled with self-esteem and self-confidence. What if my dad had told me I was born to shine? Those words would have meant more to me than a bucket of gold. I would have known that he saw something valuable in me. My self-esteem would have risen. I wold have liked myself better.

Born to shine. I wish that every parent would say those words to their kids, no matter how old. Over and over, look them in the eye and say born to shine. Pat them on the back, give them a hug, turn it into a song. Say the words weekly, daily, hour by hour.

Slowly, ever so slowly the world would change.

Born to shine. Power.

Reality Check

My friends know that I have always struggled with my weight. It defines me as a fat person. Many people see it as a symbol of slovenliness, laziness, and carelessness. Fat people are thought to be so stupid that they don’t understand the connection between what they ingest and how it manifests in the body.

Although weight isn’t supposed to be a factor when applying for a job, it is. I have sat on interview panels looking for teachers to fill particular positions. Despite being the most articulate, the most qualified in terms of experience and having the most confidence of all those interviewed, often they won’t get hired. Why? Because of a perception that weight will interfere with job performance.

What feels like a gazillion years ago I took a weight management class that my health care provider offered. I learned a lot about nutrition, self-talk and tricks to use to distract myself from eating. I did lose weight during the four-week class so I took it again. And again. As long as I was attending, I lost. It wasn’t huge amounts, but it made a difference. I felt in control.

A long dry spell without outside reinforcement passed before I broke down and joined Weight Watchers, now known as WW. I had stayed away because I feared being weighed in public. It’s one thing for me to look at myself in the mirror and be appalled: it’s another for a stranger to see the numbers. I’m not sure what I expected would happen, but in my mind, I imagined people gathered around the scale watching as each person was weighed. Everyone would see. Everyone would know.

That’s not the way it happens. From the first meeting I was hooked. I have been attending meetings for years. I would lose a little, and then put some back on. Lose a little, gain more. Up and down, week after week.

When my knees needed replacing I took it more seriously and lost more. Due to inactivity, it returned.

It seemed that I lacked discipline and focus. I wanted to lose because it would change my life in powerful ways. A skinnier me would be a respected colleague at work. When I spoke, peers would listen to the words, not gawk at my fat.

I would bring home the proper foods and stay on track. Except for the cookie that would turn into four and the M & Ms that fell into my palm in a cluster. There would be cake and pie at parties that I had to eat. Hamburgers and candy bars that I needed at the end of every shopping trip. Over and over I overindulged in things that I knew put on fat.

Thanks to WW I began to understand that I was not alone: millions of people are just like me. It’s like being in a club of like-minded individuals. Meetings brought us together to share our stories. We listened, knowing that the words spoken represented us.

Every week I was welcomed for who I was, not for who they thought I should be. Such acceptance from strangers was new to me.  Sometimes I was the fattest person in the room, but most of the time I wasn’t. Sometimes when I was frustrated I was silent and moody, but then someone would share an insight that opened my eyes.

Even so, my pattern of deprivation followed by indulgence continued. I’d lose a fair amount of weight, buy new clothes, then something would happen and the weight would return. I saw it as a natural process: something that occurred because of an injury or illness. That image allowed me to put the blame somewhere other than in my mind, in the things that went into my mouth.

Two years ago I needed an operation that was important enough to be done quickly. However the surgeon wouldn’t operate until I had lost at least thirty pounds. Do you know how embarrassing that is? The youngish, virile man looking at me as a slab of fat, like a roast to be trimmed. If I hadn’t been in tremendous pain, like other times when doctors told me I was overweight, I would have walked away and my pattern would have continued.

Instead I accepted his words for truth. For the first time I realized that I could no longer close my eyes and pretend that even though my clothes were huge, that it wasn’t all that bad. That was my first reality check.

I cried each time I wanted something unhealthy to eat. I walked past the package of cookies, the canister filled with candy with a sense of gloom. I couldn’t eat those things. I shouldn’t eat those things. I wouldn’t eat those things.

The pounds slowly disappeared because I embraced WW’s philosophy for the first time. I tracked what I ate. I stayed within my points for the day. I had been exercising for years, but I took things up a notch. Because I wanted that surgery, I took responsibility for myself being overweight and I lost the required amount of weight.

When I looked in the mirror in an honest fashion, I was proud of myself because of what I had accomplished. I still had more to lose in order to reach my goal weight.

Before I ignored the distance between where I was and where I should be, telling myself that I would never, ever get there. Now I told myself that I was on the way. All I had to do was keep following WW, keep attending reinforcing meetings, keep walking by temptations.

When I reached goal weight I was shocked and pleased. I also understood that because unhealthy food calls my name, that it would incredibly easy for me to put all those pounds back on. It might have taken me years, if we go back to when I took the classes, to lose eighty pounds, but if I fell back, those pounds would race back.

Two weeks ago my WW leader shared the message for the week. When tempted, we should pause and then do a reality check.

Imagine standing before a package of oatmeal cookies, your favorite. You pick up the  package salivating over the tender raisins, the oat texture. Then you pause with the package frozen in place. Conduct a reality check. Ask yourself if you’re truly hungry or if you’re just looking for something to put in your mouth.  If you’re hungry, ask yourself if there’s a better choice you could make. If not hungry, then question why you need food.

Recently I put this method to a test. I was in a grocery store and saw a package of prettily decorated miniature chocolate cakes. It called my name. I picked up the package and it was heading for my cart when it dawned on me that I should pause. I held the package, looking at the cakes. How many would I eat, I asked myself. I really only wanted one. I wanted to taste it, to see if it was as good as it looked. But then there would be eleven left. Who would eat them?

Anyone passing by probably wondered what I was doing. Imagine how peculiar I looked, standing there with a package of cakes hovering over my cart. Pretty comical, right?

The next step is the reality check. If I bought them, despite only wanting one, I would eat more. I would have at least one a day until they were gone even if they didn’t taste as wonderful as I hoped.

Did I really need them? Was it important for me to buy them? If I didn’t would I have other things to eat?

The answer to all questions was a resounding no. The package returned to the display and I walked away, telling myself if, after getting the healthy choices on my list, I still yearned for them, I could go back.

Guess what? The reality check really worked. Those cakes never entered my cart.

I have used this method several times a day since then. Every time I pass through the kitchen with the intent of grabbing something, I pause. Do the reality check. Reach for fruit or walk away.

Reality check keeps me focused on my health, my well-being, my desire to present myself in a positive image. I never again want to be the obese person that I was before. I could lose more weight, but I am pleased with who I have become. I am determined to utilize the reality check method whenever temptation arises.

Imagine if everyone utilized this method! There would be no fights, no drive-by shootings, no theft, no injuries to self or others. No hurting words would be said. No haughty smirks or cutting glances. No hurtful posts on social media. No angry emails or phone calls. The world would be a safer and happier place.

I am grateful to WW for sharing this with us. Reality check is a powerful tool that I intend to rely on as long as I have the cognitive power to do so.

How about you?