My plan was simple. Just fly under the radar for a few weeks. No one needed to know.
Except I’ve written this book on living a life rooted in love with God, yourself, and others. And a rooted life is a connected life. And this connection requires vulnerability. Which, by the way, I do not love. But there it is. I need to live my life in the light, out in the open. Which, as it turns out, is sometimes very hard to do.
I was having minor surgery, if there is such a thing. Eyelid surgery. And the surgery would be obvious to anyone who saw me for the next two weeks or so. I would look like I’d been in a bar fight. And who would want to see that?
Age and gravity were doing their work. My eyelids were drooping, and not just a little. This sagging skin was beginning to block my vision. And this condition, it turns out, is diagnoseable. I needed a bilateral ptosis repair. Sounds very medical right? Very official. And, as it turns out, it’s covered, at least in part, by insurance. All good news.
Oh, and the surgeon could add a little eyebrow lift while we were at it. Not only would I be able to see better; I’d look a little younger, too. Assuming she didn’t pull everything a little too tight, which would create another problem all together.
I had a compelling, medically diagnoseable reason for an anti-aging lift. And, honestly, I was pretty happy about that. And also embarrassed. Not about needing the surgery. I was embarrassed about what people might think about me having the surgery. People might think it was purely cosmetic, this eye lift. And they would think I was vain. Because—wait for it—Christian women don’t get cosmetic surgery. We age gracefully, embracing the grey and wrinkles. Seriously? I color my hair religiously every six weeks. But this. This felt different.
Mind you, I had no idea I believed this, that I had these ideas about “good Christian women” and aging. But there it is. I don’t want people to think I’m vain. Because as a Christian woman, who also happens to lead a ministry, I want to be seen as humble. And it turns out, thinking this much about what others think about me, this is the opposite of humble.
Post-surgery, as I lay with snack-size baggies of frozen peas over both eyes, I felt the disconnection, aka shame. As much as I’d like to say that what people think of me doesn’t matter, turns out it does. More than I’d like to think. Because my fragile ego still takes up a lot of real estate in this life.
Crazy, the things we believe about ourselves, about others, about who we’re supposed to be. And Holy Spirit comes to remind. You, me, we are fully loved. Fully held. And I can show up in life fully me. Saggy eyelids. Bruised eyelids. Ever-so-slightly lifted eyelids. This place of showing up as is, this is the place of grace. The place we begin to live more rooted in love for God and for ourselves. Less tangled up in judgment. More tangled up in the love of God.
So here it is. My little eye surgery out in the light, for all to see. Because shame shrinks in the light. And grace wins.
Oh, and by the way, if you ever have this surgery for whatever reason, fill your baggies with frozen corn. The frozen peas will roll right off your face. You’re welcome.