Magazine Inside Issue 25

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Feature 12 Shana M. Buck, SFO You Are Beautiful, My Beloved A Mothers Reflection on True Beauty T his is a love story. Actually, its a sob story that led to a love
story. That early-summer day began like any other. It was a cool morning, bright
and lovely, when I served up a round
of breakfasts, cleaned up spilled milk
and chipped semi-dried cereal off of
the hard-to-reach chair in the corner.
Next I cleaned up five pairs of hands
and nursed the baby. Then, as soon as
she was down for her nap, I checked
on the kids they were in their rooms,
playing together and ran as fast as I
could for the shower. As the wonderful, warm spray of water played over my face, I heard a
little wail. My little one had decided that
she didnt really need a nap, and wanted Mommy. Knowing it wasnt safe for
an older sibling to wrestle her out of
her crib (and that one would try it), I
quickly shut off the water, wrapped
myself in a towel, and dashed up the
stairs to get her. And thats when it happened. The moment of my discontent: As I reached
down to pick up the baby, the towel
draping my body fell to the floor, and I
caught sight of myself in the-full length
mirror on the closet door. An Unsightly Awakening I know when one has children, ones body changes. In my case, six
large babies had changed my lithe bridal
form in ways my head understood, but my eyes had avoided noticing for years. Call it denial. Call it voluntary blind- ness. I did not recognize myself, hav-
ing for so long successfully avoided
looking into a mirror that would show
any part of me from the neck down. And now, I was facing it or rather, looking back upon it. Turning to
catch the towel, I gazed with sadness
on the rest of me. Sagging, bagging and
stretch marks that traversed my body
like a city road map... I sighed, recall-
ing that I had once been a size eight.
Thus began the Terrible Day! Returning to my room to dress, I set the little one down on my bed and
looked at my face intently in the mir-
ror. Those little lines . . . when did I get
those? And those silver-grey strands
falling around my face. That flab on
the upper arms was an unwelcome
sight. And the Italian nose, thoughtfully
passed down from my great-grandfa-
ther, to his daughter to my mother to
me doesnt it look longer than ever?
Finally, my hair (which I hadnt cut or
permed in ages) straggled around my
shoulders, making my neck look like a
giraffes. The tears began. The sighs. The sorrowful, self-pitying prayers of a
woman who was looking into the face
of middle age, and finding it difficult to
adjust. Lord, will You look at this? Its
terrible! How can my husband possibly
be interested in me?! And so it went. Feature 13 The Truth Emerges My children spent the better part of the day outside, avoiding me and my
sullen snapping. I continued to pout and
sulk, unhappily doing my chores and
wishing I could go back to bed. Not
even the squeals of the baby could en-
tice a lighter heart once I sunk into the
Deep Blue Funk. When my husband, Bill, walked in the door, he noticed it right away. A cold
cheek turned away from his kiss, my
eyes full of sadness and self-loathing. Whats wrong? he asked.
Nothing, I replied tonelessly.
He knew better. Is it me?
No . . . its me. The truth, at least.
He struggled to say something else, and gave up. After all, I had just
said it was nothing. Why stir up
trouble over nothing? After a semi-silent dinner, Bill tact- fully said, Shana, why dont you go sit
with the Lord for a little while, and talk
to Him? Yeah, sure, thought I. You just want to get rid of me, ugly me! Yet in
my heart, I really did want to stop the
sulking mood, leave the state of chaos
into which I was wallowing. Off I went. Alternately sitting and kneeling in the chapel, I sadly looked at the Taber-
nacle. In my heart (and aloud, once I
realized I was alone with the Lord) I
poured out my misery. I went over ev-
ery complaint, every sadness, every
flaw in my body, going over again and again my sagging stomach (Oh Lord,
I even have stretch marks in my NA-
VEL, for Petes sake!), larger thighs,
wider feet, greying hair, eye creases.
Pure drama, played for a captive audi-
ence in the Tabernacle. After another rant, and a shorter repeat of the same, I sighed again, genu-
flected before the poor Divine Prisoner,
and moved to the door to leave. A little
tickle in the back of my head enticed
me to pick up the Bible sitting open on
a little table near the door. As I bent to pick it up, I dropped it, closing it. Thinking I would find one of
those Psalms of Misery to further ex-
press to God my sad situation, I opened
the Bible near the center. Glancing
down, words from the Song of Songs
leaped off the page at me: Ah, you are beautiful, my Be-
loved! Ah, you are beautiful!
Your eyes are doves...
Your teeth like a flock of
ewes... which come up from
the washing...
Your lips like a scarlet strand;
your mouth is lovely,
Your cheek like a half pome-
granate...
Your breasts like twin fawns,
the young of a gazelle brows-
ing on lilies...
How beautiful is your love, my
sister! (4:1-5, 10, NAB). How beautiful are your feet
in sandals...
Your rounded thighs like jew-
els, the handiwork of an art-
ist...
Your navel a rounded bowl
that should never lack for
mixed wine...
Your body a heap of wheat,
encircled with flowers...
Your neck a tower of ivory...
Your eyes like the pools in
Heshbon...
Your nose like the tower on Lebanon that looks towards
Damascus...
Your head rises like (Mount)
Carmel...
Your hair like draperies of
purple;
A king is held captive in their
tresses.
How beautiful you are, how
pleasing, my love, my de-
light! (7:2-7, NAB). In amazement, as I read the beau- tiful words of the Song of Solomon, I
began to laugh and cry. This was a love
song for me! Every detail of my com-
plaint was here, addressed in sumptu-
ous poetry. Set Me as a seal on your
heart! ... Deep waters can-
not quench love, nor floods
sweep it away (8:6-7, NAB). What sorrow had I then sorrow that I had wasted a precious day wal-
lowing in my own pathetic self-pity! I
had afflicted my little ones with it, and
pushed my husband away because of it. Ashamed and determined to begin again, I returned to the little kneeler,
asking the Lord to forgive me for my
bleak mood. I asked Him to help me
remember these words when it hap-
pened again (as I knew it might), and
pleaded with Him to enter into my im-
poverished heart and fill it with His love.
After a time, when peace had returned
to my grateful heart and love to my soul,
I kissed the ground before the Taber-
nacle and rose to go home to greet my
husband properly. So now in his eyes, I have become one to be welcomed. Shana and Bill Buck home school
their eight children. She is a Secular
Franciscan, and lives in West Virginia. Lord, will you look at this? Its terrible! How can my husband possibly be interested in me, looking like this?!

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