Reflecting Glory in our Postpartum Bodies
My two-year-old's eyes lit up as we flipped through the pages of my wedding album. "Who's that?" she'd ask. “Who’s that?” She inquired over and over again about the people spread across the photos, and I smiled while sharing the names of those she'd yet to meet in her little life.
I entertained her endless strain of curiosity. I watched her face when the bride appeared, unprepared for the words that came next: "Who's that?"
Startled, I asked her, “Who is that?” She paused and considered. She took a deep breath and excitedly shouted the name of my younger sister, and I looked with awe. That girl in the picture did look like my sister—my blonde, fit, yet-to-have-babies sister. Something bristled inside me as I gazed on myself from seven years ago. I readjusted my posture and said with a bashful laugh, “That’s Mommy!”
It’s no secret that our bodies are never the same once we become a mom. We’ve hosted another human inside of us before their entrance into the world. We’ve nestled babies in perfect positions that demand our muscles reform and reshape right then and there to keep them in that blessed sleep. We’ve toted toddlers on hips fashioned for their desire to be our constant sidekicks. We’ve done more squats than we ever wanted to because why can’t their tiny little hands hold onto anything for more than five seconds?
We look at the facts, even at the children who once were small enough to dwell within us, but neither of these negates our longing for our bodies to look like they did on our wedding day. We get lost in the story this world begs us to believe is true:
When you can wear certain clothes, you will have freedom. When your body is fit and firm or cute and curvy, you will secure the affections of your spouse. When you lose a few pounds, you will no longer envy the mom in better shape. When you can get to the gym, you will have peace. When you look a certain way, you will find rest.
The narrative of this world haunts us, and we bow to its empty promises. We spend our time, money, and energy laboring to this end. We visit endless websites for clothes and meal plans and workouts. Our minds grow consumed with where we belong in the world’s story. We either fancy ourselves a character worthy of the glory that could be attained through physical perfection or we hide in the background, ashamed if our imperfections fall under the spotlight.
Scripture humbles our self-focused story by sharing a different narrative about finite and fleeting bodies:
"All flesh is grass, and all its beauty is like the flower of the field. The grass withers, the flower fades when the breath of the LORD blows on it; surely the people are grass" (Isaiah 40:6b-7).
Ouch, right? If we thought there was any chance we’d grasp a glorified body here on earth, the prophet tramples it down—we are withering grass, our beauty a fading flower. But the pain inflicted by this truth is deeper than that of sore muscles. It humbles us to the core. The fading beauty of our bodies safeguards us from exalting them to a place they were never meant to be. Keeping us from fooling ourselves that we could, even for a minute, steal the glory that is God’s alone.
The story we were created to live in is about Another's glory, a glory we so desperately desire when we get caught up in the empty promises this world offers for our body image. While we were busy exalting ourselves, our God veiled his glory in the frailty of flesh. He humbled himself, taking on a human body, to deliver us from our vain seeking and show us the better way of pointing to and reflecting a glory bigger than ourselves.
Our Savior came in stark contrast to the narrative of the world:
"He had no form or majesty that we should look at him,
and no beauty that we should desire him" (Isaiah 53:2b).
The Messiah gave up majesty and beauty and traded them for a vessel that would be used by God to accomplish his purposes and point to his astounding glory. And while he embodied such a disposition, he manifested the most attractive qualities the human eye has ever seen—humility and fear of the LORD. We’re left with wide eyes and dropped jaws, breathless when we truly gaze upon Christ.
This is where our eyes and our minds and our hearts belong—on Christ. On him who delivers us from the fleeting sense of glory we feel when we get a passing glance or a flattering comment, when we drop a few pounds or buy a new outfit. Who frees us from the slavery of the mirror’s demands and the envy of bodies that are withering away. Who transforms our finite quest for beauty into an everlasting agenda to see the glory of God put on beautiful display in our flowerlike lives.
The Messiah opens our blind eyes and gives us a vision for what is truly captivating. Our tired arms, aching backs, and postpartum bodies inhabit the very Spirit of God who promises to renew us inwardly when we fix our eyes on the unseen.[1] When our eyes are on Christ, our bodies are both stewarded and given away in service to his will. We wisely pursue health and sustainable practices to invest our lives in his kingdom purposes. When his beauty captivates our admiration, joy will fill our hearts and beautify our very beings.
I was blind to gaze upon that 23-year-old in a white dress, merely seeing a pretty girl when an earthly picture of the gospel—the union of Christ and his Church—was there to behold. If we merely fixate on the external with an end found in this world, we miss the beauty God intended for it. And when we live with an eye on what is fleeting rather than seeing how it reflects the beauty of the Creator, we fail to ascribe glory where glory is due.
Let us repent from our grasping of glory not ours and beg for opened eyes to the glory our Maker allows us to reflect. And let’s take our proper position of humility that we may witness what is eternal and watch in wonder as He transforms even us from one degree of glory to another.[2]
[1] 2 Corinthians 4:16
[2] 2 Corinthians 3:18
