There’s a joke in my house whenever I go to the grocery store and don’t come home with anything sweet, salty, and delicious: Skinny Christine has done the grocery shopping.
And nobody likes her.
It’s usually a trip that was preceded by copious consumption of healthy-living podcasts combined with similarly-outsized quantities of junk food.
The lethargy and guilt brought on by overindulgence of information and food are only assuaged by planning that trip to the store.
Skinny Christine goes to the store and only “shops the perimeter,” determined to spend the week peeling vegetables, cutting up salads, and whipping up fruit and plain-yogurt smoothies instead of sugary cereal for the kids every morning.
Skinny Christine buoyantly bursts through the door with bags full of good intentions that will eventually rot in the vegetable crisper, accompanied by a chorus of groans from disappointed children (don’t worry kids, Fat Mama is the one who makes the mid-week run).
Why do I bother with this pattern, other than the deep-seated psychological issues that I’ll kindly ask you to refrain from commenting on?
For the same reason that I go to Confession nearly every week – because I know there’s still hope.
Some would say this hope is false or that itself causes mental anguish when it comes to my diet, but it actually comes from the same optimism that carries me through spiritual discouragement.
I don’t think this particular struggle is by accident, either.
In Dante’s “Inferno,” the inscription on the gates of Hell read, “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”
The reader is to understand that Hell is not just eternal, but is hopelessly eternal for the ones who chose it.
While we have the ability and great propensity to sin while still living out our earthly life, we also have the gift of repentance that is required before we can receive the greatest of all gifts.
Even the angels don’t have hope of salvation, reconciliation, and reform the way we do – their decision was instantly cast in eternity.
Each fall provides me with a chance to get back up again. Each sin can be the source of unending heavenly joy when reverently confessed and divinely forgiven. And each new day is a new opportunity to become the saint that God wills me — wills us all — to be.
I exit the confessional with the same promise of second chances and renewed resolve that I feel when I bring home grocery bags full of raw nuts, pre-chopped kale, and $7 Primal Kitchen salad dressings.
As long as I’m still able, I can start each new day or week with the hope that this will be the time things change because I haven’t given up — even in the face of past repeats of the same failures.
Maybe some would say I’ve been telling myself a lie for 40 years by remaining hopeful that I can change, but it only takes one time to make it so.
Even if I can’t stop sinning or I polish off a plate of brownies again, I’ve moved toward something better than what I was before.
Each time I choose to persevere in the face of great odds, I’ve reaped the benefits of those changes I made even if only temporarily.
If Skinny Christine never does the grocery shopping full time, or if I never become a saint (but please God, I’ll take purgatory), the journey has always taught me something and continues to shape me — sometimes imperceptibly — into the person God wants me to be.
And that’s all anyone can hope for this side of heaven.