Being Big

 I can't really recall a time when I wasn't big.  When I wasn't overweight.  The nicknames from my childhood into adulthood also reflected that.  I was "that big kid" when I was younger, which then became "big guy."  A name which I still despise to this day.  Why?  Because it takes away from who I really am.  As I see it, my identity is not tied into my health issues.  I have a name...so refer to me as such.  I can't recall referring to people I've met by their weaknesses and not by their names.  However, I can start, watch me.  All frustration aside, I recognized some time ago, with the help of a friend, that my identity does not lie in my appearance, but in Christ Jesus who lives in me.  More on that later.  When I say that I cannot recall ever living my life as a normal sized person I mean it.  I used to think that perhaps it was something with my genes, but I eventually discounted that.  My own dad, Mark Wakefield, was a mountain of a man with a attitude and temper to match.  I can't blame him, he grew up in a house with four brothers, a sister and a father who would constantly put his kids down.  It seems that nothing was ever good enough for grandpa Wakefield.  The funny thing is, my memories of my grandparents on my dads side are somewhat positive.  I can remember my grandpa sitting with me at the kitchen table and telling me stories of the sawmill which he owned and his sons operated.  Back then, lumber was a big business in northern Minnesota.  Not as big as iron ore, but it was big.  Grandma was the typical doting wife.  Her place in the house was more of a servant than anything.  Yet, I don't recall there ever being any tension between them.