Faded Denim: Color Me Trapped (19 page)

It’s just because of the special-needs kids,
I tell myself as I do a quick check in the mirror and grab my guitar case. Get over it. Then I see the food on the little dresser and remember that I haven’t eaten. I reach for the apple and then draw back, almost as if the apple is poisoned. Then I go for the cheese and almost touch it, but it’s like there’s another force at work here, like some other kind of power that’s controlling me.

“Come on,” I tell myself. “Just pick it up and eat it.”

But it’s like I’m standing here, fighting this crazy little battle. And it feels like I am losing, like I absolutely have no strength. Finally, I decide to just take the apple. I put it in my sweatshirt pocket, promising myself that I will eat it on the way to the mess hall, the place where we’re supposed to practice.

Just pull out the apple and take a bite as you walk
, I command myself. But I just cannot do it. Instead I tell myself that I will eat
something at lunch, and that it’s only an hour and a half away, and that it won’t hurt me a bit to wait. But even as I say this to myself, I have a strong sense that I am lying, that I’m deceiving myself, and that I’m thinking I can deceive God as well. I basically make myself sick.

Finally, I’m just outside of the mess hall, and I stop and tell myself that I cannot go in unless I eat at least three bites from that stupid apple. Just do it!

So I set down my guitar case, remove the apple, and take one tentative bite, slowly chewing until it’s turned to liquid, and then I will myself to swallow. Why is this so freaking hard? I glance through the window to see that a couple of other people are already inside, appearing to be tweaking the sound system. And, according to the big clock in there, it’s nearly eleven. I force myself to swallow.

Only two more bites, I tell myself. The second one is nearly as hard as the first, although I notice the third one’s a bit easier. And finally I am done. I have reached my goal, and I can go inside. I toss the remainder of the apple in the trash barrel by the door, then open the door. Okay, I realize that’s not much to eat, but I think it’s a start and better than nothing.

“Hey, Emily,” calls a familiar voice. And I look over to where a guy with a guitar case is just coming in the side door.

“Brett!” I say, feeling excitement for the first time since I arrived. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m on the worship team too. I just heard a few days ago that you’re joining us. Welcome!”

“Thanks. It’s cool to be here. Pastor Ray just asked me to come last week. I had to quit my job and everything.”

“It’ll be worth it. These next two weeks are going to be awesome. This is the coolest camp of the summer.”

I nod, wishing I shared his genuine enthusiasm. “I can’t wait.”

“Well then, let’s not wait,” calls a short red-headed guy from up front. “Let’s get started, guys.”

He begins by introducing himself to the rest of us. “I’m Harris Myers,” he says, “and I’m in charge of the worship team. I’m a senior in college, my major is music, and I play several different instruments, but the most important thing I can tell you is that my heart belongs to Jesus. Next?” He points to Brett.

“I’m Brett McEwen, and I’m going to be a senior in high school. I play electric and acoustic guitar and bass and drums, and I’m just learning banjo. And, oh yeah, I’m sold out to the Lord too.”

“Cool,” says Harris. “Maybe I can give you some banjo tips.” Then he turns to the heavy-set guy who’s sitting in front of the keyboard.

“I’m Nick,” says the guy in a shy voice. “I’m a friend of Harris’, and I play keyboards and drums, and I’ve only been a Christian for about a year.”

“Don’t let his humble introduction fool you,” says Harris. “Nick’s not only a really gifted musician, but he’s got a great heart and his relationship with the Lord is rock solid. Right, Nick?”

He kind of nods.

“And our worship-leader chick.” Harris smiles at me now.

“I’m Emily Foster,” I begin, wishing I’d taken time to think of something halfway cool to say, “and I play acoustic guitar. And I gave my heart to the Lord when I was about eleven.”

Harris nods. “Cool. How about if we ask God to knit our hearts and our music together in a way that totally glorifies him during the next two weeks?”

And so we do. The prayers seem really genuine and I feel my spirits lifting, and I’m thinking maybe this is exactly where I need to be during the next two weeks. Practice even goes pretty well, although I
mess up a couple of times and feel like I’m having a hard time focusing. Afterward, I apologize to the guys. “It’s probably just nerves,” I tell them. “But, don’t worry, I’ll be practicing in my free time.”

Fortunately, I do better when we play for the kids as they’re coming in for lunch. And I think we actually sound pretty good together, although I know that I have lots of room for improvement. And after everyone gets seated, which takes a lot longer than it did at the last camp, I notice that there are a lot more counselors, like almost a one-to-one ratio, but I suspect this is because these kids need lots of help just getting around. Pastor Ray comes up and welcomes everyone to camp, then asks a blessing for the lunch. Then, as the servers come with the food, Pastor Ray introduces the members of the worship team, and we play a couple more songs. At the end of each song, the reaction from the campers is pretty awesome. They clap like they really mean it.

“Time to eat,” says Harris after he’s turned off the mike. “The worship team’s table is right over there.”

So I take my time putting my guitar back into its case, telling myself that I will eat and behave like a normal person, then I go over and join the guys.

“The food here’s not half-bad for camp food,” says Brett as he passes Nick the bowl of spaghetti.

I go for the green salad, since it’s right in front of me. And while I take a fairly generous portion, I do leave room on my plate for other things.

“Dressing?” says Harris as he passes the container to me.

“Thanks.” My arm feels like lead as I pour some of the thick, white ranch dressing onto my salad. I can do this, I’m telling myself.

Soon I have salad, spaghetti, and garlic bread on my plate. And I feel certain that I’ll never be able to eat all of it, probably not even
half of it. Each bite takes an act of will, and each swallow feels like a total betrayal to my body. I imagine the pounds piling back on, obliterating all that I have worked so hard for.

“Not hungry?” asks Brett when he notices that I still have a lot of food on my plate. The three guys are nearly done.

I shrug. “I had kind of an upset stomach this morning,” I tell him. This isn’t entirely untrue, since I was practically having a heart attack.

“Nerves,” says Harris. “I used to get like that all the time before a performance. My stomach would tie itself in knots. Sometimes I even lost my lunch before I’d go on stage.”

Nick nods. “Yeah. I was the same. In fact, I still feel like that sometimes. Don’t worry, Emily. It’ll get better in time.”

“Thanks.” I pretend to nibble at the garlic bread. Having these guys excusing my light eating seems to give me permission to eat less. And when the server comes to clear our table, I don’t stop her from taking my plate.

“You’ve lost a lot of weight, haven’t you?” Brett’s looking at me with a slight frown. “I mean since June.”

“Yeah. I’ve been on a diet this summer.”

“You girls and your diets,” says Harris. “I think chicks take the whole skinny thing way too far. Give me a girl with meat on her bones over a skinny one any day.”

This makes the other guys laugh. But I’m seriously thinking about what he just said. Did he really mean that, or was he just trying to make me feel better about myself? My dilemma is that although Harris seems like a nice guy, I can’t imagine he really cares how I feel about myself. I mean, he doesn’t even know me. So maybe he is telling the truth.

“Time for more music,” says Harris. We follow him back to where
our stuff is set up, pick up our instruments, and begin to play. I feel myself relaxing, and I can tell I’m playing better. But when I look out at the kids who are just finishing their lunches, I notice how one girl has no arms and her counselor is helping her to eat, even wiping a piece of spaghetti from her chin. And there’s a boy whose body is so twisted that his head is nearly in his lap, but I can see him smiling as he listens to our music. It makes me want to cry.

We play for about ten minutes. Once again, when we stop, the kids clap and cheer. Some even yell out for more.

“There’s lots more,” Harris assures them. “We’re going to be playing at all the meals and at campfire, and by the time these two weeks are over, you’ll be sick of us!”

This makes them laugh, and some protest that they won’t be sick of us. And then, feeling a little like rock stars, we exit out the back.

“Good job, guys,” says Harris when we’re outside. “But let’s plan another practice for, say, three o’clock. My plan is to practice several times during the first few days, just so we get comfortable with each other and make sure we know the songs and arrangements and stuff. After that, we’ll just see how it goes. I realize you guys aren’t getting paid much more than slave wages for this, and I don’t want to work you to the bone.”

“Sounds great to me,” says Brett. “I plan to be helping out a little at the lake in my spare time.”

“Cool,” says Harris. “I said I’d be on hand at the pool.”

“I’m gonna hang out at the craft shop,” says Nick.

Then they all look at me. I kind of shrug. “I’m not sure what I’ll be doing.”

“You mean Pastor Ray didn’t rope you into helping yet?” asks Brett.

I shake my head. “I’m kinda the latecomer, remember.”

“Well, watch out,” he warns with a smile. “He’ll be coming after you.”

“Just don’t let him talk you into archery,” says Harris. “I heard a counselor actually took an arrow to the behind at special camp last year.”

“Thanks for the advice.”

“And if Pastor Ray doesn’t hit you up for help,” says Brett, “you can always come down to the lake and give me a hand.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I tell him. Then, not really knowing what to do with myself, or even what I want to do, I head for my room. As I walk past the girls’ restroom, I have to fight this really strong urge to go in there and gag myself. Everything in me wants to get rid of what little lunch I forced myself to consume. And then I want to go outside and exercise. I want to walk until I’m sweating and hot and exhausted. Or maybe I could swim laps. Or hike up to the waterfall. Anything to burn fat.

“No,” I say out loud as I close the door to my room. “That’s not going to happen this time.” But then I just stand there in total frustration. I feel like screaming and crying and breaking things. It’s like I’m being torn, like I’m trapped in one of those old torture chambers where they put someone on the rack and pull in opposite directions until the person is dismembered. How could I let go of everything I’ve worked so hard for during these past few months? How could I let myself get fat again? Maybe I
would
rather be dead. This is too hard.

Then I go and look in the mirror. It’s only big enough to show my reflection from the waist up, and I’m certain that I’ll see a bulge in what has otherwise become a fairly flat stomach as a result of all the sit-ups I do, both in the morning and at night. I pull up my shirt and examine my midsection from every possible angle and don’t
think I see too much change—not yet anyway. Although I do see that I’m still overweight and that I could still afford to take off a few pounds. Like maybe ten.

And then I remember what Ronda said about how it’s never enough, no matter how much weight you lose, it’s never enough. How could you be nothing but skin and bones and still believe that you’re too fat? And to be honest, I do remember girls like that in Chicago, back when Leah and I went to modeling school. I also remember thinking I’d never be like that. I felt certain that I’d never fall into those traps. And yet here I am, a prisoner. What is the difference between them and me?

Feeling desperate and scared and hopeless, and almost certain that I’ll never be able to escape my self-made trap and that I’m in over my head, I pull out my cell phone and speed-dial Leah’s number, praying that she’ll pick up.

“Hey, Emily,” she says in a calm voice. “I was just thinking about you. How’s it going?”

“I need to talk.” I feel like it’s hard to breathe, like I just got done running. “Are you busy right now?”

“Nope. Go ahead.”

So I pour it all out. I tell her how I thought I was actually dying last night, how I promised God that I’d start eating right again, and how I really meant it when I said it, but how it all feels totally impossible to me now.

“I mean, I really do want to get healthy again.” I sigh loudly. “But I just don’t know if I can actually do it, you know? It’s like I feel trapped. Like I’ve started this thing and I don’t know how to stop it.”

“This is exactly like what I was reading in the Bible just this morning!”

“Huh?”

“Here, let me read it to you. Do you mind?”

“I guess not.”

“Okay. I want you to sit down and just listen to this. I’m reading from
The Message
, the same as your Bible—you took your Bible with you, right?”

“Yeah. It’s here somewhere.”

“Okay, this is from Ephesians, chapter six, verses eleven to thirteen. Here goes: ‘So take everything the Master has set out for you, well-made weapons of the best materials. And put them to use so you will be able to stand up to everything the Devil throws your way. This is no afternoon athletic contest that we’ll walk away from and forget about in a couple of hours. This is for keeps, a life-or-death fight to the finish against the Devil and all his angels. Be prepared. You’re up against far more than you can handle on your own. Take all the help you can get, every weapon God has issued, so that when it’s all over but the shouting you’ll still be on your feet.’ Isn’t that totally awesome, Emily?”

“Yeah, I guess. I mean, I’ve heard it before . . .”

“Listen to this part again, okay? ‘This is for keeps, a life-or-death fight to the finish against the Devil and all his angels.’ That’s like what you’re up against, Em. You’re in this battle. Can’t you feel it?”