Fat Chance (31 page)

Mike and I joined a small group of VIPs who were also being given the special tour, and as each of them went around our circle and explained who they were and what they did for a living, I felt a wave of panicky heat surge through my bones.
What am I supposed to say about myself?
I thought. These people were all CEOs of this or ambassadors of that, and then there was me, Ellie Mae Clampett and her down-home husband Jethro. I looked over my shoulder at Mike and whispered with a fair amount of intensity, “Whatever you do, keep your mouth
shut
!”

Thankfully, he complied.

We walked majestic halls and retraced steps that dozens of presidents had taken. From the windows of the West Wing offices we saw the vice president’s helicopter land on the south lawn. I met several of President Bush’s staff and would even stay in touch with one woman whom I’d felt a connection with that day.

Truly, the opportunities and introductions I’ve known because of my experience on
The Biggest Loser
have been humbling and invigorating and utterly surreal. I got to meet Oprah, of course, and Larry King and Mario Lopez at dinner one night. I met actresses Vanessa Marcil and Kristen Alphonso, and consider Bob Harper and Alison Sweeney
and Jillian Michaels my friends. But while it has been amazing to speak with the “rich and famous” of the world—some of whom I’d looked up to for years and years—the people who have inspired me most since the show are the ones living everyday lives. They are fighting for their families, fighting to keep jobs in a tough economy and fighting to live by selfless, God-honoring values in a world that tells them it’s all about them. They are fighting for weight loss without the help of nutritionists, trainers and four focused months away from home, which is utterly remarkable to me.

They do what I could never seem to do—they get up early, they stay up late, they sacrifice their comfort and they lay it on the line—all for the sake of pursuing that one audacious goal.

A
s a wife and a mom of two boys, I rarely have any time alone. So when it comes to setting aside time for practices that feed my “inner me,” the task can feel pretty tough. Take prayer, for example. While it would be nice to sit down at the kitchen table with a journal and a pen in one hand and a cup of steaming-hot coffee in the other so that I could log my prayers for the day, in forty seconds flat that journal would be covered in Crayola wax, my coffee cup would be upended and my pen would be chewed up. Welcome to the world of having a one-year-old.

Somewhere along the way I established a pattern for prayer that actually works for my life, a pattern that seems to involve two parts.

On many nights I’m so wired that when I go to bed, I just can’t fall asleep. It used to frustrate me terribly, but I have come to realize that there’s an upside to bouts of insomnia, and for me it involves time for prayer. Now I simply say, “What is it you want me to know, God? What is it that I need to hear?” I lie there, perfectly still, just waiting for some semblance of insight from the One who is obviously keeping me up. And while I wait, I pray.

I pray prayers of thanksgiving—for Mike, for Noah, for Jaxon, for my other family members and for my friends. I thank God for the fact that I have a soft bed to (not) sleep in, especially in this world where so many people are found lying on cold streets or in humid huts or atop mattresses made of soil.

Prayers of thanksgiving gently rock me to sleep, and by the time the sun rises, I’m refreshed and renewed once more.

I’ve noticed that, in addition to my evening prayer ritual, there’s a morning-time habit I pursue. I may awaken refreshed and renewed, but as soon as I remember all of the to-dos I need to tackle and all the monsters I need to slay, my spirit wilts. My morning prayers go something like this: “Oh, God, give me strength.” (Or patience. Or wisdom. Or a supernatural infusion of about six extra hours in this day.)

“Help me be the person I need to be today,” I ask him. “Bring to mind the thoughts you want me to think. Show me the steps you want me to take. Remind me of the people who can inspire me to be the best ‘me’ all day long.”

Depending on the day, God brings to mind different people in my life. But there are a handful of people whose lives seem to inspire me more than any others these days. I want to introduce them to you, not only so that you will be inspired by their stories, too, but also so that you will consider—perhaps for the first time in your life—that
your
story can serve as the perfect dose of inspiration others might need in order to catalyze big changes in their lives.

M
elissa and I have been friends since junior high, and in the years since then, we’ve been through it all. Together, we got caught for drinking wine coolers when we were fifteen, we walked across the stage at our high school graduation, we saw each other get married and start families, and today we watch our kids make “together” memories of their own.

Melissa was the girl in school who was always on the most attractive list and always got good grades. Her life seemed so easy, so effortless, so free. But there came a day when the peace that she had known would be shattered and her faith would be pressured to prevail.

Four years ago Melissa was getting her two kids ready for bed, when she sensed something of a
pop
and then felt a stream of water running down her legs. She was pregnant with her husband’s and her third child, but surely her water wasn’t breaking this early; she was only twenty-three weeks along.

She looked down to see what was happening and realized that it wasn’t water at all; it was blood. She rushed to the bathroom and climbed into the tub while Chuck hurriedly ushered the children to another room. Melissa sat in a puddle of her own blood, believing that certainly her baby was dead.

When Melissa arrived at the hospital, the nurse confirmed the worst fear of all: No heartbeat could be found. Melissa lay in a hospital bed, grieving for what seemed like hours as she waited for the on-call obstetrician’s arrival.

The doctor finally arrived and explained that he needed to do an ultrasound to confirm the death of the baby. As he slowly moved the wand across Melissa’s belly, he said—to her surprise and his—“This baby has a heartbeat. Your child is still alive!”

Melissa came undone. Chuck says that in that split second all he could think about was the verse from the Bible story about the prodigal son: “This son of mine was dead and is alive again!”
²⁶

In a strange mix of relief and terror, Melissa weighed the words she’d just heard. Was the doctor’s comment good or bad news? Her son still had a heartbeat, but would he ever know a normal life, given the trauma he’d just been through?

The doctor wheeled Melissa into surgery and delivered the baby, who had spent less than six months in her womb. She was so drugged up that I wasn’t able to see her until the next morning, when she was finally coherent. I sat down beside her hospital bed and took her hand in mine as she wailed the most guttural sobs I’ve ever heard. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I looked upon the friend I’d walked home from school with and spent countless nights with and curled my hair with and worn neon clothes with. We had shared so much of life together, and yet we’d never shared anything like this. “Oh, God, please care for my friend,” I prayed. “Please hold her and remind her you’re here.…”

W
hen Ethan was born, he was so tiny that when Chuck slid his wedding band over the baby’s fragile hand, it fit all the way up to his shoulder. Ethan was so unformed and translucent that he resembled a see-through squirrel. Through his onionskin flesh, I could see veins and
organs and bone. And yet he was alive. This son of Melissa’s was dead and was alive again! Or that’s how we saw the situation anyway. Doctors had a different take on things. Rather than offering up hope, they offered dire predictions and a recommendation to end Ethan’s life support.

My friend was appalled. “I don’t want to unplug his life support! Can’t we give him a chance to live?” she pleaded. “Please keep working on him… keep doing whatever you can do.”

And indeed they did, keeping their monumental doubts at bay.

Melissa eventually was released from the hospital, but Ethan had to stay behind. I don’t know how many months passed during their separation—four, maybe?—but each and every day Melissa and Chuck sorted out child care for their two other children and made their way to Ethan’s side. Sometimes they went to the hospital early in the morning and sometimes it was late at night, but not a single day passed when they didn’t root on their little fighter, imploring him to live, to breathe, to work, to overcome. Melissa insisted on believing the best—about Ethan and about God. Not once did I hear her question God; not once did I hear her complain. She was exhausted and overwhelmed and perplexed by how life felt, but still she kept on fighting. Still she kept the faith.

On Christmas Eve that year, Ethan came home from the hospital at last. But despite the fact that he’d beaten the odds, doctors were skeptical still. “Sure, he was able to go home,” they’d say, “but he may not enjoy a normal life. He’ll likely grow up with severe limitations. You’ll have to wait and see.”

Melissa brushed their qualms aside and got busy living life.

W
hen it was time for me to return to LA for the Season 4 finale, I knew that I wanted Melissa there with me. She was the one who was responsible for my auditioning for the show in the first place, and I desperately wanted her to see the whole experience come full circle. Melissa had never struggled with her weight, but over the years she’d helped me struggle with mine. She’d been my friend through my gains, my losses and every plateau in between. “I knew that your weight bothered you,” she would tell me later, “but I never knew you were very big.”
And she didn’t, largely because Melissa saw the inside of me all those years, not just the weight.

After I’d finished my time on campus and came home to work out for four months before the finale, Melissa was my constant cheerleader. “I’m so proud of you,” she’d say, and mean it. She’d call her family and say, “You guys have to go see Julie! You won’t
believe
how she looks!” She didn’t need to work out as hard as I did, but still she’d subject herself to the rigors of Margie’s class, the same Margie to whom Melissa introduced me, because she is just that good of a friend.

Melissa had been my teacher in so many aspects of life, modeling for me how to live with steadiness and wisdom and, most of all, with faith, and something in me wanted to show her a student who could actually lead for a change.

I remember walking onstage after I broke through the paper screen at the finale and seeing Melissa and Margie in the audience, jumping wildly up and down. They resembled overly enthusiastic parents at their kid’s dance recital, oohing and aahing and weeping tears of joy. I don’t recall much of that chaotic finale moment, but I’ll keep that image of those two dear friends forever emblazoned on my mind.