God of love,
you accept me for who I am-
the stretch marks that crease my thighs
the laugh lines that let me know
middle age has arrived.
Amid cutout pink hearts and crimson roses-
money spent to prove one's worth-
remind me of my true worth.
I am your child, beloved.
When media messages confirm worth in Barbie-like figures,
and designer heels that make me trip and fall,
keep me grounded in your unending love.
You have knit me together, you know my innermost doubts.
Push me to accept myself as I have been created in your good image,
to listen to the words I use
when talking about my body around young girls, other women, and myself.
Thank you, God, for shaping me into who I am-
I am your child, beloved.
