I was a skinny kid. How skinny, you ask? So skinny I had only one vertical stripe on my pajamas. I was the only kid on our block who could stand under power lines during rain storms and stay dry. And my thinness did not go unnoticed by the other children. “Skinny skinny two by four, slide him under the kitchen door,” bullies would chant. I didn’t think it was that funny and once my big brother arrived, I told them so. I also told them things about their ancestry. Things they didn’t know.
When I was nine I discovered hidden within an Archie comic book a sight for my sore eyes. It was a Charles Atlas full-page advertisement destined to change my life forever. In case you are younger than I, perhaps I should explain that Charles Atlas was the Arnold Schwarzenegger of his day. Physical Culture magazine called him the, “World’s most perfectly developed man.” Charlie was a handsome, broad-shouldered, thick-chested, slim-waisted man who wore only leopard-skin trunks. What made the ad so catchy was that Charles Atlas was once like me—a 97-pound weakling. That was, until he found The Secret Formula. “Give me 15 minutes a day, and I’ll give you a new body,” boasted Charles in the ad. And I was sold.
By eighth grade I had saved enough money to order Charlie’s Secret Formula. It was a good thing. That year, our class executive decided to celebrate the ending of the school year with a swimming party. I was horrified. How would I cover my legs, arms and chest with a one-piece swimming suit? I had tried before. It didn’t work. In fact, I couldn’t even keep a Speedo in its rightful spot—without suspenders.
The very week of their announcement, The Secret Formula arrived.
I eagerly tore open the package. Time is short, I thought, this had better be instant. Inside were drawings of an extremely muscular man doing exercises. That was it. No drink. No clever little formula. Just a workout list accompanied by illustrations of some guy who had muscles in places I didn’t even have places.
During the next few months those instructions were followed religiously: I did push-ups with my feet on a chair. I did sit-ups with my legs in the air. I did chin-ups, leg-lifts, wrist-rolls, knee-jerks. You name ‘em, I did ‘em. A thousand times over. The night before school was dismissed, the class executive—in its infinite wisdom—cancelled the swimming party.
Throughout my high school years, however, I continued the program. I was determined that if ever they announced another swimming party, I could recline unashamedly on a beach towel. You know what? The formula didn’t work. Oh, I suppose I learned a few things about discipline, but I must tell you, I’m almost as skinny today as the day I opened that package. In fact, I still can’t force the scales past 165 without carry-on luggage.
The funny thing is, I really don’t mind. The turning point came the day I discovered that Charles Atlas didn’t have The Secret Formula after all. An ancient king by the name of David did. I was reading the book of Psalms when his words hit me: “For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well. My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place. When I was woven together in the depths of the earth, your eyes saw my unformed body. All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be,” (Psalm 139:13-16).
I read it again. And again. Then I memorized it. And today when I gaze into a full-length mirror, I remember those verses and I smile from ear to ear. Not because I’m able to chase anyone from the beach. Or because I’m overwhelmed by my attractiveness. But because the One who spoke the stars into space called my name. Because the One who crafted the mountains and hollowed out the ocean depths left His fingerprints all over me. Because God Himself would rather die than live without me.
Tonight, I think we’ll celebrate. I think we’ll pile the kids into the car and go out for ice cream. And then we’ll go swimming. I’ll try to remember to throw in some suspenders.
