There is something almost ridiculous about having an oversized cast iron tub outside, and I mean that in the best possible way. It is heavy, impractical, a little odd, and absolutely one of the coolest things ever created. To me, it feels old-fashioned and wild all at once. A bath outside, surrounded by trees, with the field stretching beyond the fence and the sky wide open above me, has become one of the quietest little luxuries of my life.
There is something deeply peaceful about it. Not in a strange or inappropriate way, but in the most honest, human way. Soaking outside under the open sky makes me feel less boxed in, less scrutinized, less trapped under harsh indoor light where every flaw seems to announce itself. Outside, a body can simply exist. It does not have to pose. It does not have to explain. It does not have to be young, smooth, thin, scarless, perfect, or acceptable by anybody’s impossible standard. It can just be there, part of creation, beneath the same sky as the trees and field and sunset.
That evening, I was soaking in the tub while the sunset stretched over our yard. The sky had gone warm and golden, with that soft evening glow that makes the whole world look gentler for a few minutes. The trees stood dark against the light, the field looked peaceful, and the air had that settled feeling that comes right before night takes over. It was one of those moments where everything in me seemed to get quiet without having to be forced.
I looked at the sky and thought about how beautiful it was. How generous God is with beauty. He did not have to make sunsets the way He did. He could have made the world plain and functional, and He still would have been worthy of worship. But instead, He gave us color and light and clouds that catch fire at the edge of the day. He gave us beauty that serves no obvious purpose except to make us stop and marvel.
Then, somewhere in the middle of all that peace, I looked down at myself. At my own body. The same body I have criticized, picked apart, compared, hidden, resented, and spoken to in ways I would never speak to another person. The body that has changed with age. The body that has carried weight differently than I wanted it to. The body with scars. The body that has survived hard things. The body that does not always look like the version of myself I still carry around in my mind.
And the thought hit me hard: how strange is it that I can look at God’s creation in a sunset with absolute awe, then turn around and look at my own body with disgust, as if God did not create them both?
That realization was comforting, but it was also convicting. Because I do this all the time. I will look at mountains, rivers, flowers, storms, sunrises, sunsets, and old trees with reverence. I will take pictures of them and talk about God’s handiwork. I will notice the way light touches the edge of a leaf or the way clouds move across water, and I will see beauty without needing it to be flawless. But then I look at myself and act as if God’s creativity stopped at my skin.
Psalm 139:13–14 says, “For thou hast possessed my reins: thou hast covered me in my mother’s womb. I will praise thee; for I am fearfully and wonderfully made: marvellous are thy works; and that my soul knoweth right well.”
Most of us have heard that verse before. It gets printed on nursery decor, baby gifts, and sweet little encouragement cards, and it belongs there. But I wonder how often we stop applying it once the body grows older, softer, scarred, tired, stretched, wounded, or changed by life. It is easy to call a baby fearfully and wonderfully made. It is much harder to say that to the mirror after years of living in a fallen world.
But the verse does not say, “I was wonderfully made until I aged.” It does not say, “I was wonderfully made before the scars.” It does not say, “I was wonderfully made when I was smaller, stronger, younger, healthier, or easier to dress.” It says, “I am fearfully and wonderfully made.” And if God’s works are marvelous, then I need to be careful about insulting one of them every time I pass my reflection.
That is the blunt part, and I need it as much as anyone: we need to stop insulting what God made. That does not mean we worship our bodies. It does not mean vanity becomes virtue, and it does not mean we never work toward healing, health, strength, or better care. Stewardship matters. Our bodies matter enough to be cared for. But care and contempt are not the same thing.
There is a difference between wanting to treat your body well and speaking to it like it is a disgrace. There is a difference between noticing changes and hating yourself for having them. There is a difference between wanting to be healthier and believing you are not worthy of peace until you become easier to look at. Shame may feel motivating for a moment, but it is a cruel teacher, and it almost always leaves us more wounded than whole.
Genesis 1:31 says, “And God saw every thing that he had made, and, behold, it was very good.” Every thing. Not just the parts of creation I find easy to admire. Not just the sunsets, flowers, rivers, fields, and skies. God looked at what He made and called it very good.
Of course, we live in a fallen world. Bodies age. Bodies ache. Bodies change. Bodies carry grief, trauma, illness, stress, pregnancy, addiction, recovery, survival, and time. I am not pretending that every part of living in a body feels lovely. Some days, bodies are hard. Some days, mirrors are hard. Some days, scars carry stories we did not ask for, and changes feel like losses we are still learning to accept. But even with all of that, the human body is not trash. It is not shameful because it has changed. It is not disgusting because it has lived.
My husband has tried to tell me this in his own way for years. He has tried to build up my self-image. He has called me beautiful through different seasons and different versions of myself. He has seen me at my best and my worst, and still somehow looks at me with tenderness when I am busy tearing myself apart in my own head. He calls me “my love,” and I have heard those words from him so many times.
And yet, for some reason, I have often failed to really hear him. Compliments would bounce off me. Affection would meet the wall of my own criticism. He would say something kind, and my mind would immediately argue with him, as if my insecurity had better evidence than his love. But that evening, sitting in the tub under a sky God had painted, something clicked in a way it had not before.
Song of Solomon 4:7 says, “Thou art all fair, my love; there is no spot in thee.”
It is intimate and poetic, and I know Song of Solomon carries layers of meaning people have discussed for ages. But sitting there, I could not help thinking about the tenderness of being called “my love” and being seen as beautiful by someone who loves you. Not because you have no scars. Not because life has not marked you. Not because you meet every standard the world made up. But because love sees differently than criticism does.
My husband’s words have been a gift, but even his love cannot do the work I have to allow God to do in me. Someone can tell you that you are loved and still not be able to force you to receive it. Someone can call you beautiful and still not be able to silence the voice in your own mind that keeps listing reasons they must be wrong. I think that evening, God used the sunset, the quiet, the water, and the stillness to let me finally hear what had been said to me so many times before.
If I can praise God for the sky, I can stop cursing Him over the body He made.
Maybe we do not think of it that way. Maybe we think we are just being honest. Maybe we think harshness toward ourselves is humility, or that body hatred is normal because almost everyone does it. But when we constantly look at what God formed and call it disgusting, useless, ugly, ruined, or unworthy, we are not being more spiritual. We are being cruel to one of His creations.
I say that carefully, because I know body image is complicated. I know trauma can change how safe a person feels in their own skin. I know aging can feel strange. I know weight changes can mess with your mind. I know scars can carry pain. I know some bodies hurt every single day. I know a person can know the truth of Scripture and still struggle to feel at peace inside the body they live in.
I am not writing this as someone who has conquered all of that. I am writing it as someone who had a moment where God let me see the contradiction. I was surrounded by beauty, sitting inside beauty, held by beauty, and still tempted to treat myself like the one part of creation He somehow got wrong.
But He did not get it wrong.
This body has carried me through every day I have survived. It has taken me down backroads, through creeks, across trails, into rivers, and into places where I found God waiting in the quiet. It has held cameras, hugged my children, held my husband’s hand, planted seeds, wiped tears, folded laundry, carried groceries, driven long miles, knelt in prayer, and gotten back up more times than I can count. It has changed because it has lived. That should not make it less worthy of kindness.
Maybe you need that reminder too. Maybe you have looked at your body with disgust for so long that disgust feels like truth. Maybe you have believed the cruel voice because it is familiar. Maybe you have thought you had to hate yourself into discipline, hate yourself into health, or hate yourself into being acceptable. But shame is a terrible shepherd. It may push for a while, but it does not heal.
God’s kindness leads us differently. He tells the truth, yes. He calls us to stewardship, yes. He cares what we do with our bodies, yes. But I do not believe He looks at the body He formed with the disgust we so often carry toward ourselves.
So maybe, the next time we stand under a sunset and praise God for the sky, we should remember to include the body standing beneath it. The scarred body. The aging body. The soft body. The strong body. The tired body. The recovering body. The body that has changed. The body that has survived. The body we keep trying to exclude from “marvellous are thy works.”
Very good still counts.
Not because we feel beautiful every day. Not because every insecurity disappears in one holy bathtub moment. Not because our bodies finally meet the world’s standards. But because God made us, Christ loves us, and we do not have to despise what He created in order to be humble.
That evening, the sunset glowed over our field, and I sat there in the warm water feeling both comforted and corrected. I had been so willing to admire God’s handiwork everywhere but in myself. I am learning to stop doing that, slowly and imperfectly, with help, with reminders, with a husband who still calls me “my love,” with Scripture that tells me I am fearfully and wonderfully made, and with sunsets that preach without saying a word.
The God who painted the sky also formed the body sitting beneath it.
And very good still counts.
