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  While Bill made his way to shore, the rest of us hung out on the platform, laughing ourselves silly over the fact that former-football-player Phil could not stay balanced on his red-team’s raft. He’d pull himself up to a standing position and get four feet across the water before overturning himself into the ocean. A ten-foot-high splash would drench his teammates before he’d sputter and splash his way back to his raft.

  After Bill got to shore it was my turn to go. I steadied myself on the too-small raft, crouched down as I coiled the rope around my wrist, and held on for all I was worth. Fortunately, smooth-as-silk Bill coasted me all the way in to shore, where I high-fived him and geared up for Jim.

  Bill and I would pull Jim atop the water just as smoothly, and then the three of us would work to bring Jez across. Jez was our fourth and final player to get to shore, and as he stood up on the platform and readied himself for his ride, he noticed that the red and blue teams hadn’t pulled even one person in. It was a slaughtering, I tell you. A slaughtering!

  Jez stood up proudly on his raft, his big butt high in the sky, and coasted toward his three teammates, who were cheering hysterically from the beach. It wouldn’t be until later that we’d hear how Jez had mooned the other two teams his entire trip to shore. Ah, victory is sweet.

  Later, during that long and lovely beachfront massage, I considered how far I’d come. For the first time in a long time I was perfectly relaxed, I was completely content and I sensed strength rising from within. “You’re doing it, Julie!” I said to myself. “You’re stronger, both body and soul.”

  The new me was finally emerging, the “me” God was shaping me to be. And as I caught sight of her for the first time, those tears were tears of joy.

  MY BEST ADVICE

  Find an Inspiring Image and Focus on It Every Day

  Maybe it’s Jennifer Lopez’s curvy derriere, or Beyoncé’s lean torso or Kelly Ripa’s fresh and pretty face. Perhaps it’s Eva Mendez’s flawless skin, or Eva Longoria’s perfectly petite frame. Whatever it is you desire, when you’re vying for transformation, it’s critical to keep an image of victory in mind.

  The on-campus gym where my teammates and I worked out was home to a well-stocked display of The Biggest Loser memorabilia from previous seasons, and because I was particularly inspired by Season 2’s Suzy Preston, I gravitated toward her “stuff.” I’d try on her trademark horn-rimmed glasses and hold up the weigh-in tank top she wore to her grand finale and picture myself in her slimmed-down state.

  Eventually I would shrink to the size that meant I could have worn the top, which both astounded and delighted me.

  Additionally, I kept an old pageant dress and the size 34B long-line bra that I wore at my wedding beside my bed while I was on campus. They both represented eras of my life when I was smaller than my norm, and as I looked at them longingly each night I’d envision myself fitting into them once again. Not squeezing myself into them with gritted teeth, mind you—but wearing them comfortably, and preferably with room to spare.

  In the end, that pageant dress wound up being far too big for my post-The Biggest Loser size. You should have seen my smile.

  On those days when my weight-loss goal seemed utterly unattainable, images of healthy celebrities and of me at a smaller size kept me going strong. I’d look in the mirror and see myself becoming more of the “me” God had created, a version of myself that truly I’d never known.

  Whether it’s an old photo of yourself, a piece of clothing you one day hope to wear or a celebrity who embodies the fit appearance to which you aspire, keep an inspiring image close by and focus on it each and every day. Remind yourself that with God’s help, you possess the power to become precisely who you and he envision you to be.

  CHAPTER 6

  The Spiritual Side of My Weight-Loss Struggle

  THE FIRST FEW WEEKS of my The Biggest Loser experience were tumultuous to say the least. My body was stunned. My emotions were erratic. And my spiritual condition? Well, let’s just say it left much to be desired. I had all the book-knowledge a girl could want about things like mercy and grace and love, but a very limited understanding of who God was. It was the equivalent of reading forty-five cookbooks cover to cover but never once setting foot inside a kitchen. I had learned much about God along the way—and at some level I even knew him. But would I ever really lean on him and live out that knowledge?

  How I hoped the answer was yes.

  I got “saved,” as we say in Southern Baptist circles, when I was thirteen years old. At the time, I’m not sure what I thought I was being saved from: I had heard so many dramatic stories at church about people being rescued from drug addiction or habitual shoplifting, but as a pimply adolescent with a squeaky clean record, my biggest concern was how to avoid getting caught for couple-skating at the roller rink on Friday night. Would I even have a testimony worth telling? I certainly had my doubts.

  I still love to roller-skate. I can’t quite figure out the whole rollerblading thing, but a girl can’t be good at everything.

  “Everyone has fallen short of God’s perfect standard,” our pastor said consistently. “Everyone needs a way to bridge the gap that our shortcomings create, and the only Bridge that can do it is the person of Jesus Christ.” Originally I professed my faith primarily because it was simply the “thing to do.” But over time I’d realize the truth of the matter, that despite my tame testimony, my pastor would be proven right.

  How superficial was it that a primary reason I wanted to get “saved” was so that I could walk down the red-carpeted aisle, stand at the front of the church and have my name announced, get a free Bible and enjoy a swim in the giant baptism tank a few weeks later!

  For a while after accepting Christ into my life, I tried to get by riding the coattails of my mother’s strong beliefs. I knew that God existed, I knew that he was bigger than I was and I knew that when I died one day, I was definitely heaven-bound. But I was thirteen and a little perplexed about how to really live out the Christian life. To think that a deity wanted a personal relationship with me was more than my prepubescent brain could grasp.

  In my mind God was something of a wise but distant dictator who existed only in the fictional realm. Sort of a cross between Santa Claus and Obi-Wan Kenobi with an attitude. Whenever I wanted something—a new outfit, an A on a test, a boyfriend—I’d send my wish list to the “ultimate” North Pole, crossing my fingers that I had been good enough to see my wish come true. The times when I was left longing, I’d up the ante on my allegiance to the dos and don’ts I’d been taught. In the Baptist church of my youth, at least, good things came to “good” Christians—those who did not drink, did not dance and did not miss a single church service. I felt certain that extra credit was issued for Wednesday-night attendance, because I seemed to find myself there whenever midweek rolled around.

  Despite how I felt about all of those Wednesday-night services, I met some of my closest friends in the context of the youth group at church. The same is proving true these days for my son Noah, who is also found at church nearly every Wednesday night.

  When I left home to be on the show I had very real concerns about what God and his faithful followers back at my church would think. Once in LA, I’d be skipping church for weeks, if not months, on end. There would be no church clothes, no hymns, no Wednesday-night worship and no preplanned corporate prayer. What’s more, I would be “laboring” on the Sabbath by competing or working out. Talk about a Baptist no-no of gargantuan proportion.

  Funny how in hindsight I see how much I linked Christian habits and behaviors to my security in Christ. Of course I knew that it was in actuality impossible to lose my salvation. But it would take me years to live from the freedom of knowing I was safe in the grip of God’s grace from the moment I first believed.

  I knew that everything was about to be taken from me—my family, my friends, my church and my routine. What I didn’t know was that God would replace them all with his powerful, personal presence.
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  ALL ALONE, OR SO I THOUGHT

  One of the most interesting aspects of being on The Biggest Loser was the ubiquitous presence of cameras and production crew. It wasn’t uncommon for my teammates and me to be interrupted even during the most grueling of workouts in order to be interviewed for one segment of the show or another. To be sure, it was a situation that elicited a mixed response: A break was always welcomed during one of Jillian’s workouts, but who wanted to be punished by her upon returning to the gym?

  There were microphones everywhere on campus, it seemed. They were in our bathrooms, in our bedrooms and in the dining room where we ate every meal. There were precious few locations that weren’t wired up with a mic, but Hollie and I found each and every one and swapped secrets the entire season long.

  Fairly early in the show, one of the production assistants pulled me from a treadmill and asked me to come outside to talk on camera about my thoughts on the experience thus far. It was maybe two minutes into our little chat when I saw her swivel her head toward the cameraman and with a heavy sigh say, “Cut.” Still the people-pleaser of the bunch, I asked if I’d said something wrong.

  Jillian pitched a massive fit every time anyone interrupted our workouts. I later learned from production crew that they used to draw straws to determine who had to enter the gym to remove one of her team members for an interview.

  “No, it’s the bells,” she said, and nodded toward the distance behind me. “We’ll start over when things quiet down.”

  I had been so focused on whatever it was I was saying that I had failed to notice the majestic church bells pealing their noontime chime. I looked toward the church that I could not see and closed my eyes as the bells finished their song. I thought my faith was stuck in Jacksonville, God, but you’re clearly here with me now. I sat perfectly still while I awaited his reply, anxious for conversation with the one I’d kept at a stiff arm’s length.

  “I know you thought you were alone here,” he seemed to say, “but I’ve been with you all along.”

  “Here?” I thought with a small, wry smile. “They let you come to Hollywood?”

  Every fifteen minutes from that day forward, I noticed those church bells ringing. They chimed on the quarter-hour, on the half-hour, at fifteen ’til and when the top of the hour came—how had I missed them before? Regardless of what we were doing, sound technicians would curse and all production activity would cease. But for me those bells weren’t a source of frustration; they were a reminder to talk to God.

  I was away from my church, my pastor and the familiar to-dos of my youth, and yet it was in the midst of that utterly stripped-back state that I came face to face with God. My rules were being replaced with relationship, and my faith felt fresh and new.

  EXACTLY WHAT I NEEDED, EXACTLY WHEN I NEEDED IT

  So much of my sanity while on the show came in the form of song. I’ve always loved to sing, and I tend to resonate with the world around me “lyrically” more than in any other way. As I tucked myself further and further into the strong, sturdy embrace of God during those first fresh-new-faith weeks, I took greater and greater pleasure in praising him through song. Jillian’s beatings became far more tolerable as I learned to sing praises to the One who wanted to be my real Trainer, Jesus Christ, and a chorus that became a staple for me on campus still brings me joy today. “You are my Shield,” the lyric goes, “my Strength, my Portion, Deliverer …” I would sing each of those roles of Christ and feel my spirits and my own strength rise. As I learned to declare how I was starting to view God, he met me right at my point of need.

  I wasn’t the only one on the show who loved to sing. Obviously singer/songwriter Isabeau could hold a mean tune, but so could red-team-member Bryan, who had made it to the top thirty on American Idol the previous season. Talk about star power!

  MY SHIELD

  My teammates knew about my faith in God from pretty early in the game. They’d hear me talk about my perspectives on life and love and leaving a faith-based legacy, and they’d joke, “We’ll make you a deal. You start the Church of Hadden, and we’ll come!”

  I’d reply with a good-natured laugh, knowing in my heart that God was shielding me from being the oversensitive people-pleaser I’d once been. For so many years I had sought approval in others’ satisfaction. If everyone else was pleased with me, then I assumed God was pleased with me too. If they were disappointed, well, God must feel that way too.

  But that couldn’t have been further from the truth.

  God wanted me to see that in him I could find protection, in him I was accepted and loved. Amazingly, the bolder I became about sharing my faith, the stronger his protection around me grew. “You are my shield,” I’d tell God as though he’d forgotten. “My shield and also my strength…” I had sung the song so many times back home, but I was meaning the words this time.

  MY STRENGTH

  While I worked out on campus, much of the spiritual knowledge that I’d acquired as a kid came to mind. (Six-hour workouts could even drive pagans to pray.) I recalled the verse in Psalm 139 that says my body is fearfully and wonderfully made. I remembered 1 Corinthians 6:19, which says that our bodies are temples of God. I was reminded that my body had been created to worship him, and that my frame was intended to be strong.

  I thought also about Bible characters who exhibited strength in the midst of tough situations. The one that rose to the surface immediately was the story of David and Goliath—a reference even Jillian would cite to motivate me toward greater success.

  During a long treadmill-run, I’d think about tiny David facing the nine-foot-tall Philistine with nothing but a few smooth stones, and I’d regain faith in the fact that despite my small size, I could and would prevail. “You’re going down, thunder-thighs! You don’t stand a chance, big belly!”

  My “insurmountable” circumstances were nothing for my mighty God. He had been faithful to give me a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to reclaim the life he so badly wanted me to live, and I wanted more than anything to be found faithful in return.

  With each dawning day and every small goal achieved, my faith in the goodness of God rose. I had spent most of my life seeking purpose, security, companionship in a thousand different places. I’d just never looked to him.

  But that was about to change, and in highly dramatic fashion.

  MY PORTION

  Afew weeks into The Biggest Loser experience, I told all of the other contestants that if a new car was ever the reward for a challenge, I would win the thing, hands down. “This isn’t American Idol, Jules,” they’d tease. “They don’t give away cars on this show.” But still I stood by my claim.

  Soon after Noah was born I felt compelled to quit my full-time job as a customer-service rep and serve as a full-time stay-at-home mom. Mike was completely supportive of my desire, but as we crunched the numbers, we realized that in order for my dream to come true we’d need to get rid of our second car. Mike worked clear across town, which meant that I would be left stranded on a near-daily basis. Surely we could make the arrangement work … couldn’t we?

  On the same day that the ten remaining Season 4 contestants were placed into teams of two, we were told to convene on the field adjacent to the on-campus gym. Once outside we noticed stacks and stacks of garbage—pizza boxes in one pile, ice-cream containers in another, paper coffee cups in a third, a mound of empty chip-bags next to that. And then came the cans. Before our eyes two giant recycling trucks dumped out more than two and a half tons of aluminum cans, which represented the soda that the ten of us had consumed in our lifetimes thus far. The sight of them made me feel simultaneously sickened … and thirsty.

  The challenge, we were told, would involve hauling the soda cans across a field, up a ramp and into a huge metal bin, and the team with the highest number of pounds logged at the end of half an hour would win. “This is a challenge every team is going to want to win,” Alison said before we got started, “because it has a prize that everyone wants.”
r />   On cue, two Ford Hybrid SUVs rounded the bend, causing tears to spring instantly to my eyes. The thought of that particular prize being offered during this particular season of the show was almost too much to take. I buried my face in my hands as I considered the implications of winning the challenge … and a desperately needed new car.

  After orienting us to the nuances of the competition, Alison yelled, “Go!” and we were off. My duo-partner Bill and I raced a full football-field length to the small mountain of cans, stretched our shirts out to create makeshift buckets, gathered up loads of aluminum cans and raced all the way back to the ramp. Back and forth and back and forth we went, never wavering, never stopping, never dropping our loads too soon.

  The pile of cans came to us straight from the dump. During the challenge I enjoyed the lovely stench of dead birds and stale beer, which ran down my arms the entire time.

  Fifteen minutes into the competition Bill and I were in first place with forty-one pounds of cans collected so far. It’s probably a good thing we didn’t know our ranking; believing we were behind made us fight that much harder to win.

  After what seemed an eternity, the horn sounded, signaling the end of thirty minutes’ time. All ten contestants collapsed on the grass.