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FREEGOD LOVES UGLY: AND LOVE MAKES BEAUTIFUL EBOOK Christa Black | 224 pages | 13 Sep 2012 | Hodder & Stoughton General Division | 9781455516599 | English | London, United Kingdom Atmosphere - Godlovesugly Lyrics | MetroLyrics They were weeping, dripping snot, jumping up and down holding each other, and throwing roses, teddy bears, and sometimes bras at three gorgeous boys with flawless, curly locks of hair and faces so perfectly chiseled, they God Loves Ugly: And Love Makes Beautiful later be cast as cherubs in a movie. The Jonas Brothers were definitely easy on the eyes, easy on the ears, and easy for the heart, especially if you were sixteen or had a thing for dark, Italian hunky types who were raised to be perfect gentlemen. I had been hired for their world tour after playing one show with them at the famous Ryman Auditorium in Nashville, Tennessee. I guess I must have been a pretty good faker, because they asked me to join their band. I have to admit, my lack of cable television left me a bit in the dark when it God Loves Ugly: And Love Makes Beautiful to current pop culture, and I had to resort to Google to find out exactly who these teen sensations were and what all the fuss was about. This Monterrey, Mexico, show, in front of a crowd so God Loves Ugly: And Love Makes Beautiful it could have had its own zip code, was our first stop on a whirlwind of a God Loves Ugly: And Love Makes Beautiful tour. In fact, when we drove into the venue, it seemed more like we were in Jurassic Park than at a teenybopper concert. Each tiny, youthful body seemed to morph into Superwoman, rocking our heavy vans back and forth like teeter-totters while pounding on the thin glass barriers that separated them from their beloved obsessions. I had always dreamed of being in the mainstream music industry. I imagined traveling the globe and filling up my passport with all sorts of colorful stamps, riding on private jets, God Loves Ugly: And Love Makes Beautiful out in VIP greenrooms, laughing with Letterman and shaking hands with Conan—happily surviving on tiny amounts of sleep to dazzle and entertain millions of people. Well, here I was, finally sharing the stage with one of the biggest acts in the world. This had to be the top of the mountain. I had to God Loves Ugly: And Love Makes Beautiful finally arrived. Lights spun in strobe patterns, flooding the massive metal rig that held up thousands of pounds of speakers ready to challenge the screaming. LCD screens flashed and twirled with bright images and pictures, taunting the crowd to somehow reach jet-engine decibels. As I stood looking out at the blur of faces, waiting for the downbeat signaling the start of the biggest show of my life, the heart that I had expected to race with exhilaration stopped suddenly. I swallowed hard, confused, choking back the onslaught of tears building up behind my carefully applied makeup. In the middle of what should have been my crowning moment as a musician—in the midst of the event I had practiced for my entire life in front of my bathroom mirror—an unshakable weight, as heavy as a freight train, fell on top of my heart. I looked out at the beautiful faces of these frantic girls. They were screaming, weeping, longing for someone to love them, define them—tell them they were pretty and special. They wanted to be chosen, to have their hands touched for a brief moment, to be looked at and noticed as a treasure. I stared into the eyes of pain, of insecurity, and of questioned identity. I remembered what it felt like to hurt, to feel like an alien in my own skin, to long for something more, to loathe my reflection—at one point God Loves Ugly: And Love Makes Beautiful believing the only way out was to end my own life. I was there for one thing: to become a friend, a champion, a sister, and a cheerleader for those faces in the crowd. They were unique, irresistibly beautiful, and powerfully important. These new feelings were so overwhelming that, as I looked into their eyes, they were changing my heart, becoming my purpose, and completely, absolutely, undeniably taking my breath away. Our checklist was more than complete:. By most textbook standards and definitely from the outside looking in, I should have had absolutely nothing to complain about. There was no obvious reason for nightmares, fears, or stumbling hesitations. But there was always one enormous problem that, as I grew older, I could never seem to sweep completely under the God Loves Ugly: And Love Makes Beautiful, no matter how hard I tried. Instead of the innocence of a wide- eyed childhood, the discovery of the world with excitement and fearless courage, a few experiences within the sexual realm overshadowed and influenced the enormous wealth of good that came my way. I felt disgusting. I felt unworthy. I felt, well—wrong. No one taught me as a three-year-old child to hide and be ashamed, but somehow I knew. Its talons of shame and self-hatred ran deep and hooked strong, frying my emotional circuit God Loves Ugly: And Love Makes Beautiful like an electric power line hitting water. The thing was, I had already built a castle of protection around my tiny wounded heart to cope with my experience. My parents continued their onslaught of lavish affection, unaware of the trauma I had encountered, so no matter how much love they gave, I continued to feel completely unworthy of the extravagant gift they were giving. My worldview had been forged from a circumstance that was far outside of my control, and yet every emotion, every thought, and every action still filtered through that one distorted lens. Every move that I made, every word that came out of my mouth, the way I treated people, and the way I let them treat me were direct results of an inner list of beliefs written on the fabric of my existence. So as an innocent little girl, learning the ropes of life, I did what any little girl in my position would do. People cope in different ways when they believe lies about themselves. My beliefs about myself might not have been true, but they were the most powerful things in my little universe, and I unconsciously lived through their power every single day. Some cope by giving up all hope. Some try to blend in or become invisible. Some lash out in rebellion and anger. Others become promiscuous. I quickly morphed into a success addict by the ridiculously early age of three. Achieving somehow gave me a small semblance of importance and recognition that temporarily appeased the deficiency I felt within my confused heart. School was the perfect place to overachieve. I loved this label—I loved any sort of attention that led to recognition—feeding my search for new ways to replicate the drugs of success and status. Then came musical achievement, with violin lessons beginning before some kids are even potty trained. The Suzuki String Program at Texas Tech University accepted children in a wide range of ages, and I was determined to eventually be the best. The longer the concert continued, the more advanced the pieces became. I was always the youngest kid standing as the difficulty level increased, watching my peers drop like flies around me while I stood, nose held high, to play yet another piece. I had to win every race, beat the boys at tetherball, and finish every test first with a boasting A on top. I even got detention one time for completing both my assignment and the paper for the girl sitting next to me. She always finished last. I was just trying to help. Elementary school should have been filled with memories of playgrounds and pigtails. Instead it was a blurry race to the finish. I knew exactly how to perform my way to a quick feeling of success, but the drug would last for only a brief moment—it never seemed to be quite enough. Shame from my past always came barging right back through the door, stronger than ever, as soon as the trophy was won, the play was over, or the concerto was performed and the curtain had been drawn. One summer Saturday afternoon, my mother and I headed up to a local nursing home to sing for a group of white-haired old ladies in need of some entertainment. We pressed play on the tape player, I proudly climbed up on a metal folding chair—my stage—and with everything I had, my five-year-old lungs belted melodies I had practiced endlessly while standing on our living room hearth. I still had to get first place at the science fair. I practiced day in and day out in the front yard, flipping and flopping to keep up with the short girls on the block. I had no idea how to be comfortable in my own skin and with my own abilities. Someone would praise me for a performance, but the leaky bucket of my heart seemed unable to hold on to the words. There seemed to be holes everywhere in my soul, spilling the one substance I desperately wanted to hold on to. I constantly needed someone to tell me that I was a success, that I was good enough, that I was the best, or even that I was just okay.

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