reading

Endorsements

Every woman should know that she is loved and valued simply for being who she is. In Beautiful Lies Jennifer reveals the lies that so many women believe. She tells her story honestly and compellingly and then offers practical hope for all of us as we seek to live a life of meaning. This book will help everyone who reads it!

Holly Wagner,

author and founder of GodChicks and Survival Guide for Young Women

Beautiful Lies is a book every woman should read. Jennifer Strickland weaves the powerful story of her life throughout each chapter while emphasizing transformational truths from God’s Word. Her vulnerability, exquisite writing style, and practical take-home applications make this book the ideal choice for personal or for small group use.

Carol Kent,

speaker and author of Becoming a Woman of Influence

Jennifer Strickland’s story is absolutely compelling. It reads like a novel but it is real life. There isn’t a young girl or woman in the universe who would not be enthralled with this message. As a beautiful young model, Jennifer found emptiness and deep sorrowful pain. Yet today she is a wonderful wife and mother who has found true beauty, hope, and restoration. It’s a message for this generation.

Jim Burns, PhD,

President of HomeWord and author of Confident Parenting and Teenology

This is not another “how to” book. This is a personal journey shared by Jennifer. She opens her heart and exposes the pain she experienced while being a successful model. Jennifer puts her modeling experiences on paper in a beautiful, descriptive way. I too went through these same feelings of rejection and being treated like an object and not a person. Sometimes we have to go on an emotional roller coaster to find true love. Come share Jennifer’s journey as she discovers what beauty really is. This book will help you to identify the lies and deceptions of the world and help you find the true meaning of beauty, acceptance, and love.

Kim Alexis,

spokesperson and author,

former Cosmopolitan and Sports Illustrated cover girl

There is a spiritual battle for the minds and hearts of women. It’s real and it’s raw and it’s destroying lives. With transparency and authenticity Jennifer uncovers lies, deception, and distractions that keep women searching for something that will never satisfy. This book is a message of healing truth, spiritual realities, love, and freedom that every woman longs for. Jennifer tackles the tough struggles and issues that women have learned to hide and helps us find hope in our true identity and purpose.

Debbie Stuart,

Church and Leadership Development Director, Women of Faith

I am a big believer that destructive lies are rooted out only by truth. As an eyewitness to the sinister power of lies in the lives of those God loves, Jennifer Strickland offers good news to girls and women who have believed the lie that they’re not worth much. Beautiful Lies is food for those who hunger for that which really satisfies.

Margot Starbuck,

author of Unsqueezed

Beautiful Lies captivated my heart in so many ways! The stories of Jennifer’s life brought me from a place of clinging to a place of surrendering. Jennifer reminded me of a better way to live—to move from being a victim who lives in fear to loving myself through God’s eyes and living in freedom! If every parent read this book, they would know how to bless their daughters. If every woman read this book, we could move from living in isolation to living in true community.

Pat Cimo,

Family Life Director, Willow Creek Church

Beautiful Lies is a must-read for women today. We are lured and seduced to the lies of magazines in stores, our image in a mirror, and the approval of men—only to leave us haunted by what-ifs. Beautiful Lies is a true story of Jen’s authentic journey and insight into the traps of the world and the redeeming love and healing that can only come from God, the creator of beauty and our true identity.

Debbie Eaton,

Director of Women’s Ministry, Saddleback Church

HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS

EUGENE, OREGON

Unless otherwise indicated, all Scripture quotations are from the Holy Bible, New International Version^®, NIV^®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011, by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com

Cover by Left Coast Design, Portland, Oregon

Published in association with the literary agency of WordServe Literary Group, Ltd., 10152 S. Knoll Circle, Highlands Ranch, CO 80130

Backcover author photo by Natasha Brown Photography (www.natashabrownphoto.com).

Cover illustration © Shutterstock / jumpingsack

BEAUTIFUL LIES

Published by Harvest House Publishers

Eugene, Oregon 97402

www.harvesthousepublishers.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Strickland, Jennifer.

Beautiful lies / Jennifer Strickland.

pages cm

Includes bibliographical references.

ISBN 978-0-7369-5624-6 (pbk.)

ISBN 978-0-7369-5625-3 (eBook)

1. Christian women—Religious life. 2. Self-esteem in women—Religious aspects—Christianity. I. Title.

BV4527.S744 2013

248.8'43—dc23

2013006542

All rights reserved. No part of this electronic publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The authorized purchaser has been granted a non-transferable, non-exclusive, and non-commercial right to access and view this electronic publication and agrees to do so only in accordance with the terms of use under which it was purchased or transmitted. Participation in or encouragement of piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of author’s and publisher’s rights is strictly prohibited.

For Linda

May the legacy of your unwavering faith, selfless love, and priceless prayers live on through these pages.

Acknowledgments

My husband, Shane, is to thank for this book. Sometimes I was so afraid of what might come out should I put pen to paper that I tried to stall the fulfillment of my own dream. Yet Shane relentlessly pointed to the goal as the sunrise on the horizon, not letting me run away for fear I would fail, and believing if I sprinted toward that horizon, my dream would come true. Surely our Father worked through Shane in this; as I hand this book over to you, the sun is dawning a new day in my heart.

Creating something beautiful from mounds of uneven dirt is Shane’s parents’ expertise. My gratitude goes to his father, Larry, a builder at heart, who continually advises me on how to build a dream from a blank page. Shane’s mother, Linda, has believed for this message, sacrificed for it, and guided me with her gentle and quiet spirit—as sweet as the lamb, as sure as the lion.

I am grateful to my parents, George and Jan Porter, who gave me life and who continue to give my dreams life. As Mom says, she will give as long as she lives, and even after she’s gone. Mom and Dad, I hope this work will impact lives long beyond our years as well.

To Olivia, our daughter: Thank you for knowing which nights to say quietly from under the covers, “Mommy, you should stay up and write,” and which nights to say, “Mommy, sleep.” Thank you to our son Zach, who is always comforted to know I am writing in the next room as he drifts into a slumber. For Samuel, the baby of the family—one day you will know your Mommy dreamed and your Daddy believed in her dreams and made sure they happened.

These women were wings, fellow travelers, and a nest to land in: Devi Titus, Leah Springer, Megan Carter, Tracy Levinson, Deana Morgan, and Gayle Novak. Thank you for carrying me toward the sunrise when I couldn’t see the way.

I am indebted to the JSM Team: Caris Leidner, for reading, editing, and praying; April Cousens, for roping in the details so I could write; Jan Alexander, for her years of selfless service; Kelly Tookey, for facing the numbers so I didn’t have to; Faith Stansky, for her graceful example of real beauty; Wendy Pryne, for the jewelry to match the message; and Rachel Dee Turner, for her myriad of gifts which have propelled this message. Ladies, together, we have poured out our oil.

Thank you finally to Greg Johnson of Wordserve Literary, who keeps believing a former model can actually speak and write, and to the team at Harvest House: Bob Hawkins Jr., LaRae Weikert, Pat Mathis, and Kathleen Kerr, my brilliant editor who helped me craft the stories that have stirred in my soul. You saw my vision and gave it wings.

Contents

Endorsements

Acknowledgments

Introduction

1: The First Lie: You Are What Man Thinks of You

2: The First Truth: You Are a Beloved Daughter

3: The Second Lie: You Are What You See in the Mirror

4: The Second Truth: You Are a Precious Creation

5: The Third Lie: You Are What Magazines Tell You

6: The Third Truth: You Are a Beautiful Temple

7: The Fourth Lie: You Are the Mask You Wear

8: The Fourth Truth: You Are a Shining Light

9: The Fifth Lie: You Are Mastered by the Media

10: The Fifth Truth: You Are a Chosen Ambassador

Afterword: P.S. Pass It On

Notes

About the Author

Beautiful Lies Study Guide

About the Publisher

Introduction

The phone call came in the late afternoon. We had finished sweeping the house early that morning. Mysteriously, the alarm was blaring incessantly, and no one could turn it off. The new owners said there was a mirror shattered in one of the upstairs rooms, reflective glass in a million pieces scattered all over the floor.

The mirror didn’t crash when we were there; Linda cleaned it herself. We left the house completely intact, and the alarm hadn’t been set for years. It was a mystery.

Yet I had been shattering masks and crushing mirrors for years, and now, even now, I am exposing their broken pieces for you in these pages: the mirror of man; the bathroom mirror; the mirror of the magazines, the masquerade, and the media. To believe these mirrors declare a woman’s beauty, value, and purpose is to believe beautiful lies.

I am familiar with the world which says a woman’s reflection is her worth more than I am familiar with any other part of the world. As a young girl, I began modeling, posing for the camera, walking on runways, and appearing in magazines, which launched me into a life that eventually became a beautiful lie. Over time, modeling built me up, but at the peak of my success, the lies shattered me into broken little pieces. An alarm blared in my soul in the middle of the night; and I went in search of beautiful truth.

When I found Truth, I unearthed a beauty that lasts. I left the modeling world, free to take off the masks, knowing that beneath them, we are made for more.

A young girl who begins to believe a lie may never be the same again. The lie begins with trusting in her beauty; it ends with shattering pain. In the modeling industry, which is simply a mirror reflection of the values upheld by the world, we were taught to find our value in the man standing in front of us or the image in the mirror. But the pictures in the magazines were a trick, somehow convincing us that image was supposed to be true to life. In that world, we were taught that shining outside the home was always more important than anything we did within it; and we were taught, as the media reflects, that a woman’s worth was in her face, body, and bed. The impact of these lies is tragic.

This book is my offering, my answer, my battle cry. Come with me. Let’s look at some mirrors. Let’s shatter them. And let’s see if there isn’t a God who carefully lifts the jewels from the floors of our hearts and forms them into diamonds reflecting his view of real beauty, worth, and purpose.

You are more than what men think; what the mirror reflects; what the magazines tell you. You are more than the mask you wear and the many faces of the media. You are a daughter, a creation, a temple, a light, an ambassador, called into a dark world as a living stone, reflecting the face of God who made you.

Lies can be pretty, but Truth is beautiful. As hard as it is to look square in the eye, truth does free us. And it doesn’t wrinkle. Living within you, it grows more brilliant, evermore.

Welcome to this journey. I invite you into my heart, and yours.

Masks can be beautiful on the surface, but steal the heart of joy; yet stunning is the one who isn’t afraid of her secrets.

1 The First Lie:

You Are What Man Thinks of You

I used to think man could measure my value, but now I see no man is a reflection of me.

In Search of a King

Gazing into the hazel wells of his eyes, I dive into the spark of light embedded there. The light funnels me into another world, basked in beauty. The warm wind rushes through my hair; I swim and fly at the same time.

Here on earth, my husband kisses me, but in my mind, we are on the edge of the thicket, where the meadow meets the woods. The whole world around us is alive with wonder. The floor of the thicket bends beneath our footsteps; perfect peace is ours. Union is our Master.

He is man; I am woman; stitched together by God.

Someday, there will be no pain, no division, no heartbreak, and no tears.

Someday, there will only be the fullness of joy.

What is it about the fairy tales that make them such a beautiful lie?

Before the Disney princess meets the prince, she is just a common girl. Desperate, lonely, lost, and poor, she has little chance to escape the ruthless world. But once the prince on the white horse gallops into the scene, the view shifts.

In the prince, there is safety from the sorrow of her upbringing. Somehow all the broken places are healed—the mother who didn’t love her, the father who wasn’t there, the siblings who envied and scorned her, the poverty that humbled her. In the prince, she is healed and set free. He is a new day, the dawn of her dark night.

The prince does what no one before him can do: he slays the enemy who so hungered to devour her and rob her of her rightful place in the kingdom. Willing even to die for her, the prince becomes her salvation. He descends on bended knee to ask her hand, rescuing her from a life of lonely torment. The moment she agrees to marriage, she transforms from a lowly girl dressed in rags to a beloved princess, gowned and crowned.

The future is now bright for her. She’s beautiful, she’s precious, she’s chosen, she’s redeemed. Never again will she worry about her former sorrow or question her value or destiny. All of that is settled in the prince.

As a young woman, I believed the redemption of the fairy tales. I wanted the prince and the castle and the crown. So in high school and college, I put my hope in the future. If the future appeared clothed as a boy and promised me love, I handed him my heart, and with that went my identity and value.

But the boy kept taking my heart and crushing it. One after another blundered down the slippery slope of drugs and alcohol, falling cracked and bleeding at the bottom of his own well. From that place of darkness, again and again, I could not raise him. When you are young, you do not realize what the world can do to a boy, or what a boy can do to himself. I could not fix the problems they had with substance abuse, depression, school, money, and more. Although I tried to throw a rope, they had neither the hope nor the faith to grab it, and I certainly had no muscle to raise them.

Watching their souls wither, my heart withered too. They were supposed to save me! They were supposed to throw the rope! They couldn’t promise me anything, and if they did make a promise, they didn’t keep it. I wanted love to prevail, but I couldn’t make it.

My heart torn, my soul bore the mark of loss. I became disenchanted and lost, wishing to wander the world in hopes of finding something else to fill me. My soul craved unfailing love, but I decided that if boys would fail me, I would conquer the world on my own. I would slay my own dragons. I would find my own castle, and I would build my own dreams.

For me, these wishes were potential realities. I often had a plane ticket to take me away, an escape route the average princess might appreciate.

My journey as a fashion model began when I was eight. My mother enrolled me in a Cinderella class at a local charm school, hoping to help me with my coordination and give me some grace. I was quite tall and inept at sports, but modeling was not hard for me. Time and again, I won “Miss Photogenic” in pageants, and when I graduated from the charm school, my tall, sleek, elegant teacher named me “Most Potential Model.”

Throughout high school, my mother and I heard that if we really wanted to know if I could make it in the business, I needed to meet Nina Blanchard, the legendary empress of the West Coast modeling world.

So, at six feet tall and seventeen years old, with blonde locks falling to the middle of my back, I strutted into her Hollywood office wearing high heels and a little black dress, my mother fading into the background.

I’ll never forget the way Nina looked up from her spectacles, her judicious eyes scanning me from top to bottom.

“Let me see her pictures,” she whispered out of half of her mouth, her deep, scratchy voice commanding the man to her right. Her gaze stayed fixed on me.

I leaned on one heel, then the other.

The man’s name was Mack. He had a pocked face and a joker’s grin. Polite and professional, he handed Nina my photos and asked us to wait while she examined them with a loupe on a light box.

Windows lined the expansive floor of their offices; the colorful lights of Hollywood Boulevard gleamed behind them. Nina and Mack whispered about me.

Finally he ushered us into her private lair. Mom and I sat down opposite her, a grand mahogany desk between us. Throughout the entire interview she left her thin smoldering cigarette propped in a tray piled with ashes. I tried not to be distracted by the stinging sensation in my nose, the glamorous view of Hollywood’s jeweled lights, and the knowledge that this fiery red-haired woman possessed the power to either catapult my dreams to the moon or dash them against the rocks.

Leaning forward, cinching her wrinkled brow, and peering with emerald eyes, Nina spoke to my mother: “She has potential. We want to sign her.”

With her veined hands and red porcelain nails, she slid a contract across the desk.

This was the continuation of my first beautiful lie: if a man—or woman—thinks I’m pretty, I am. If he or she thinks I have potential, I do. If they want me, I’m worth wanting.

Nina named me the “Face of the Nineties.” She sent me to the offices of L’Oréal, Oil of Olay, Eddie Bauer, and Jordache. She got me in Glamour, Seventeen, Cosmopolitan, and Vogue. She introduced me to Steven Spielberg, Eileen Ford, Giorgio Armani, and Patrick Demarchelier, the favored photographer of Princess Diana.

Nina was my fairy godmother, and by my first year in college, I could perform a disappearing act at will, a convenient setup for a brokenhearted girl. I could run away on a plane or a train, I could hide behind a mask, I could take a picture and smile.

Upon graduating high school, I moved to Europe on Nina’s direction. The money and travel were great, but when the summer ended I returned to LA. While other models forsook school to pursue the fleeting fame of modeling, I didn’t. Nina even turned down a potential stint for Sports Illustrated for me, insisting I stay in college. For the next four years, I maintained a scholarship and majored in broadcast journalism; deep down, I wanted to speak and write.

But I was also one of those girls in the pictures—the ones you see in shop windows, magazines, and on TV. As soon as classes ended in the summer I flew to Europe. There, the local agency would direct me to buy street and metro maps, hand me an address to my new apartment, and have me write down a list of interviews.

Although I lived with other models, I spent most days alone. I’d go from streets to subway stations to buses to trams to hotels to office buildings to sets, touching up makeup in between interviews, touching base at the agency, allowing makeup artists and hair stylists to make me look like a different person every day.

Because I was so young the lifestyle appeared harmless. My parents, who knew very little about the sordid side of the business, were in great support of my modeling career. Everyone from home cheered me on. They all saw modeling as an opportunity to see the world and make money doing it.

So plane tickets arrived on my doorstep like gifts from my fairy godmother, and off I went.

In seasons and short trips, I lived in Los Angeles, Hamburg, Paris, Athens, and Sydney. After college, I signed with Ford Models New York and almost moved there. But in a twist of fate, I interviewed with an agent from Milan who invited me to come to Italy instead.

At 21, I sat in a corner of my Hollywood agency as an Italian man sat across from me. He had curly blond hair, and with his curious accent he dangled before me the allure of travel, fame, and the promise of a beautiful life in Italy.

My mouth watered; it sounded too sweet. I bit into that gloriously shiny red apple with everything I had. I wanted all our world had to offer.

During my plane ride to Milan, I studied Italian and jotted down translations in my diary, repeating Italian sayings like mantras. Chi cerca trova—“He who searches, finds.”

“Chi cerca trova…Chi cerca trova…” I would repeat, looking out the plane window at the limitless horizon.

With college behind me and my little Italian phrasebook in hand, I thought myself well-armed. Without school as an anchor grounding me in the States, I didn’t have to return home. I held in my hand a passport which could take me from place to place for as long as I wanted.

The agent who had summoned me to Italy convinced me the runway would open the door to success. So prior to arriving I did everything I could to measure up to the standards of the European market: I tanned, fasted, sweat, dieted, ran, did yoga, ran some more, fasted some more, took vitamins and fat burners galore, ran, straightened my hair, ran, bought new clothes, worked out some more, ran some more, fasted some more, took some more fat burners, packed my bags, and practiced my Italian.

But no matter how much you make over your outside, the heart is still marred beneath the surface.

It was on this trip to Italy that I met Damien, a magazine owner and fashion mogul who went on to manage my career. He became a sort of protective father figure to me, or so I thought.

During my first season in Milan I often dined with the agents, clients, and photographers, which was customary for models. These men were typically twice my age or older. Instinctually I knew not to let relations go further than dinner or dancing, but a shadowy line blurs the distinction between obliging the clients as they offer to entertain the models and keeping things on a professional level. I centered these encounters on the hopes that these men were going to advance my career, and I simply desired to experience the “beautiful life” promised me in Italy. What a fool I was to believe that these older men would expect nothing in return. I often found myself in awkward situations where I had to politely or sometimes forcefully let them know I was not interested in them romantically.

But of all of the men I met, Damien was the most interested in me. During my first interview with him, he didn’t just look at my pictures. He looked into my eyes. He was in his fifties; I had just turned 22. In an industry where very few recognized the soul of a girl, it seemed like he could see straight into mine.

In the world of fashion, he possessed influence, knowledge, and experience. He knew the photographers, magazine owners, and designers. He could catapult my career with the wave of his hand, which also meant he could bury me with the flick of his thumb.

From the moment I met him, he said that I had a pace dei sensi, something difficult to translate, but it is a kind of “sense of peace” or “peace of mind.” By this time I was an expert at appearing pulled-together and centered, and he took on my career as his little experiment. He put me on the cover of his magazine. He exposed me to fine dining, “important people,” and the haute couture. He treated me like I was his prize.

When I was in a new city where I knew no one and nothing about the way the business worked there, Damien made me feel like he knew everything. With his deceitful accent, he promised he would protect, direct, and promote me—just what a young model wants.

But then the night arrived when he revealed that he really wasn’t interested in being a father to me. He wanted more.

Shattered

The water for my tea is boiling so I get up and walk to the kitchen. I fix my tea, and as I return the empty pot to the glass top stove, I linger there for a moment to see the reflection of my face. My friend had warned me before I came to Milan not to enter a man’s apartment by myself, but I have ignored his warning.

I sit down close to the fire.

“I have never seen a woman who can come so close to the fire,” he says, approaching me from behind.

I have never been this skinny before. I lost all my body fat before coming to Milan, in hopes of getting the runway. I’m cold.

Damien sets down his espresso and wraps his body around my back like a heavy cloak.

Every muscle in my body stiffens in fear and I try to pull away. Forcefully, he pushes my shoulder down to keep me there.

“Damien! No!” I protest, yanking myself away and whisking to the window. “What are you thinking?” I demand. This man is well over twice my age, older than my father.

Without sound, he moves across the room.

“You are afraid to be held,” he hisses.

“Leave me alone!” I insist. I whirl around, turning my back to him.

“It really is a pity,” he whispers, “Because I just wanted to do you a favor. From the moment I met you I thought to myself, what can I do to get this girl to relax? I wanted to do for you something I have not done for a woman in a very long time. A favor, for you, not for me.” His words are venom in my ear.

I am frozen in rage, stuck between him and the window of his high rise apartment. I see a few distant streetlights. They remind me of the lights at Nina’s, worlds away. The very first thing she did as my agent was to send me to a photographer’s apartment, alone. I was seventeen.

“Why are you so afraid to be held?” he pries.

I turn to face him, seething my disgust through clenched teeth, “I am only afraid to be held by the wrong person!” The truth is, I am terrified to be in this man’s presence.

Why have I sunk my teeth into the apple of another man’s promises? I want to run. I want to hide. I want to wave a magic wand and disappear. But this is not a fairy tale; this is my life, and I can’t get away from it.

Damien is an adept predator. At first he earned my trust. He befriended me. He fed me fine Italian food and wine. He showed me the kingdoms of the world and offered me the runways of Paris. All the while, he must have planned to go in for the kill when I was conveniently right before him, unaware as Snow White who was hunting me. What I should have done—and what I tell other women and girls—is to never allow myself to be alone with a man, and to run far and fast should one attempt to compromise me.

How is it that a girl in her early twenties can honestly believe a man in his late fifties simply enjoys her company? How is it that a college-educated woman can be under this kind of spell?

I begin to tell him I don’t want what he wants; I want love. I believe in the prince. I just haven’t met him yet, but I know he exists.

“You should give up on love,” he says, exhausted. “I don’t believe in it anymore.”

But I do, and I’m not going to give up believing.

“I am destined for misery,” he drones. Why is it that I haven’t let this man touch me but I feel soiled in his presence? I fear his misery will be transferred to me.

Suddenly we are cut off by the most wicked explosion I’ve ever heard. Fire combusts from the kitchen and bursts into the living room where we stand. Flames and shards of glass explode from the kitchen.

He runs screaming, blaming me. You left the gas on!” In a blur he rushes into the fire, cursing and filling buckets of water, frantically pouring them over the flames that are leaping like happy demons.

I am crying and screaming and crawling on the floor trying to sweep up the hot glass. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, but I didn’t…”

“Watch out! You are going to get cut!” He is throwing water on the fire and lashing me with hot curses: “Stupid girl! How are you so stupid?”

I say, “My God, my God…”

“No!” he screams. “You’d better thank God that he spared your precious face because it was nearly destroyed! I cannot imagine how deformed you would be!”

When I finally get out of there, fear is running through me like an electric current but I don’t know how long it will be until it stops. Shamed and confused, I walk back to my apartment in the dark, shadowed, Milanese streets.

“I never die,” Damien had moaned when I was at the door, saying he regretted he had not been standing in the kitchen when it blew. “I have brushed death a thousand times but I never die.”

A few weeks later, the agency has scheduled a photo shoot for me at Damien’s studio, and they say I have to be there.

When I show up, my skin is broken out. I have been living in Milan for about six months now and my career is moving at the pace of a speeding train. I have been doing the runway, sliding down the steep slope of anorexia. I have no other option of entry for that stage—I have to starve myself.

Now, the anxiety, the fear, the loneliness, and the drugs have all shown up on my skin.