What Will I Bring?

In this season of celebration, opportunities to get together with friends and family abound.  While I’m not one to follow etiquette rules closely, I do like to bring something when I attend a party.  As a person with Celiac disease, it’s all the more helpful if I have a dish with ingredients that are safe for me to eat.  In the past, I’ve just brought a small lunch sack for myself.  Recently though, I’ve been challenged by the idea that I don’t need to apologize for having different needs.  I should bring enough to share and be proud of my alternative offerings. 

In anticipation of upcoming gatherings, I researched some gluten free, vegan recipes.  I settled on a sweet potato and chickpea hash with toasted cinnamon pecans.  I gave the recipe a trial run at our church potluck on Sunday and there were no leftovers.  Confidence boosted, I made a second batch for a meal with my husband’s family.  Midway through the meal, when I went to the kitchen to refill my water glass, I peeked over at my dish.  A neat little one-portion corner had been scooped out.  My portion.   

My heart sank.  I chided myself for making too much.  Then, I regretted even bringing a gluten free dish in the first place.  Next year, I’d go back to just eating the side salad.  Poo on the holidays.  No one wants anything new or different. 

Back at the table, my husband’s aunt asked if I was enjoying my meal.  I really was.  The food I’d made was delicious with ingredients my body needs.  I’d gotten so wrapped up in others liking my dish that I almost missed valuing it myself. 

The next morning, my husband and I met up with relatives on my side of the family.   My two cousins introduced me to their girlfriends.  Within minutes of talking with them, I was flooded with self doubt.  One had a PhD and her kids easily conversed in two languages. Their third language was a little shaky, so at least they weren’t totally perfect.  The other girlfriend had a fascinating humanitarian job.   I sat there in my favorite t-shirt and scarf, jeans crusted with baby spit up.  I wanted to tell them how interesting I used to be.  I wanted them to like me.

I was looking at that untouched gluten free sweet potato dish all over again; offering something uniquely me, and hoping that others would enjoy it too. 

As we drove home, I told my husband about my jumble of feelings; how I wished I wasn’t so plain. 

“But that’s your favorite scarf,” he said, “You love that outfit.”

That’s true.  I do. 

In this season of celebrating, I want to bring something – my dish, my gifts, myself – which others will love.  They may or may not, and that’s okay.  I like what I brought, I like who I am, and I offer it with joy.

Later that night we were back with my husband’s family, eating leftovers together.   I sipped some apple cider and pretended to care about the football game everyone was watching. 

“Oh yeah.  Good stuff!” I heard Uncle Pat comment.

“Uh huh.”

I didn’t really pay attention.   I thought he was talking about the game.  But when I looked, he was scooping a big helping of food onto his plate.  Sweet potatoes and chickpeas with toasted cinnamon pecans, actually.

“Do you like it?” I asked, “It’s gluten free.”

“I don’t know about gluten free stuff, but I know what tastes good.”

Sometimes, when you’re feeling like what you bring isn’t special enough, it just takes a different perspective to lift your spirits.  Uncle Pat went home later with the remaining casserole in a big Ziploc bag.  I went home with restored confidence.

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Worrying and Enjoying

I think new parts of my brain have formed since becoming a mother.  If they were there before, I never noticed or needed them.  Now I have a full section of my brain devoted to making sure my boys are breathing correctly.  I’ve become hyper-sensitive to any noise that hints at an air passageway blockage.  Another section of my brain is for analyzing the air temperature and determining the appropriate layers of clothing needed for said temperature.  Other newly developed brain areas include: stain removal, tantrum management, and fort building. 

With my firstborn Luke, I wished that there was a drive thru clinic with pediatric nurses at the window.  I wanted to be able to keep my baby snug in his car seat, roll down the window, and have a nurse tell me if he looked too pale, too hot, or needed medical attention.  When I gave birth, the hospital just sent me home with my baby, assuming I’d know how to take care of whatever came up.  Silly hospital people.

One time, I had just made a bunch of homemade purees for Luke.  In my understanding, that’s how you were supposed to feed your baby.  Then, I chatted with a friend and she told me about something called Baby Led Weaning where you let the baby gnaw on whole pieces of food so they learn about texture.  I was devastated - - why didn’t I hear of this before?!  Because my confidence was so low, any new piece of information felt like confirmation that I was doing something wrong. 

I’m grateful for this second time around.  Having another son has been a sweet revelation:

I actually like babies.

It wasn’t until I had Micah nine months ago that I realized how much I’d worried through Luke’s first year of life.  This time, I feel like I’ve exhaled.  My brain still diligently looks out for Micah’s well-being, but I’ve let go of a lot of the obsessive worrying that dominated Luke’s babyhood.  It feels good to enjoy the baby stage.  It feels like joy.

I don’t judge how I used to be because I didn’t know how to do it any differently.  There’s grace for that.  (If you’re a firstborn, please go hug your mother! She really tried to know what she was doing.)  If I had a third child, I’d probably relax one step further.  That’s how it goes.

I write this to reflect on my experience and to encourage you readers, whether you’re a mother or not.  Is there something in your life that you’re worrying about when you could be enjoying it?

Is there a present situation that your future self could look back on and say, “Hey, that ended up working out just fine.” ?

Why not enjoy your proverbial baby now?  Savor him, savor your “something” from every corner.

I changed Micah’s diaper before bedtime and I squeezed his chubby thighs.  I kissed his soft wrinkled feet.  I tickled his double chin until he gasped with laughter.  Then I made sure he was breathing normally again, because come on, that’s still just what mothers do. 

Church Interrupted

“What’s the point?”

This is a predominant thought I struggle with during church services.  Ever since having babies, my life activities are interrupted by their needs.  My meals, my sleep, heck – even taking a pee – it’s all subject to being ambushed by crying, owies, and potty accidents.  So, when I go to church and find myself nursing in the bathroom, changing a diaper, or walking in the foyer with my crying one, I get discouraged.  Why do I come if I only catch bits and pieces of the sermon and singing?

It helps when I can take my boys to childcare, but it’s not always an option.  Our Sunday evening church does not have a kids program, but rather, intentionally welcomes kids to participate in the service.  It’s wonderful, but again, I’m consistently distracted with parenting responsibilities. 

One of our boys poops in his diaper exactly halfway through the service.  Every week.  On non-church nights, there is no poo at that time.  It’s a special, once a week occurrence.  We could ignore it, but frankly, the smell makes our eyes water. 

So, last week, I took his little hand in mine and we did our weekly walk to the restroom to clean up.  As he lay on the changing table, he noticed the ceiling.

“Mama, there are crosses up there!”

“Yes, sweetie.  I see that.  The lines on the tiles look like crosses, don’t they?”

God nudged my heart to have church right there in the bathroom.  I cleaned him up and we talked about crosses.

“Do you know why Jesus died on a cross?”

He replied, “For sins!”

We talked about what that means and how God is holy and without sin.  Then, we washed our hands and headed back to the sanctuary for the final song.

Another night, I was dreading church before we even left the house.  “What’s the point?”, right?  I asked God what to do about it.  Should I keep going to church or just stay home and take care of the kids in an easier environment?

God’s answer was this:  “Meditate on just one aspect of My character.”  I chose faithfulness. 

Later, during the service, I was doing my best to quiet a brewing tantrum.  I felt myself getting angry and frustrated.  Then, I stopped and remembered.  I closed my eyes, breathed deeply, and thought, “God, you are faithful.”  When the baby started crying and I left to walk him to sleep outside, I listened to the bubbling fountain in the church courtyard and said over and over, “You are so faithful to me.  Thank you.”  I didn’t listen to a sermon and I didn’t pray the same prayers as everyone else, but I had church.

What’s the point?  The point is to honor God.  By showing up, by teaching my kids the life pattern of worshiping with other believers, and to tell God how great He is.  That’s the point.

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What Do You Have For Me?

In February of 2012, I took my first airplane flight with Celiac disease.  Well, my first flight where I knew my diagnosis.  Readers with an autoimmune disease will know without further explanation that this was a big, scary step.  I was flying without knowing if any food would be available for me, or if the food I was given would be safe.  I didn’t want to get sick and I didn’t want to go hungry.  You should also know that this was a trip to Uganda.  24 hours of travel, give or take.  That means Lara Bars weren’t going to be enough to keep me full the whole time.

It’s just food, right?  Well, for me, eating anything with gluten or that’s touched gluten damages my intestinal lining and brings on a host of unpleasant symptoms.  Before I was diagnosed and changed my diet, I dealt with debilitating panic attacks, lethargy, foggy thinking, and digestive issues.  That's not a list I wanted to experience again, especially away from home.

So there I was, one year post-diagnosis, boarding a plane from Seattle to Amsterdam.  I had some snacks and I had jittery nerves.  I was going to train teachers for two weeks in a Ugandan village school.  It was a dream come true.  God's fingerprints were all over the way this trip came about, so I was relying on Him to figure out the food situation too. 

When mealtime rolled around, I signaled my flight attendant and told him I had requested a gluten free meal online.  He smiled and went to check.  When he returned, he had bad news.  There were no gluten free meals flagged for this flight.  My chest began to tighten; one of my body’s early signs of a panic attack on the way.  It was a split second confirmation of my fears:  God wasn’t going to take care of me the way I needed Him to.

This is where God and I began a ritual that bonds us every time I use it.  I took a deep breath and silently prayed one question:

God, what do You have for me?

Passengers around me began peeling the foil lids off their Salisbury steaks and buttering their fluffy white rolls.  The smells of gravy and drip coffee wafted in the air.  I sat, breathed, and waited.

After all the carts were shuttled back to the plane’s galley, I saw my flight attendant pop his head out from behind the front curtain.  He was grinning from ear to ear - grinning at me.  He came bustling down the aisle carrying a tray full of food.  It looked different than the trays around me.  Everything was on pretty white ceramic dishes, not the disposable containers everyone else had. 

“Look what I found!” he smiled triumphantly, placing the tray in front of me and swooping his hand across the meal, Vanna White style.

There was a beautiful plate of fruit, a little bowl of warm (yes, warm!) nuts, a plate of grilled chicken and plain rice. 

“I smuggled it from first class.  Can you eat all this?”

“Yes!” I said, in shock, “Thank you!”

I ate my meal with real flatware, savoring every bite.  More than that, I basked in my Father’s ridiculously wonderful care for me.  As the flight continued, this flight attendant seemed to take special delight in bringing me first class snacks that were safe to eat.  Maybe food shouldn’t be so important to me, but it was a big source of worry as I was new to navigating a world full of gluten.  This meal was God’s “I love you, Brooke!"  After that, I was unshakably sure that He was going to take care of me – food and otherwise – for the rest of the trip.  And, He did.  Abundantly so.

It’s been six years since that flight, and I still ask God the same question.  Sometimes it’s a big situation, sometimes it’s something small.  The question messages to my worries that “Yes, God always takes care of you, Brooke.  He already has something good for you here.”

The other day, I was at my friend’s dad’s memorial service and I needed to feed Micah.  I don’t like nursing in public, especially since it was a full service, with lots of people on all sides of me.  The church’s “Mother’s Room” was locked.  I took a breath and prayed, “Okay, God, what do you have for me?”  A woman walked by with a coffee carafe.  I asked if there was a private spot where I could feed my baby.  She told me to follow her to this second, smaller sanctuary where they were setting up the food.  There were couches there and the sound from the memorial service was being piped in on speakers so I could hear everything.  Oh yeah, and there were big bowls of (gluten-free) potato chips all over the room.  I nursed Micah, walked him to sleep, and snacked, not missing any of the service. 

Celiac disease and my need for safe food prompted this “What do you have for me?” tradition with God, but it applies to my whole life.  I begin to look for His provision everywhere.  He always has something and it’s always something good. 

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Seasons of Extremes

Last week, I went to the grocery store at bedtime.  Not my bedtime; the kids’ bedtime.  I wandered the aisles slowly.  I read labels on the facial creams in the organic section.  I compared prices between bulk and prepackaged items.  I was all by myself with no agenda other than getting away from home.  For that short window, nobody needed anything from me.  It was restorative.

As I savored the quiet, mostly empty store, I remembered times in the past when I had done this very same type of wandering.  Back then, I was single and living alone.  Sometimes I’d stop at Fred Meyer on my way home from work to pick up something for dinner.  I’d find myself putzing, taking way longer than necessary to get what I needed.  I was delaying my impending evening of solitude as long as I could.

Life has these seasons of extremes.  It’s hard to fathom how, in the space of a little over four years, things could change so radically.  In the time before marriage and kids, I was at peace with singleness and even enjoyed living alone.  However, with that, there also came periods of intense loneliness.  Some days, I physically ached from it.  Touch of any kind – hugs, a hand to hold, even a good old fashioned pat on the back – was a rarity.  People in my life cared about my days, but I had no daily, physical representation of it.  I just came home to quiet.  On the weekends, it didn’t matter when I got up or what I did.  I could tackle my whole to do list or I could eat jelly beans in my undies all day.  No one would know. 

On the night when I went to the grocery store at my kids’ bedtime, it was because the first words I said to my husband when he got home were, “I am at my limit with touch and noise.  I need to get away.”  I’ve entered a season where someone is constantly touching me – cuddling, kicking, scratching, nursing, licking, clinging….you name it.  Naptime is my only space of total quiet, and that’s not a guarantee.  I used to read Facebook posts where moms begged to go to the bathroom alone.  I thought that was crazy and now I understand.  I don’t write these things to complain, but to explain.  

I know what it is to ache from solitude and I know what it is to feel crazy from never being left alone.  Extremes demand incredible strength.

It’s here that I must become vigilant about my thought life.  When it’s been too long since I’ve had a break and I’m feeling the pressure, what am I telling myself?  If you could see a ticker tape of my thoughts on paper, you’d definitely see a pity party:

I’m trapped in motherhood…  Nobody knows how hard it is to hear crying and whining all day… I never get to do what I want to do… I never knew having kids could be so hard… 

Those thoughts are choking out my joy.  I’m not going to make it with that kind of gas in my tank.  I’m asking God to help me cut those thoughts off before they sink in, to change what I’m telling myself about this season.  To renew my mind with His thoughts about it:

I’m so grateful that Jeff has a good job that provides for me to stay home with our boys… I love my sons and I love our home… If I need a break, I have friends and family who will help me… I am a strong mom, I can do this… 

The extreme seasons will probably keep being tough, but I think they can also start being good and happy years too.  Plus, there’s always a grocery store open when I need a little respite.

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No More Nagging

“To annoy or irritate with persistent fault-finding or constant urging.  Harass, badger, get on someone’s case.”

This is what it means to nag.  It sounds annoying, but in my experience, my nagging must not be annoying enough because the thing never ends up getting done! My son Luke is two and a half.   I nag him to pick up his toys, wash his hands, get his shoes on, come inside, find his water cup, and lots of other little things.  In the past, my nagging efforts ended with me picking up the toys, me physically taking him to the sink to wash up . . . me doing each thing.  It was much quicker and easier that way.

The problem was Luke wasn’t learning to do these things for himself.  The other problem was I was tired and frustrated.

When I was a teacher, I learned a little bit about the theory and language behind Love and Logic.  So, two months ago, I read a book that applies Love and Logic to parenting.  My husband and I have been trying it with Luke and the results have been wonderful.  I feel like I’m training myself NOT to do what I usually do, more than training my son what to do. 

Here are some examples which I hope will inspire and encourage anyone else who has been struggling with this. 

Scenario #1:  Toys Everywhere

Old Way:  Nag Luke, plead with Luke, eventually threaten a consequence or pick up the toys with him (with us doing most of the work)

Trying Something New:  Using Love and Logic language, we said, “Luke, when the toys are all picked up, we’d love to have you join us for dinner.”  This was about ten minutes before we planned to eat.  Luke continued to play.  We weren’t sure how he’d respond, so hubs and I had decided beforehand that we’d stick to that phrase and leave his food on the table until the dishes were done after dinner.  At that point, we’d put his food away and he’d have to wait until breakfast.  Both of us were wary of this happening, but reassured ourselves that he would be okay.  When dinner was ready, hubs and I sat down, prayed, and began to eat.  Luke noticed and came to his chair.  We repeated, “When the toys are all picked up, we’d love to have you join us for dinner.”  He stared at us for a long moment, went over to the toys, and picked them up.  We were amazed.  No tantrum, no whining, and most of all, no nagging!  Our voices remained cheerful and we didn’t make a big deal about the mess or the cleaning up.  Tidying up was just part of what people do before they eat dinner.

Scenario #2:  Shoes or No Shoes?

Old Way:  Nag Luke to bring his shoes to me, finally get his shoes myself, wrestle them on and put him in the car seat.

Trying Something New:  “Luke, we’ll be going to the library and store soon.  Grab your shoes!  After I get baby brother in the car, the car will be leaving.”  Luke ran around in the front yard barefoot while I strapped brother in.  I was very tempted to revert to my old ways (what am I going to do with a barefoot kid out and about?).  I managed to stay quiet and cheerful.  I said, “Micah’s in the car!  The car is leaving.”  I scooped Luke into his seat, buckled him, and we drove off.  He noticed the lack of shoes.  “You have my shoes?” he asked.  “No, I think they’re at home,” I said.  At the library, I returned books in the drive by slot.  Luke noticed.  “We go inside?”  I replied, “Oh, not today.  We can’t walk in the library without our shoes on.”  At the grocery store, I grabbed a cart and put him in the seat, his little bare feet dangling down.  “No, Mama!  I walk!”  I said, “Darn it!  We need to wear shoes in the store so we don’t hurt our feet on anything.  Maybe next time.”  As we shopped, he kept muttering to himself, “Maybe next time….maybe next time wear my shoes….”  Since that trip, he has been grabbing his shoes quickly when we are preparing to leave the house. 

Finally, Today’s Little Scenario:  Cup in the Garage

Old Way:  Nag Luke to bring his water cup from the car back into the house; give a time out if he refuses.

Trying Something New:  I held out his cup for him to take into the house.  He said, “No!” and walked away.  I said, “Okay.  No problem” and set his cup right there on the garage floor.  I moved on to taking the groceries and baby inside.  I assumed Luke would leave the cup until lunch was ready, at which point he’d realize he wanted it and go get it.  Much to my surprise, he picked it up and took it in to the table right as soon as I began taking the groceries in.  We are both starting to learn - - me, to stop taking responsibility that’s not mine; and Luke, to start accepting responsibility that’s his.

There’s a lot more to learn and a lot more to explore with this, but for now, I’m feeling freer and more peaceful in letting go of nagging.

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Grace-Filled Expectations

 “I’m so glad you’re here.”

I wept, and whispered those words over and over, my lips against my newborn son’s tiny ear.  He lay against my chest; the umbilical cord still connecting us.  Together, we began to breathe normally, peacefully.  I was really happy to meet my son.  However, in that moment, “I’m so glad you’re here” meant “I’m so very relieved that the excruciating pain is over now.” 

With my first son, I’d given birth at the hospital with an epidural.  Then I learned a lot about how God made my body to do this tough work well.  So, the second time around, I chose to have a home birth.    As the due date approached and then passed, I was increasingly looking forward to the big event.  I meditated on truths written on 3x5 cards that I taped to the wall next to the birthing tub in my room.  I was ready.

Because I prayed, because we had worship music playing, because I repeated my affirmations and visualized God there with me, I expected the delivery to be peaceful.  Not pain-free, but definitely serene and spiritual. 

Instead, I was so overcome by the sheer force of birth that all I could do was scream my head off.  I was not graceful, I was not pretty, I wasn’t even strong, really.  My body just took over.  The best I could do was to accept all of it.  In the days afterward, I kept thinking, ‘Why wasn’t I able to keep myself together like I’d imagined?  Why wasn’t I tougher?’   

I think things like that a lot.  Why am I not a prettier, stronger version of myself when life is painful and difficult?  It’s not enough that I’m going through the pain, but I have to add these unrealistic expectations on how I get through it. 

What if I could look at myself like a friend would?  If I were a friend looking at this birth I’d say:

“Oh my goodness.  I can’t believe how hard those contractions hit you.  You made it!  You did it!  Dang, good job, mama!”

If I go deeper still, what if I looked at myself from God’s perspective?

“Wow.  Isn’t life amazing?  Isn’t my creation amazing?  I created your body well and it all worked out!  Praise Me for this gift of bringing a precious life into the world through you!”

It seems like there will always be a little something in my life that feels too much to bear.  Maybe I wasn’t designed to get through it in a pretty way.  Maybe I was made to be gloriously dependent on God.  And that, is beautiful.