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.
