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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