Scar Stories

“… and by his wounds we are healed.”

~Isaiah 53:5b

Inspiration comes from the strangest of places when you’re me-- my chickens, food (okay, LOTS of food), laundry soap … clearly, God knows that I am one abstract chick, so He goes outside the box when reminding me of life lessons.  Today’s journey takes us to the pediatrician’s office …

            My poor little buddy- if there is one thing you do not need in elementary school, it’s an additional target for teasing.  We’ve dodged a lot of the icky boogities (that is too a word, my mama told me so!) that seem to love children.  No head lice (thank you, LORD, for boys with short hair!), scabies or impetigo have crept into our homes yet, but we did have to take one of my kids in to get a wart removed from his finger.  He wasn’t afraid of the treatment, he wasn’t afraid of the doctor, but he was quite mortified that anyone aside from his mom would know what lurked beneath the bandage.

            We had tried every over-the-counter medication and a few homeopathic remedies, but this little menace kept coming back.  It was time to bring in the big guns; in this case, a liquid nitrogen variety. 

            As we sat in the office, waiting for the doctor, I could tell my son was nervous.  As a mother, it’s my job to calm him down, reassure him and be a safe place for him.  While I was trying to do that on the outside, on the inside, I was thinking, “Oh dear, I didn’t trim his fingernails!  They’re going to think this is just a lack of hygiene and bad parenting issue, I’m sure of it!  We used hand sanitizer on the way in, but did he wash his hands before we left?  I can’t remember.  His ears are clean, that’s something.  Wait-- is that toothpaste on his shoulder?  Oh well, at least he’ll know I make him brush his teeth …”  Hmmmmm, can you imagine where my child would get these irrational fears of his? 

            When the doctor came in, I braced myself for questions regarding what we had and hadn’t tried, washing regimens and the like, but what I witnessed was quite the opposite.  This dear man (who, I found out later, is also a father of three little boys himself) gently approached my son, asked to see his fingers, took a few notes and then held out his own hands, to reveal several tiny scars.  He told us that warts just seem to love little kids, and when he was young, he had them all over his hands and feet.  He empathized that they can be embarrassing and hard to get rid of, but he would do his best to take care of things as quickly and painlessly as he could. 

            I don’t know what it is about doctors, but it seems so easy to forget that they, like the rest of us are people.  They don’t start out life in miniature lab coats and nitrile exam gloves, they start out as little kids, just like the rest of us.  They get colds, break their arms, and yes, they too can get warts!  They live in the same world we do, with the same frail bodies.  Because their job is to heal, we forget that there are times when they too, need healing of their own. 

            I began to think about what life would be like as Christians if we, in stead of strutting about proclaiming our vast knowledge of how to live a perfect life, spent time with hurting people and showing our “scars.”  Hope feels a whole lot more real when you know that the life-changing gospel isn’t just something mature Christians read about to help those “poor, lost sinners.”  The world needs to know that we don't just share The Word to help others, but because it is our hope and saving grace!

            Just as the doctor had to risk someone thinking less of him by discussing a virus he had in his youth, we too, risk others removing us from a pedestal.  Frankly, can hurt one’s pride quite a bit—and maybe that’s needed.  We all know that Jesus was willing to sacrifice himself for us, but his humility began much earlier.  The God of the universe was willing to take human form from a very humble family.  Of his own free will, he chose to sleep in a feed box, poop in a diaper, skin his knees, maybe even get a pimple or two in his teen years, hang out with fishermen and endure the human experience at large, just so he could empathize with us.

As Jesus stretches out his nail-scarred hands to help us, are we willing to follow his example?  Will we reach out to others, sharing our lives, “warts and all?”  

Close to home: Amy's "Quit blaming society" rant

            I hear people frequently blaming the cultural shift toward violence, narcissism, lawlessness and bullying on the lack of prayer in school.  As someone who grew up in a post-school prayer culture, I disagree.  I believe the shift began a generation or two beforehand, and the answer doesn’t lie in changing how the school operates. 

            It may shock a few people when I tell you that I, an out loud, in public, self-proclaimed Christian tell you that I don’t actually want a corporate-led school prayer in my kids’ school.  Why?  Because my children go to public school, and we would have to include the beliefs (or lack thereof) of all families in said prayer.  It would be watered down, meaningless and, I believe, would not please God any more than the pledge of allegiance.  Do I think schools need prayer?  YES!  Do I think teachers and students should pray both on and off campus?  YES!  But this does not begin at school, dear readers, I believe it begins at HOME—but more about that later …

            I believe there were many parents in the mid-twentieth century who were rather relieved to know that Sunday school teachers and public school teachers alike were teaching their children about God, because it got them “off the hook.”  Drop them off at Sunday school, endure an hour of church and put them in a good school district, and you’re covered, right?  Throw in a memorized prayer at mealtime and bedtime (no need to bother explaining what they mean) and you can spend much of your life uncluttered by God.  No answering tricky questions, no moral dilemmas, just do what you must to ensure that your sons don’t go to prison and your daughters don’t end up in a family way. 

            My mother didn’t grow up in a home like that.  Yes, they prayed in school, but her home life was different than many of her peers.  Her father, until his last year of life, rejected the idea of God entirely.  He didn’t darken the door of a church unless someone was getting married or buried, and didn’t so much as close his eyes during prayers before meals.  My Grandma, uncles and mother went to church without grandpa, and he didn’t care who knew it.  He didn’t mind everyone else in the house going, but he didn’t want to talk about it.  And yet, my mother and uncles are believers to this day. 

Why did that happen?  I believe it occurred because my grandmother didn’t expect anyone else to teach her family about God.  She read her Bible, not just in Church, but every day.  Her prayers were not limited to church and mealtimes, they were an integral part of her life.  Her faith was not a social obligation like the PTA or gardening club, it was part of her life.  This legacy would help my mother to raise her daughters in a post-church society.    

            Most of my life, I was raised in the most un-churched state in the nation, in a time when only a handful of kids went to church and schools didn’t mention the name of God, under threat of lawsuits.  I was taught evolution, that protection was important because “After all, you crazy kids are gonna do it anyway,” and that my self esteem was the most important aspect of my life.  That, however, is not what I believed then, nor is it what I believe now. 

            My parents, like their parents before them, lived out their faith as part of our daily life.  My mother didn’t shelter me from what the school taught me, she simply explained how we believed differently and why. (For example, I was taught that yes, I was unique, special and wonderful-- and so was EVERYONE ELSE, which is why treating them with love and respect was important to God, therefore, important to us.)  She prayed for me in the car when a test was coming or a bully was bothering me, and I could feel her prayers during the day.  I knew that I could pray anytime, anywhere, and I did.  My childhood and adult life were different from many of my peers, not because I went to a Christian school, or lived in some sort of time warp (as it was rumored in my high school, where my nickname was “Sister Mary Catherine").  My parents’ living out our faith in a way that was as natural as breathing, however, was responsible.

         It's not as easy as my parents made it look, for sure.  Sleeping in on some Sundays would be awesome.  My children ask questions at inconvenient times.  I have to tell my children why what I just did is not what we believe, and APOLOGIZE for being a bad example. *cringe*  I'll come out and say it, sometimes fulfilling my parental obligation to teach my children is a pain.  It would be easier if I let the school be responsible for more of my kids' outcome, but it's really not their job.  Just as it's my job to teach them manners, so they don't belch at their teachers while learning geometry, it's my job to raise moral, loving, interdependent children.  EEK!  Here's another reason why living out my faith is so important, on my own, I'm not so good at this. I need the prayer, Bible reading and faith-building as much as my children do-- maybe more.   

           

          My hope is that we stop blaming society for how our kids grow up.  If you look back to biblical history, ours is not the first to have to raise children counter to the culture in which we live.  If we want God back in other parts of our society, we need to start where all learning begins-- at home.  

Notebook Paper Protective Covering (and other doomed ideas)

For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, declares the LORD.

Isaiah 55:8

Cooler evenings are a wonderful break for we, the web-footed Washingtonians, who become grumpy and lethargic when our thermostats dare break past 85.  One particularly toasty day had caused a case of the uber-grumps.  As soon as the temperature on our front porch read lower than our family room, I grabbed a bowl and headed out to pick huckleberries.  My eldest son, Alan, soon followed, saying his brother wouldn't join him, because he was "working on something."  That "something" is in the photo you see above you-- well, that's one of them, anyway ...

Wyatt was rather toasty still, and couldn't find his shorts.  Rather than ask for help, he decided to walk outside in his little boxer-briefs and two pieces of paper, both of which read: "Too gross to see." 

He explained that he was too hot to wear pants, and didn't want us to get a ticket for "indecent exposure."  While I was fairly certain that our local sheriff's department would probably see my son as more of an adorable source of amusement than cause for a fine, I told him we should probably find another way to help him keep cool.  

"No, mommy," my son protested, I'm just fine like this!  As long as I don't move sideways and I always hold my signs, nobody will see that I'm wearing just my underwear.  I will stay cool and I won't be breaking any laws.  My plan will work!"       

I asked him how he could pick berries, play on the swing set or ride his scooter like that, and asked him if he was sure he didn't want me to help him think of another solution-- which lead to my little man dropping his signs, curling up into a ball on my porch and sobbing, "My plans just NEVER work!  My whole day will be TERRIBLE!"  

With that, my heart hurt for my defeated son-- not just because he was so upset, but because he felt unnecessarily hopeless.  I knew right where his shorts were in his drawer, and I would have been happy to help him.  Unfortunately, Wyatt's encounters two gigantic hurdles when dealing with situations like this: 1.) he has to look at the situation from an angle he did not previously calculate or expect, and 2.) he has to ask for help.  Those may seem like little speed bumps to you, but for someone on the autism spectrum, they are mountains.  

My first instinct was to scoop him up, bring him inside and put on his shorts for him.  That would be less drama for everyone, right?  Well, in the short term, yes.  However, these skills will not become less of a need in his life, nor will they become easier without practice.  I have to walk the tedious, repetitious and frequently frustrating road of gently coaching him, but not forcing him.  Empowering him, but not enabling him to sit back and expect that someone else will always do things for him, especially if he does not communicate the need for assistance.  It's exhausting.  It's relentless.  It's --exactly what God does with me.  

I cannot count the number of times I have conjured up what I had conceived to be the perfect plan for my life.  In my little human perception, I had thought everything through, and all I needed was for God to secure my little paper plans in place, and I'd be SET!  I hadn't bothered asking God for his opinion on the matter, since, after all, I had it all worked out!  "Just bring on the supernatural superglue, LORD, and I'm good to go!" 

When He says "no" to helping me bring a doomed plan into fruition, I seldom even consider that I'm being spared from something disastrous.  No, I generally sit on my bed, wondering when I will come up with the perfect plan, lamenting how hard my life will be, since I can't have what I THINK I want or need. 

Finding the right path in my life takes two difficult steps: 1.) I have to admit that I might not have the best plan, and I need God's help (Mmmmmm, who wants a slice of humble pie?)  and 2.) I have to be willing to look at a situation in a way that might not even make sense to me.  

Once Wyatt got calm enough to ask me for help, he was NOT impressed with the suggestion I gave him.  I told him I would show him where they were in his drawer.  "No, mama-- they're not there!  I know they're not, because I already looked!"  Because I know my son, I know that he doesn't always look past the first layer in any given area.  I knew the shorts were UNDER the pants he had deemed "too hot to wear."  It took a lot of coaching, patience I do not naturally possess and biting my lip (at times until it nearly bled) for a good thirty minutes before we got this kiddo in shorts.  As I began to feel a sense of great accomplishment and just a hint of pride, I remembered how many days, weeks, months and sometimes YEARS God patiently waits for me to come around to His perfect, wonderful and amazingly compassionate plan for me!  

I'm so thankful that He doesn't just leave me locked outside, holding my pathetic little paper signs, convinced I've got it all figured out.  I've said many times that there is no manual for raising a highly inflexible, hyper-focused, highly intelligent, yet lacking in reason child like Wyatt, forgetting that my Heavenly Father made both my children!  He is on call 24/7, waiting for me to simply ask Him for guidance and possibly embrace a new avenue!  I know I certainly didn't expect spiritual growth to come from my son tromping outside in His skivvies-- just more proof that His ways are NOT our ways! 

An iPad, Glow in the dark bubbles, and a trip to Bora-Bora

Those are just a few of the items on Wyatt's birthday list-- or rather, his animated powerpoint presentation.  He was rather offended that I wouldn't give him birthday spankings (some traditions are just unwise when you live with a highly literal autistic child!), but he reveled in his special day none the less.  Birthdays with Wyatt have always been like my boy himself-- a little off the beaten path, but a genuine celebration of life. 

Wyatt's first birthday had me panicking about something completely stupid-- my toddler was not toddling.  I remember trying to help him take steps while holding my hands-- he wasn't having any of it.  I had no idea at the time that my son was autistic, I just assumed that he needed a gentle nudge in the right direction.  By the time our guests were arriving, I let my agenda slide for the first time all day and admitted defeat.  "Oh well," I thought to myself, "I'll just let him play with paper and bows and smash cake all over his highchair.  I'm sure Einstein wasn't walking by his first birthday, either."

When I let go of my plans for the day, I enjoyed watching my son reveling in the crinkling paper (while ignoring his presents).  While the cake was mysterious at first, once he got going, he coated everything within his reach in frosting.  Because I let go of his lack of walking, I was able to enjoy my son.  

We've had our share of "unique" birthdays.  We had years when we had to whisper the birthday song (while facing the opposite direction), just so Wyatt wouldn't get overwhelmed and cry.  To help Wyatt tolerate people at his parties, we let him watch movies while we opened his presents. He had cake and Veggietales-- what was not to like?  Again, this is probably not in Martha Stewart's "how to entertain" manual, but Wyatt loved it.  

Now that he's a big eight-year-old, he enjoys the birthday song.  He still loves having control of the remote on his birthday, but he also loves being with us now.  Also, I wouldn't dare attempt to open his presents now-- he enjoys it far too much!  

That being said, we still keep things low-key.  Not too many friends, no pinatas (again, an ASD can of worms I do NOT wish to open) and Chuck E. Cheese is always warned to stay FAR AWAY from my mascot-loathing son.  And just when I think I've got this all figured out, Wyatt starts fretting over the weather forecast (even though his party will be INDOORS) or asks for a trip to Bora Bora for his birthday.  Perhaps the only thing I should expect on June first is the unexpected-- which, as I have learned first hand, can often be quite wonderful.  

As I stroked the sweat-dampened hair of my youngest son tonight, I thought about what a gift my son has been to ME for the past eight years.  Unexpected?  Always.  Frustrating?  Often.  Worth every minute of it? ALWAYS!!!  

My precious little boy, thank you for changing my life in ways I never knew I needed.  I can't give you Bora Bora, but I promise to continually fight for you, love you no mater what and bathe you in prayer as long as I have breath in my body.  Happy Birthday, Wyatt!  

Point, Click, Purchase

Black Friday was rather unconventional for me this year. Normally, I’m hopping out of bed at 4:00, putting on my Christmas sweater and heading to Cutters Point for my first 24 oz. quad shot rice milk peppermint white mocha of the season. Why? Because I’m headed to Fred Meyer, Kohl’s and (if I’m feeling especially brave) Wal-Mart, of course! My mommy, sisters and I head out and shop till we drop, hoping to have all our Christmas presents (plus our families’ holiday clothes, winter jammies, socks and underthings for the year) purchased at rock-bottom prices by lunch time. This year, however, was fairly unconventional.

First of all, I wasn’t in my neck of the woods—I was chillin’ with my parents in Ocean Shores! I had intended to possibly drive thirty minutes to Aberdeen (the closest chain-shopping area), but that didn’t happen. After a full day of cooking, I was exhausted. At seven weeks post-surgery, my energy level, while leaps and bounds higher than it was in the hospital, is still not at 100%. I woke up a good four hours later than I usually do on Black Friday and only purchased 7 gifts. My money may not have all been spent—but I sure was! The rest of my shopping was done in my parents’ living room online. Point, click and purchase.

This year, I needed the simplicity that online shopping offers, and I’m glad I did it. However, I’ll be happy when next year rolls around and I’m in ship-(shopping) shape! I don’t mind grabbing the odd specialty item on amazon.com, but doing the majority of my purchasing in front of a screen left me feeling hollow. After a few days of reflecting, I understand why …

Even if I’m sitting next to my sisters on “Laptop Island” (otherwise known as my parents’ living room couch), I’m looking at a blaring monitor, not them. Having someone send you a link from four feet away doesn’t feel the same as Laura holding up an article of clothing and squealing, “Sissy, look at this!”

I missed the greeters at Fred Meyer, who offer a smile, hot cider, coffee and doughnuts to all the shoppers. I missed talking to strangers in the sock aisle. Even the simple act of being handed a receipt feels better to this extrovert than a confirmation email— clearly, I NEED face time!

Purchasing the gifts themselves felt less like shopping and more like paying a bill. My transaction doesn’t feel “real,” because I don’t have anything in my hands. When I leave a store, I have presents in my pretty holiday bags. Online gifts, however, arrive a week later in ugly cardboard boxes. It feels cold and impersonal.

Even if I know precisely what I’m looking for, there’s something about going down the aisle and choosing the gift myself. Even if there are dozens of identical items, the object I hold in my hand is exclusively for someone I love. How do I know that someone in a warehouse isn’t going to grab a scratched, dented box? I don’t. Even if inspector #29 really cares about his/her job, I know they don’t care like I do. After four thousand dolls cross their conveyer belt, will they notice that this particular specimen is having a really bad hair day? Probably not—after all, they only see a toy. As an auntie, however, I see a precious playmate for my niece, which I would prefer not to look as though she has had an unfortunate episode with a light socket.

So much of the communication in our lives today feels terribly impersonal. Facebook with my family is a blast, but it doesn’t compare with our genuine time together. There is no emoticon that adequately captures Janet’s “snerd face.” LOL does not truly express Laura’s infectious, doubled-over laughter. “*Hug*” cannot possibly encourage, comfort or express my mother’s love. While technology has its place in my life, it will never replace my need to be with family and friends.

As I say this, my list of things to do is already reeling in my head. This time of year, when my schedule becomes crazier than usual, it’s so easy to miss out on time with people in the name of preparing their gifts, food and cards. Perhaps I’ll put a sticky note on my monitor to remind me of the importance of scheduling genuine “face time.”

Keepin’ It Real Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” John 8:32

My niece Heidi was Christmas-crazy, as most kids are. Even into her young adult life, she was passionate about my Mother-In-Law’s sugar cookies (they are LIFE-CHANGING), festive hair accessories and Christmas music. However, NOTHING outshone her seasonal soapbox: the necessity of a real, cut from the tree farm, pine-smelling, needle-dropping, water-requiring Christmas tree. Oh, how she threw a fit when my in-laws joined the artificial bandwagon! “It’s not a Christmas tree if it’s not real! I will never have a fake tree in my house!” she quipped, as her blond ponytail bobbed up and down with conviction. As Grandma Munson playfully shoved a sugar cookie in her mouth, she wrinkled her nose and bit down. As the molecules of carbohydrate and fat nirvana entered her blood stream, she seemed to subdue a bit. However, the fiery glimmer in her eyes warned, “I will continue this discussion after the sugar coma wears off!” I don’t suppose you would see a melancholy turn to this story, unless you knew Heidi’s story. Be forewarned, it’s about to go there … 

 We lost Heidi before she ever had her own “house.” On April 9, 2004– just before her twentieth birthday, she was killed in an accident. I had expected that Easter to be a struggle, but Christmas hit me like a ton of bricks that year. There were so many reasons to find joy that Christmas; little Alan was nearly three, and genuinely understood what was going on for the first time. We had four stockings beneath our tree (we didn’t have a mantle) for the first time; the smallest of which would have baby food and board books for little Wyatt. Our little nuclear family felt complete for the first time, but the gaping hole in our extended family was painfully evident. It came to me in waves, splashing cold reality on my face. The present she’d asked for last year was on the cover of a catalog. I couldn’t look at candy without thinking of my little sugar fiend. The tree sales … well, I’m sure that don’t have to tell you that it’s awkward to explain why you’re crying about cub scouts selling fresh trees. But I was fine—I had my little family, lots of friends and by golly, I was going to make this a fantastic year! Embracing the season with all that I could muster, I over-spent on presents, baked more cookies than usual, drank enough peppermint mochas and eggnog fraps to sustain a coffee franchise and blared Christmas music. It seemed to be working … until Christmas day, when I was greeted by my brother-in-law, Eric. As he hugged me, his hollow eyes expressed what made this year different. There would no tiny-framed blondie sticking her head in the door, explaining why she was late. The floral couch in my in-law’s living room would not have Heidi sprawled across it, taking a nap. (Heidi was always either bouncing off the walls or tired—there was no in between!) There would be one less grandchild checking for Hershey kisses tucked into Grandma Munson’s Santa ornaments. There was no hiding how Christmas morning had gone for their family. While we were opening presents, Eric mentioned that Heidi’s Christmas music box had gone around just one time that morning—as if she was sending a little “hello” on her favorite holiday. That bittersweet moment seemed to weave in and out of Christmas day, signifying the dreams to come that night … I dreamt that Heidi was in the family room, talking to me. When I reached out to hug her, she disappeared. I awakened with hot tears stinging my cheeks, clinging to my husband’s arm for comfort. It made me feel less alone, but it didn’t make me feel better. 

For the next few days, feelings of anger, sadness and betrayal stewed inside me, until the dam broke. While hanging up my festive red sweater in my closet, I started yelling, screaming and crying out to God about how betrayed, robbed and empty I had felt that year. For the first time, I chose to shed the artificiality of filling the season with “stuff” and got “real” about our first Christmas without Heidi. My soapbox moment was simply between myself and God, in the awkward, yet private solitude of my walk-in closet. Yes, she was in a better place, but we were still here. And that, for lack of a better word, completely sucked. When I admitted the true confines of my heart, God was not surprised. Surprisingly, after I’d blamed, demanded and shouted at the Ruler of the Universe, I felt Him comforting me. I wasn’t “better,” but I was honest. 

On this, my seventh holiday season without her, I don’t have to “force” the Christmas spirit. I genuinely enjoy this season, but Christmas isn’t my favorite holiday, like it used to be. Christmas makes me miss my Heidi. It also reminds me that between now and Easter, I’m going to have another anniversary of that terrible day. I think it’s okay to be real about that. You can love Christmas and still struggle with depression this time of year. I also know that some of you have lost someone so close to you that it causes you to dread the entire season. (Read my friend Elizabeth Grant’s blog post on this subject— she inspired me to write this post: http://www.lifeinpencil.com/wp/) While well-meaning people may want you to “move on,” it’s okay to respectfully, but unapologetically say that you’re not ready. In her short life, Heidi unintentionally caused me contemplate the importance of a genuine life. Just as real trees drop needles, dry out, cause allergies to flare up and make cleaning up Christmas more complicated, honesty can complicate things. While the truth is not always easy to admit to ourselves (or accept from others), there is nothing more freeing. When extending honesty, The Father will guide our words, providing both clarity and sensitivity, if only we ask Him. Whether you embrace fresh trees or the artificial variety, a light-up nativity scene on the front lawn or a simple ceramic table display this season, my hope and prayer is that we would “keep it real” where it really counts—within the confines of our hearts.

*Thanks to kokoloveguam on flicker for the non-commercial use of this lovely tree photo :)

Lord, change my life-- but make it familiar and easy ...

The way of a fool seems right to him, but a wise man listens to advice.
Prov. 12:15

I want to try new things … but I want them to come with all the knowledge and experience of someone who’s been doing it all their lives, so I don’t look like an idiot. Isn’t that what we all want? A change that feels completely comfortable and familiar? That would be fantastic, but sadly, it’s not the world we live in.

I have been upheld by some as a gluten-free magician who touches rice flour and it turns to ambrosia. First of all, there are a lot of failures that continue to take place in my kitchen. (One of the perks of having dogs and chickens is disposing of the evidence without guilt!) While I can rattle all my allergens off my tongue with the greatest of ease (and cook accordingly) now, there was a time when the grocery store was the most frightening place on earth …

Even in the health food stores, I was terrified to shop alone. I simply could not avoid all of the allergens on my list without an extra pair of eyes. Besides, I needed emotional support for the frequent letdowns I experienced. I’d find a cereal that looked safe, when suddenly; I would see one of THOSE words in teensy letters on the ingredient list: cornstarch, nonfat milk powder, soy, coconut flour, quinoa… There I was, in the “gluten-free” aisle, and I still couldn’t find a thing to eat. I have literally cried in every local grocery store within a fifteen mile radius—in fact, I actually threw a full-blown tantrum in Fred Meyer!

No, I don’t mean I read the manager the riot act, stormed off in a huff or shouted that I’d never shop there again, I mean I stomped my feet, put my head in my hands and let out a primal scream in the natural foods section! I had been going up and down every aisle of the store for an hour, and I had almonds, lettuce and raspberries in my cart. That was it. I was so hungry, so exhausted and so afraid to embark on changing every recipe that I knew and loved, that I desperately wanted to find something in a box, bag or frozen container to eat. I couldn’t bake from scratch; I didn’t know how to bake! That required measuring, and I always lost count of how many cups of flour I’d dumped into a bowl. Now, I had been told that I had to use all these combined flours, which were expensive, confusing and hard to pronounce! No gluten. No peanuts. No dairy. No soy. No corn. No cranberries! It just wasn’t fair! And I decided in that moment, that Fred. G. Meyer (May he rest in peace) was to blame.

I called my husband and told him that I just couldn’t shop that day. He understood, and told me to come home. I fell apart into his arms the moment I walked in the door, and all over groceries! This was insanity!

That night, I decided that I was done attempting to live out of a box, bag or frozen container for the rest of my life. There had to be food that would be good for me, not too complicated, and maybe—just maybe, the whole family could eat, so I wouldn’t have to make multiple meals every night. The more I googled, the more I found hope for a delicious future! I called all my gluten-free friends and asked them what they ate, where they got it and how much it cost. Because my friends are amazing, my friend Karyl invited me to her house, virtually emptied an entire shelf of her pantry and urged me to take it all home. Knowledgeable staff at Nature’s Market looked at my loooooong list of allergies (unphased) and showed me where “safe” brands were on their shelves. I bonded with strangers in the frozen food aisle, as we marveled at gluten-free bagels and Hemp ice cream.
Through this adventure, my family really stood by me. My children cheered when I found cereal that was “mommy friendly.” When my husband and I saw a commercial for food that I could eat, we instantly high-fived one another. I continued to grumble about corn starch and hydrogenated soybean oil (we may or may not use them as faux-curse words in our home) under my breath, but the toddleresque display of shopping visits past no longer haunted me.

Over a year and a half later, I LOVE to grocery shop! I thoroughly enjoy baking (by weight—something I never would have learned, had it not been for my new life!) and I now look for people in PCC with that “deer in the headlights” look and a piece of paper with allergen levels on it. I tell them it’s going to be okay—not because I’ve always been a GF rock star, but because I have gone through the struggles of family gatherings, parties and restaurants with no gluten-free menu, and learned from them. If I had skated through this ordeal, what would I have to offer them? How would I know which cookies to feed my son—whom we discovered also has food allergies?

It’s truly amazing what we learn when we realize how little we know …

Father, thank you for the moments of uncertainty, frailty and yes, even insanity! Though I’d love to bury my past at times, allow me to remember it, that I might help others and not forget from whence I came and who brought me here!