Ordinary Miracles

Today, I made my son a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch.

No big deal, right? It’s the most ordinary thing in the entire world. Except that if you had tried to give him a peanut butter sandwich a week ago, I would have come at you like--what are those guys on the football team called who run really fast and tackle you?--like one of those dive-tackle guys. Because for the past two and a half years, he was allergic to even a tiny amount of peanuts and we had to avoid them completely.

As anyone who's ever grocery shopped with me can attest, I am quite experienced at reading nutrition and ingredient labels. But before Noah (and then Sarah) had a food allergy diagnosis, I had no idea that those “contains nuts” or “made in a facility with…” labels would ever be such a big deal for our family.

We first noticed an issue with Noah when he was about 18 months old. Easter week was his first time having more than a little bit of chocolate, and he broke out in huge welt-like hives all over his legs and bottom after eating some Easter candy and a chocolate chip M&M cookie from Subway. The Ask-A-Nurse hotline thought it was diaper rash and suggested putting cream on it (hence why phone consults and Dr. Google are not always a great treatment plan). We figured he was allergic to chocolate and would mention it at his next checkup. I’d been holding off on giving him peanut butter until he was two, so it never crossed my mind that the reaction to chocolate would have anything to do with that. So we cut out chocolate and had no more problems for the next few months.

Right before his second birthday, we were out to lunch in Albion and his kids meal came with a cookie. I checked it out--no chocolate, but it smelled like peanut butter. Mike and I looked at each other and shrugged, thinking, “He’s almost two, we’re in town (as opposed to at home, 20 minutes from the hospital)...might as well give it a shot!” He took one bite of the cookie and refused the rest, which should have been a red flag with our sugar-loving toddler. We packed up and left the restaurant and stopped in at church to change his diaper before heading home. When I laid him down to change him, his whole chest and belly were covered in a rash of red bumps, though not the hives like he’d had before with the chocolate.

Here’s where we screwed up. As it turned out, what he was reacting to in the chocolate months before was trace amounts of peanuts, since M&Ms and many other kinds of chocolate candy are made on the same factory lines as products with peanuts. Generally speaking, each exposure to an allergen can cause increasingly serious reactions. Knowing what I now know about allergic reactions, we should have taken him to the ER or at the very least, the family doctor, right away. But his two year checkup was scheduled for a couple days later, so we thought we’d just wait and ask about it then. Thankfully, he did not have any other severe symptoms with his reaction. But when we described the situation to his primary doctor (who could still see the rash days later), she referred us to the allergist right away, and that’s when we confirmed a peanut allergy. At least with Sarah, we knew what to watch for. When she developed a similar rash after eating bakery bread at 7 months old, we were not too surprised to find out she was allergic to eggs and dairy products, which were not listed ingredients, but probably in the bread through cross contact in the bakery.

I have learned so much about food allergies in the past couple years, from helpful websites like FARE and following lots of allergy mom blogs, but the thing that made the severity of it sink in for me was the story of 13-year-old Natalie Giorgi, who died after accidentally biting into a Rice Krispie treat topped with peanut butter at a family camp in California. Her parents (including her dad, who is a doctor) did everything right: they were with her, she told them right away, and they gave her Benadryl, since her reaction did not seem severe right away. She had no history of anaphylaxis and as soon as she showed signs, they called 911 and administered 3 doses of epinephrine, but it wasn’t enough to save her life.

It blows my mind that as parents, we can do everything by the book, try to follow every guideline, and still...there are no guarantees. You can eat organic foods during pregnancy, put your babies to sleep on their backs, breastfeed for a year (or more!), limit screen time, use your carseat correctly...and yet, your babies are never really as safe as you want them to be. I sometimes affectionately joke that Noah is such a mama’s boy that he would crawl back into the womb, given the chance, but I think the truth of it is, that’s about the last time I felt like he was safe from this terrifying world. With Sarah and the difficult pregnancy I had with her, my worries began even sooner.

And yet...we send them out there. Our precious babies (even the big grown-up-sized ones). Into the terrifying world. Every day.  Into cars that could careen into the ditch. Into schools that could have rampaging gunmen. Into cafeterias full of poisonous peanut butter sandwiches. Why do we do that? WHAT KIND OF PARENTS ARE WE, ANYWAY?!?!

The very best kind. Because being a parent means wearing your heart outside your body for the rest of your life. It means knowing that the places that could kill them are also places that give them life.

So we send them into cars--safely buckled--and give thanks that they will visit new places and experiences beyond our home. We send them into schools--with a hug and a prayer--and give thanks for teachers who nurture their minds and hearts. We send them into cafeterias--with a (mostly) healthy lunch--and give thanks for the friendships and laughter and maybe even the peanut-free table for the allergy kids that they’ll find there.

Because that’s where the miracles happen. The ordinary, everyday miracles of life: adventure; discovery; relationships. And the extraordinary miracles--like getting the all-clear from the allergist that Noah had outgrown his allergy--those call for a special celebration!

As I made that sandwich this afternoon, I breathed a prayer of thanks that such a very ordinary thing as a PBJ had become an extraordinary reminder of the faith and trust it takes to raise a child. Although I’m incredibly grateful that Noah has outgrown his allergy, I’m also glad I’ve learned so much about a condition that affects a rapidly increasing number of kids--including both of my own. Someday, our experience and knowledge could save a child’s life. Whether it’s my kid or someone else’s makes no difference--we belong to each other, as Glennon always reminds us.

In the midst of all my deep thoughts about peanut butter, I’ll tell you one last important thing I learned today...

It turns out the kid doesn’t like jelly. Go figure.

Do you want to learn more about how to keep kids with food allergies safe and recognize the signs of a life-threatening allergic reaction? Good, you should! Visit the FARE website and do it today!

An Act of Faith

It's planting season here in Nebraska. The drive from our house to town is 15 miles one way, and about 11 of those are on gravel roads, so we play a lot of Name That Farm Implement this time of year. My 4-year-old Noah (he's around 2 in this pic) is waaaay better at that game than I am...but then again, at least I'm better than I was when we moved here six years ago!

As I watched the tractors maneuver their huge planters around the fields the other day, I was thinking about how much farming has changed over the years. Granted, my agricultural knowledge is still fairly basic, but even I can see that advances in technology and science have made farming a vastly different enterprise than it was just a generation or two ago.

Then my train of thought meandered even farther back. (Did I mention the drive is 15 miles? Each way? There's only so many times a person can listen to the Frozen soundtrack.) The opening line of the parable of the sower from Matthew 13 came to mind: "A sower went out to sow..." In Jesus' time, there weren't any GPS-guided tractors depositing genetically-engineered seeds in precise rows...just a guy tossing handfuls of grain on the ground. Some went to waste when it fell on the path or the rocks, or the weeds choked it out. But the seed that landed on good soil bore fruit many times over.

Two thousand years ago, planting was an act of faith accompanied by a hell of a lot of hard work. But is it really all that different today? Sure, the mechanics have changed, but we still have no control over the weather (I'm guessing the sower would have been a big fan of crop insurance.) Farmers invest their time, energy, and resources into their enterprise, and then pray like crazy that it's not all for nothing.

Sometimes being a parent feels a lot like farming. You are a Grower of Children, forever planting seeds without knowing when, if, or how they will come to fruition. You read your kids books every night, sneak some broccoli into their mac 'n cheese, pew-wrestle with a wiggly toddler or two for an hour every Sunday, and then sometimes you can’t help wondering, is this really worth it?

But the thing is, we know our kids are Good Soil, right? After all, they aren't just bits and pieces of us--God made them, too. It shouldn't be such a surprise when out of the blue one day, your bedtime bookworm sounds out a sentence on the back of a cereal box. Or your little squirmer starts singing the Alleluia after worship one Sunday (or in Noah's case, "Lamb of God, you take away the songs of the circus"...whatever. Close enough.). Maybe someday they will actually ask for the broccoli...stranger things have happened.

Parenting is an act of faith accompanied by a hell of a lot of hard work. And there are many other Growers of Children--teachers, aunts and uncles, child care providers, pastors, coaches...the list is long--who may or may not be parents themselves, but are planting and nurturing and praying right alongside them.

Listen up, oh ye weary Growers of Children. I've got some Good News for you. Jesus says, "But as for what was sown on good soil, this is the one who hears the word and understands it, who indeed bears fruit and yields" (Matthew 13:23).

Our little ones are Good Soil. We're doing our best, and God's working on them, too. Someday, those seeds will blossom. And when that day comes, I can guarantee you'll never see anything more beautiful.

"So let us not grow weary in doing what is right, for we will reap at harvest time, if we do not give up." Galatians 6:9

How to Be a Dance Mom

Last weekend, we attended the recital for the dance studio where Noah has been taking tumbling classes this past year. Naturally, after my 2.5 hour baptism by fire, I feel I have become an expert on the subject of being a Dance Mom.

That is a thing, you know...The Dance Mom. There’s even a terrifying “reality” TV show about it. From what I can tell, there are many mysterious rituals involved, all of which include the following items:

1. Hairspray

2. Spandex

3. Glitter

Thankfully, none of those items were necessary for Noah, who was sporting a classy buzz cut, basketball shorts, and a $2 Fruit of the Loom tank top.

Heaven help us when Sarah wants to take dance, because I’m guessing my hairstyle repertoire (ponytail, half ponytail, side ponytail, and...wait for it...TWO PONYTAILS) won’t quite cut it. But I digress.

If you’re wondering if you might be a Dance Mom, here are a few of the qualifications...

The Dance Mom must:

A. Be able to artfully administer the aforementioned hairspray, spandex, and glitter, while also keeping track of her child’s multiple costumes, shoes, hairpieces, and types of tights (did you know there were types of tights? I did not. I do now.)

B. Endure many, many weeks of shuttling her child (or children) to the appropriate classes, before and after which they will inevitably whine about how she is such a Mean Mom for making them go to this activity they begged her to sign them up for. Then there are the pictures, the dress rehearsal, the hours of getting ready...and, last but not least, the Dance Mom must...

C. ATTEND THE RECITAL.

Ah, the recital. There is a lot of waiting beforehand. It is warm in there. The Dance Mom must hydrate--but not too much, because she knows there will be a line for the ladies room at intermission! Not to mention she wouldn't want to leave during the show and risk missing the actual portion of the performance where her child is onstage. She comes armed with a camera (for a lucky few, this may be the Dance Dad’s department), several assorted relatives, a bag of activities for the younger siblings, and a bouquet of flowers for her tiny dancer, which she will try not to step on during the recital.

But the one thing she absolutely must not forget to bring is Kleenex, because that little--or not so little--dancer will make her so proud that she will be a weepy mess by the end of the night. The Dance Mom knows that it’s not about getting every step right or whether they’re on the beat or off in their own little world. It’s about the smiles and the enthusiasm and the pure joy of seeing her child onstage and beautiful and perfect in her own special way.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be a real Dance Mom. Although the kids and I have crafted an interpretive dance to "Let It Go" that is a sight to behold (yes, it involves ribbons and no, you may not see the video), the dance world might very well be better off without me and my complete lack of hot rollers and eye makeup products. But I can tell you that last weekend, my heart was so full of pride and joy for all the kids, including Noah, who did their best and saw it through to the end of the year, even when the going got tough.

And hey, this brand-new Dance Mom did at least one thing right--I didn’t squish his flower!

Wishing you peace and a joyful heart during this busy season of celebrations,

~Alison

Worth the Hurt?--My Messy Beautiful

Compassion sucks.

OK, not so much the whole concept, but actually living it…that’s a pain in the you-know-what.

If you can watch Hallmark movies, Sarah McLachlan commercials, and YouTube videos of soldiers meeting their babies for the first time without crying, stop reading right now because this does not apply to you.

But weepy people—listen up! This is for you. If you’ve ever given money you didn’t have to spare because the person asking really believed in the cause, you know what I mean.  If you’ve ever taken the time to ask a frazzled-looking service employee how her day is going (and listened to the answer), you know what I mean. If you’ve ever laid awake in anxious prayer for someone else’s precious child, you know what I mean.

Compassion hurts. It literally means to suffer along with someone. And while tearing up at a cheesy commercial may not be a big deal, feeling deeply for the pain of others is incredibly exhausting. I know because I’m one of those weepy people and sometimes, I get tired of it. I wish, for just a little while, that I could JUST NOT CARE. That I could let other people’s problems actually only be THEIR problems, because clearly I have enough problems of my own, thankyouverymuch.

In the nonprofit world, there’s actually a term called “compassion fatigue.” It means there’s only so much that donors can take before they simply shut down and can’t stomach one more appeal for donations, no matter how urgent the need or how worthy the cause. It’s like when the fourth Girl Scout comes knocking at your door and your freezer still has Thin Mints from last year (ok I know that’s a ridiculous example, but I’ve heard that some people actually don’t eat them all the first week. Whatever.)

When we lived in Ohio while my husband Mike was in seminary, I worked in fundraising for an international health and development organization. The mission of our U.S. office was to connect people and congregations in the States with the work of our partners in Haiti and the Dominican Republic. It was good work, and hard work, and holy work. And sometimes, it was downright miserable work. Not the “endless hours in a sweatshop” kind of misery, but the “sweet Lord Jesus, if I hold one more baby who has HIV and TB today, my heart is going to break into a million tiny pieces” kind of misery. When donations were slow or we ran into roadblocks in our work, my coworkers and I were doubly frustrated because not only were we failing at our jobs, but we were hurting along with these people dammit and why can’t we just get the money/supplies/medicine/love where it needs to be, when it needs to be there, is that too much to ask?!?!?! We knew the work was not about us, but sometimes the feet of the ones who walk alongside get tired too.

So many of you know this kind of misery, and you know how much it hurts. But you also know that the broken-openness of that kind of hurting is both excruciating and liberating. When your heart is shattered by overwhelming love, you get the chance to put it back together again in a new way. In the very same moment you are weeping for that sick baby in your arms, you are rejoicing because he just smiled the most dazzling smile and it was JUST FOR YOU. There is beauty in the brokenness. You are continually rewriting your own story with bits of pieces of truth from those you’ve connected with. You are made, and re-made, with increasing capacities for love, and that kindness you give away comes back to you a thousand times over.

In the Christian faith, we remember today as Good Friday, the day Jesus was crucified.  Our God, the one who ACTUALLY UNDERSTANDS HOW THE WORLD WORKS, was broken open, pierced through, and humbled to the point of death. This was the way God found to connect with his broken, messed-up people.

When we take time to sit with this story and allow it to break our hearts all over again, we receive a gift: our own story—everything we take to the cross—becomes God’s story. God’s story becomes our story. This is not new news--Mike’s been preaching it ever since the great storyteller Walt Wangerin crafted that beautiful phrasing--but it’s good news.  And that’s enough to make it worth the hurt for me.

This essay and I are part of the Messy, Beautiful Warrior Project — To learn more and join us, CLICK HERE! And to learn about the New York Times Bestselling Memoir Carry On Warrior: The Power of Embracing Your Messy, Beautiful Life, just released in paperback, CLICK HERE!

There Is No Spoon

I’m crying because we’re out of spoons.

OK, I’m actually crying because my kids and husband have been sick all week, I’ve been trying to take care of them all at the same time, and I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop and my own illness to appear. I’m crying because my house, which was fairly respectable a week ago, has descended into utter chaos. I’m crying because I thought I was made of tough enough stuff to be a Nebraskan, but I keep having to beg favors from friends and back out of commitments because my family has been sick TWELVE TIMES since the beginning of the school year. And I’m crying because we’re out of spoons, which is the proverbial straw that breaks this mama’s back whenever it happens, because it means the dishes, the laundry, the papers on the kitchen table, and every other thing that can pile up has done so.

I know you have a spoon problem, too--maybe it’s not spoons, but it’s something. No clean underwear, no milk in the fridge, no white space on the calendar...everybody has a trigger for their breaking point, and when that fourth horseman rides into town, whoever’s in the vicinity better clear out, because it ain’t gonna be pretty.

I remember when I was seventeen and my grandmother died. She had struggled with Alzheimer’s for years and finally died from an infection that the doctors had a hard time pinpointing. I took the news of her death pretty calmly, because my initial emotion was actually relief and gratitude that she was no longer suffering. But a few days later, in the hotel room where we were staying before the funeral, I had a knock-down, drag-out screaming match with my brother over who had to sleep on the rollaway bed. Guess what...it was not about the bed. My sweet, gentle grandma, with fascinating cabinets of home-canned goods and a nurse’s heart for caring for others--she was really, truly gone. And that was worth crying over.

At the end of the day, I know no one is holding it against me that I can’t keep a perfect house while trying to take care of my family and keep myself vaguely together and functional. But when we run out of spoons, it’s right about the same time I’ve run totally out of patience and turn into a person I don’t like to be: a screaming, frazzled, psycho-mommy who makes her toddler burst into tears because of the way she’s yelling at her preschooler. No one else may be holding it against me, but I’m holding it against myself.

So tonight, at the end of this day, I had to let it go. (Sadly, I haven’t seen Frozen, but that song is incredible, as everyone else in the world already knows). Bedtime was not going well, and I was opening my mouth to whisper-scream (you know, the scary kind you do when you don’t want to wake the child that’s already sleeping) at Noah, who was throwing a fit over something ridiculous, and I just stopped. Took a breath. Turned his light out and laid down next to him. Breathed and put a hand on him while he finished his tantrum. Breathed and waited. Breathed and prayed.

And a verse (a voice?) came into my head: “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give to you. Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God; believe also in me.”

I breathed peace onto my sweet son’s head. I rubbed his back and stroked his hair. I said I was sorry for yelling so much today and asked his forgiveness. I let it go.

Everything is not all better. There are still no spoons. But Mike came home, and he brought me a donut (which, unlike ice cream, requires no spoon.) I think we’re going to be ok.

Breathing peace to you,

Alison

Feeling the Love

Ahh, Valentines Day. Love is in the air! Or...not. It's easy to find reasons not to love Valentine’s Day. Single people don’t like being reminded of their relationship status. Couples are frustrated by overpriced gifts and perhaps their partner’s unrealistic expectations for the day. Kids get hyped up on sugar and lose their, shall we say, natural sweetness.

For a long time, I was pretty ambivalent about it as well. Sure, it was nice to get candy and cards, but the romantic side of things always felt a little forced. Are you giving me gifts because you want to show your love for me, or because you’re expected to because Hallmark says so? Now, as a parent of two kids with food allergies, there’s the added stress of having to sort through the candy in their treat boxes and toss what’s not safe for them to eat.

But this year I decided that I would broaden the kind of love I celebrate on Valentine’s Day. You see, as a long time Greek geek, I’m can tell you that Biblical Greek has three different words for love: philos--friendship love, eros--romantic love, and agape--self-giving love. I don’t see why the holiday can’t celebrate all these kinds of love.

Culturally, Valentine’s Day is for lovers, but this year, I say we make it about loving one another--as spouses, as parents, and as beloved children of God.

I teach upper elementary Sunday School at Immanuel Zion, and our lesson this week served as a perfect complement to my V-Day love revolution. The theme was "You are the light of the world." After the Bible lesson, the kids read a story about a girl whose recycling suggestion impacted her entire school (and the planet) for the better. Because of her courage to speak up and act on her beliefs, she sparked a major change.

As we discussed how each of us can make a difference in the world, one boy pointed to the candle I had brought, which happened to have 3 wicks, and shouted, "Those two are joining together!" He had noticed that as the wax pooled between two of the wicks, the flames joined together and burned more brightly.

I love it when the kids make the points of the lesson for me! Together, we shine brighter--whether it’s in a marriage, in the acts of love we do for our kids, or in the ways we support and share laughter with our friends. If you don’t have a significant other, that doesn’t mean Valentine’s isn’t for you. There are plenty of ways to show love that don’t involve flowers, candy, or wine. No matter what, though, it should involve chocolate!

If you’re less than excited about the upcoming holiday, try to find an unconventional way to show agape love for someone, like paying for a stranger’s coffee or doing a chore another family member dislikes. You might just find yourself feeling the love on Valentine’s Day after all.

Love to you all!

~Alison

Do you love our beautiful pics? Check out J. Jill Photography!

Beware the Ides of January

Today is the Ides of January...otherwise known as the 15th of the month, for those of you who aren’t up on your Roman calendar references (have you hugged an English and Classics major today? I’m available!)

I’m going to go out on a limb and say this is quite possibly the worst time of the year. It feels to me like everything from the weather (hello, Polar Vortex) to the millions of vicious viruses circulating freely (hello, stomach flu) are conspiring to make us collectively miserable.

To top it off, most of us have already fallen off the wagon of whatever New Year’s Resolutions we passionately committed to on January 1st, when the world lay before us like a blanket of fresh, not-at-all-vortex-like snow. Diet plan? Derailed. Exercise daily? But it’s sooooo coooold, and my bed is soooo warm! Give thanks in all circumstances? That one was mine, and I was not so much finding my attitude of gratitude a few days ago during my second round of stomach flu in two months.

Most of all, I dread the Ides of January because I always feel like a failure this time of year. As a card-carrying member of the Overachievers Club, I reeeeeeally hate to fail. I suck at sucking at stuff. So much that I would rather not even try something than risk looking bad at it. One possible exception is dancing in front of my children in order to make them stop crying...just ask the Fed Ex man who saw me breaking it down to Justin Beiber’s “Baby” to make Noah laugh a few years ago. This is why we can’t have neighbors. Anyway, I digress.

My solace in the midst of this miserable month has been listening to Brene Brown’s talks from The Power of Vulnerability. I’m forever indebted to Keri Brugger and my fabulous Bible study girls for introducing me to Brene. If you’ve never heard of her, try her Ted Talk or read Daring Greatly...she has so much to say that is so wonderful, but the part that I’m holding onto right now is this: when you’re in the midst of shame (feeling like you are not good enough, unworthy, a failure, etc), the first step to getting out of that hole is to talk to yourself the way you’d talk to someone else.

Many of us are kind people...to everyone except ourselves. How often do we look in the mirror and say, “Holy SMOKES you are a DISASTER!! What is that THING on your cheek??? And how long has it been since you flossed? I think there are small colonies of extraterrestrials living on your tongue. The hair...don’t get me started on THAT mess. How can you possibly go out in public today?” Yet we wouldn’t dream of talking to someone else in that way.

Usually when we talk about how Jesus calls us to love our neighbors as ourselves, we focus on the neighbor part--and rightly so. But friends, in this cold and cruel month, let us not forget to be kind to ourselves too. As my dear friend Jenni recently posted much more eloquently, God don’t make junk, and if he finds you beautiful, so can you!

Peace,

Alison