Craving: A Raging Battle

On January 6, I joined a Clean Eating Challenge on Facebook that a friend of mine is leading.  That means no sugar, no processed meats, no junk.  Focus on eating real, healthy foods.   I do all the healthy shopping on Sunday, and plan all of my meals a week in advance.

I am a runner.  I have logged more than 10 miles every week in 2014, even with a mild case of pneumonia.

I drink more than 60 ounces of water every day.  I fixed a delicious veggie frittatta for my family for our meatless Monday dinner.  For yesterday’s lunch, I prepared myself a chicken and avocado wrap on a low carb, whole wheat tortilla.

Yes, that is a bag of M&Ms from the floor of my pantry.  It’s not a little bag.  56 ounces.  37 servings, totaling 7770 calories.  And the bag of peanut M&Ms that came with it?  Gone, empty, eaten almost entirely by me.

I’ve had decent self-control lately.  Five or six M&Ms per day, mostly after dinner.  No, they weren’t ‘clean,’ but it wasn’t a major slip-up.  Until yesterday.  My husband wasn’t home, so it was just the kids and me and our must-do list:  math homework, spelling homework, reading homework, piano practice, last minute gift for a birthday party, pack supplies for a school ski trip, dinner, plan for breakfast, e-mail dad…  It became too much for one child, and the major meltdown began before dinner. And replayed after dinner.  And continued straight through until bedtime.  And  I kept my self-control.  I pictured the M&Ms as I walked by the pantry, but I didn’t open the door.  But hours later, I put a child back to bed, soothed her nightmares, held her until she relaxed again, and I could almost taste those M&Ms.  I had to taste those M&Ms.  So I tiptoed back to that pantry, and ate a few, and a few more, and a few more.   And for a few seconds,  the cheap chocolate almost made me feel better.  But then my hand was empty, my mouth was empty, and the taste was bitter, not sweet.

I went to bed disgusted with my self.  What is the point of waking at 5:15, running in the cold, dark fog while most of the world is sleeping, to burn 335 calories or so, then shovel down those extra calories after a few hours of stress?  What is the point?  What do I really crave?

I crave comfort, sweetness, peace, contentment.  I cannot find that in cheap (or high quality) chocolate.  I cannot find it in relationships or work or Facebook.  True comfort can only come from Jesus.

I have a friend who would tell me to pour those M&Ms down the sink with hot water.  Because if she put them in the trash, she would just dig them out and eat them later.  But the M&Ms aren’t the problem.  My sinful nature is the problem.

So my plan is different.  I will eat those M&Ms again, but I will be mindful this time.  If (when) I eat an M&M today, I will choose at that moment to give thanks to God for the blessings He is constantly giving me.  I am craving peace.  I must stop looking for the worldly fix.  I must focus on God, who is living inside of me every moment of every day, wanting desperately to give me that comfort and sweetness I am longing for.

That bag will be empty someday.   And when it is, I will have been reminded hundreds of times that my heart and soul are crying out for God, not chocolate.  I am not perfect, but I am replacing my physical craving with my spiritual craving every day.

#WhoIAm

Doubt has been whispering in my own voice these past few months.  In my small church in my small town, I have been believing (because of someone else’s words spoken in passing) that I am not liked by other women, that I should not, could not teach a class, or probably even participate in one.  

As I have read A Confident Heart these last few weeks, I have heard God whispering to me.

He tells me that I am a child of God.  (John 1:12)  

He tells me that I do not need to fear, for He is with me. (Isaiah 41:10)

He tells me that I am a part of the body of Chris.t (1 Corinthians 12:7)

He tells me to always be joyful, to let others see my gentleness, to stop worrying and start praying.  (Philippians 4:5,6)

Two weeks ago, I looked at a Bible study book to consider leading a follow up group from a women’s retreat I attended this fall.  Someone else borrowed the book from me, and somehow, in the passing around of the book, a rumor started that I was committed to leading the class.  A friend felt betrayed because I hadn’t told her.  I felt betrayed because people were talking about me instead of to me.  And my own voice began whispering to me again, “See, these people don’t like you.  They tell lies about you.  They don’t think you can lead this group.  They don’t want you around.”  But this time, I will not listen to that voice.  I have agreed to lead the first session of the study.  Thirteen women are interested in coming, though not all will be able to attend.  And I will listen to God’s voice.  Maybe another woman will lead Session 2.  Maybe God will ask me to continue leading the group.  But I will not cower away because of misunderstandings and my own doubts.  I will trust God as he leads me in the direction He wants me to go.  This other stuff really doesn’t matter.

God whispers to me “I will meet all your needs.  I will meet them in keeping with my wonderful riches that come to you because you belong to Christ Jesus.”  (Philippians 4:19)

No more worrying, no more cowering.  From now on, just trusting and believing!

Life Interrupted

My life has been interrupted now for 10 years, 1 month and 18 days. I’m not sure the word interruption is an appropriate term any more; perhaps major life detour is more accurate. And as much as my life makes me crazy, I wouldn’t change it for anything.

10 years ago, I gave birth to a baby boy. At his birth, no one said he was perfect–he wasn’t, not by this world’s standards. The first birth defect was clear immediately, the second required emergency surgery at 5 weeks old. At that point, standing outside his hospital room at 2 AM, realizing my son might very well not make it through one more night, I felt the peace of God, knowing He knows what it feels like to lose a son, knowing God would see me through all the days to come.

My son survived that night, and every night since. Long before his first birthday or his first step, his third ‘defect’ (the word makes me shudder; he’s not defective!) became clear. Many scientific names describe his disability, but it comes down to this: his eyes did not work correctly. By age three, we had numbers to use: less than 20/400, legally blind. My life, our lives, were only just beginning to be interrupted.

I have another child too, a daughter, who is ‘perfect’ by this world’s standards. While it is not easy, it is certainly easier. Raising a ‘normal’ child is like swimming in the community pool: the water is clear, lifeguards are nearby, the edge is always within a short swim when a rest is needed. But raising a child with a disability is like swimming in a giant murky reservoir in the middle of the night, all alone, with no land in sight. Sometimes all I can do is paddle and pray for the night to pass!

Every major decision in my life, in my husband’s life, in our family’s life, has been based around what is best for this child with a disability.

Before he was born, I planned to take one year off from work; I took nine years. Life was interrupted.

We sold our house (Thank you God!) and purchased another, locating it close enough to town that someday, when all his friends have driver’s licenses and our son does not, he will still be able to be independent. Life was interrupted.

We planned vacations for locations he could safely explore and navigate and enjoy without perfect vision. Life was interrupted.

My husband changed careers, leaving his first dream of teaching for a career where we could afford all the medical expenses that came crashing down upon us. Life was interrupted.

We scheduled our lives around doctor appointments, referrals to specialists in other states, diagnostic testing, and six surgeries in less than ten years. Life was interrupted.

We sat through hour after hour of homework as he struggled to learn to read enlarged words when braille was deemed unnecessary, as he struggled to write his words in giant, sloppy letters, as he struggled to understand spaces between words and periods at the ends of sentences because he had never really seen them on paper. While our friends went to ball games and Bible studies, we sat around the homework table, trying not to cry. Life was interrupted.

Our interrupted life is messy, complicated, expensive and imperfect. And I wouldn’t change any of it.

“In all things, God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.” (Romans 8:28)

I love God, and He is shaping me, through this life I never planned, into a woman who is willing to follow wherever He made lead me next. And more than that, my son has accepted Jesus Christ as his Lord and Savior too. And God is working for the good of my son; God is using my son, not in spite of his vision or any other obstacles, but because of them. My son is compassionate, he is humble, he is full of joy, he is gentle, all because of the obstacles he has had to overcome.

This is God’s plan in my interrupted life.

Why Seven Stars?

“Can you see the stars?” I asked my son.

“I see seven stars.  How many do you see?”  he replied.

We sat alone, the two of us in camp chairs, looking straight up at the nighttime sky.  The only remains of the campfire in front of us were orange coals, no flames.  The sun had long set, turning the sky to deep indigo, approaching total blackness.  A sliver of a moon, nearly hidden by lodge pole pines, began to disappear behind the Sawtooth Mountains to the west.  Somewhere behind us, his father and sister prepared for sleep.  No artificial light could be seen, no other campfires, no city skylines in the distance, no lantern lights from any campsite.   The night was nearly as dark as a night can get.  The sky was clear.  And my ten-year old counted seven stars.

“How many do you see?” he asked me.

I could not begin to count the stars on that summer night.  The Milky Way flowed through the dark sky like a mountain stream.  And my son counted seven stars.

“I see more than seven,” I whispered, choking back the tears at the thought of what he could not see, the grandeur of God’s creation that my son could not truly conceive.

Later, both children in bed, my husband and I sat alone by the campfire, now stoked with new wood, the flames lapping higher.  And I shared the story of the seven stars.

We chuckled as only parents of a child with a disability could.  If anyone else had laughed, or even smiled, I would have been defensive and angry.  But alone, we could share the moment, as we have shared the struggle.  Our son is vision impaired.  Multiple surgeries and ten years of miracles have moved him from legally blind to vision impaired.  But on that beautiful summer night in the Sawtooths, he saw only seven stars.

As we joked, one of us said “When he gets to heaven, he’s gonna say ‘WHAT?  You made how many stars, God?  And I never got to see them?”

“Or maybe,” the other replied, “He’ll just say “WOW!”

As I sat there, pondering my own vision impairment.  Which of God’s works do I fail to see?  What moments of grandeur do I miss?  When do I count seven stars, when in fact the stars are uncountable?  I must open my eyes, look through God’s lenses, to the world around me.  I want to see all the stars He created for me tonight.