Food Assistance (I Don't Feel Entitled, I Feel Grateful)

The Special Supplemental Nutrition Program for Women, Infants, and Children (WIC) provides Federal grants to States for supplemental foods, health care referrals, and nutrition education for low-income pregnant, breastfeeding, and non-breastfeeding postpartum women, and to infants and children up to age five who are found to be at nutritional risk.

I hate WIC.

I’m so thankful for WIC.

These two thoughts follow seamlessly one after the other as the milk, eggs, peanut butter and other sundries pass on the grocery store conveyor belt.

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We signed up when I became pregnant with our oldest and have been on and off of the Women Infants and Children Supplemental Nutrition program ever since. 

Every time I work – adjunct teaching stints and a year as a pastor – we call and drop ourselves from the system.  Every time we return to one income, we reapply. 

Every few months I cart our kids to the small, gray office and fill out reams of paperwork.  The kids alternate between playing and clinging anxiously.  Twice a year the visits include a weight and measure and much dreaded finger pricks to check for iron count.  

Despite frequent well visits at the pediatrician’s office, the WIC office needs its own numbers. 

At times I feel indignant at the intrusion.  I’m angry for my children who cry at being poked and prodded.  How much blood, how much information do we need to give for a few dollars worth of food?  

Then I remind myself we need the money.  

It’s their office.  They set the rules.  

Does this make me a bad mother?  

Or, would pride that kept us from receiving such assistance make me a bad mother?  I'm never entirely sure.

After these intrusions we squeeze into a smaller office.  I wrangle kids on my knees while answering questions about our food consumption and setting nutrition goals for each of my children. 

At the end of the visit I leave with a ream of checks averaging $120 worth of food per month.  We received the most when the oldest kids were four and two and I was pregnant with twins, we’re nearly off the system now as the twins prepare to age-out next summer at five years old. 

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Do I look too wealthy?  What will they think of the Marmot ski coat I wear, the $300 dollar coat I got on clearance for $50 after Christmas one year? 

Do we look poor? 

These are the questions I ask myself waiting in line at the grocery store.

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With just one week left to use August’s checks I head to the grocery store with six in hand – two for as little as $8 each, two for about $30 and two somewhere in the middle. 

I keep the checks in the shopping cart and subtly check and recheck acceptable sizes and brands for peanut butter, grains and cereal as I hurry through the store.  When in doubt, I sheepishly pull out the large white pamphlet that clarifies. 

I hope I don’t run into anyone I know. 

We travel one town over now to bigger grocery chains to use our checks because the small local grocery store requires the cashier to call a manager to approve WIC checks.  The unwanted attention and wait feel mortifying enough to warrant a ten minute drive.

The cashier is unfriendly and I wonder if it’s because of the WIC checks lined up in front of her.  Is she judging me?  I feel myself get snappish, then reign it in.  Maybe she’s just tired, maybe it’s been a long day. 

I planned to get three checks, but ended up with four separate orders on the checkout line.  I feel bad for anyone who gets in line behind me, not knowing I will check out not just once, but four times.  I wonder what they think of my food, of me.  Maybe they’re happy the State gives needy families wholesome foods like milk and cheese.  Maybe they despise the fact that I choose the more expensive brands. 

Who knows?

I group the food by check, separating each with a spacer.  I sign the checks ahead of time to speed the process along.  Still, it takes time and often I fail to get exactly the right product.  Sometimes the rules change and items that were once ok are no longer allowed. 

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When election season rolls around people inevitably make nasty comments about those who receive government assistance, about people who supposedly feel entitled to benefits.    

Are they talking about me?  Do I feel entitled to these benefits? 

No, mostly I feel embarrassed and hugely grateful. 

Does my family need WIC?  That’s a question I haven’t been able to answer. 

At some point we decided that not accepting the extra help would be a prideful and foolish move especially in the years when the sudden break-down of a vehicle or unexpected home repair left us in debt to credit card companies. 

There’s something about mouths to feed that lowers the playing field for me, that helps make it all a little clearer. 

My children need to eat healthy food, so I do what I can to make it happen. 

Even when it’s the last thing I want to do.    

Manna, Flying Ovens and Grace

Our stove was broken.  The oven burned everything and the biggest burner, the one I used every meal, either ran on high or not at all.  It was one more thing we didn’t have time for, didn’t have money. 

Not long ago, when our finances led me to consider applying for a full time job, God told me clearly, “Just wait.”  I was relieved to hear from God with such clarity.  But after a pause, I reminded God that this meant “he” would be “supplying all our needs.” 

After burning yet another meal in the broken oven this week, I scrolled Craig’s List obsessively searching for a replacement.  Then I remembered that conversation with God.  

Maybe God has a whole warehouse of stoves somewhere and all I need to do is ask, I thought. 

I don’t claim to know how these things work, but I stood on the porch and pictured a white stove floating down out of the bright autumn sky.  (Ought I mention that the stove had big black wings?  It was really quite a delightful image.)

That afternoon I found a decent stove on Craig’s list, but it was still $100 that we didn’t have.  My husband suggested we just fix the burner on the old stove and continue using the broken oven.  But I didn't have the heart to burn one more loaf of bread.

Later that night a friend stopped by and standing in the darkening driveway, my husband mentioned that he was stressed about money.  

“Really?” the friend replied, “We've got an extra $100 dollars floating around this week.  I want to give it to you guys.” He reached into his pocket, pulling out cash.

My husband said no three times before giving in.  We're so tired of needing help.  But when he came upstairs to tell me, as I was putting the twins to bed, my eyes lit up.  

“That’s our stove!” I said, telling him about my prayer.  

I wish the story ended there.  It would be a good one, wouldn't it?

The truth is the guy with the $100 stove didn't get back to me and we ended up buying one for $125.  Then the cord on the new stove wouldn't work with our outlet, so my husband pulled the cord off of the old stove to attach to the new one.

But that old cord?  It was broken.  So we ended up spending another $25 for a new cord.  That brings the new stove tally to $150.  

(Maybe God isn't the best at math?)

We'll fix the old stove and sell it, it's got to be worth something to someone.  And maybe then the math will work out.  

All of this has got me thinking about faith and trust and how the way things appear on the surface can often be deceiving.  I'm thankful for all of the graces, big and little that come our way.  But I want to remember also that each and every grace is only a fragment of a greater truth - the Love and Grace that dwells in and around our lives.  

Sometimes the little graces add up and sometimes they don't.  Sometimes that which is manna one day has soured by the next. 

I keep reminding myself of all the things we have, the things we take for granted that come floating down out of the clouds for free.  Things like the field of soy beans across the street that turns a brighter shade of gold with each passing day.  Or the view of the mountains along with the blue sky and sun.  Who am I in the midst of all of this abundance to say what is and is not enough? 

Last night I made pizza from scratch in the "new" oven.  It had a perfectly browned crust.  Examining her slice, my daughter exclaimed, "It's not burnt!" and the look on her face was priceless. 

When the %$*& Hits the Fan (#SmallWonder Link-Up)

Prince Humperdinck, "First things first, to the death."
Westley, "No, to the pain."
- The Princess Bride

O, I believe,
fate smiled and destiny
laughed as she came to my cradle,
know this child will be able,
laughed as my body she lifted,
know this child will be gifted,
with love, with patience and with faith,
she'll make her way. 
- "Wonder" by Natalie Merchant

Last Friday I sent up a call of distress. 

Early in the morning in the cold, dark living room I sent a message to a few friends on Facebook,

“Here’s the thing – I’ve become discouraged.  I have dreams and visions of what it means to live where we do – ideas about Spiritual Direction, Retreats and a life close to home filled with writing, speaking and tending souls.  But, and here I know it sounds a little ridiculous given God’s miraculous provision of this place, for some reason lately, I’m losing hope.  We’ve hit some very significant financial road blocks, we’re between church communities and I am weary of piecing things together.  So, will you pray for me, for us?”

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Last Wednesday my husband called early in the morning to tell me the timing belt broke in his car on his way to work.  Thankfully it didn’t happen on the highway, thankfully it was within walking distance of his office.  But, really – this was just three days after we started urgently petitioning God for financial provision.  See what I mean – this was AFTER we started praying.

With that one phone call and the two or three phone calls after it, it was like someone, somewhere pulled a plug and all of our savings went “whoosh,” down the drain.  The little bit of money we had to help us get through to the end of summer just up and disappeared. 

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The most natural thing you can do, the worst thing you can do, when stress sets in and life becomes laced with fear, is to seize up.  The most unnatural thing you can do is to relax, to rest, to hold your own peace of mind and spirit.  This is how infants and young children can survive terrible accidents without being injured – they don’t know enough to be afraid, they stay calm, relaxed and flexible.

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When the %^&% hits the fan, my impulse is to “man up.”

I got out the computer and started a resume.

I organized a yard sale.

I took the little seeds of my own dreams out of my pocket and buried them somewhere in a deep, dark, place.  They no longer glowed with hope and promise – they were as good as dead to me.

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Thursday night, I dreamed I was pregnant again – a fifth child, still tiny showed up in an ultrasound.  How did we let this happen? I asked.  That baby filled my dream-self with dread – seven more years at home I thought.  Seven more years until I can do what I want. 

In the dream, the baby was also a tiny dragon.  But, you know, that’s how dreams often are.

//

Friday morning I sat on the love seat by the cold, empty stove with tears streaming down and sent up a call of distress. 

“I’ve become discourage . . . I’m losing hope.”

The kids woke up and I built a fire, because wood is free, and we moved into the day while I still swallowed tears down. 

Around eight, my kids started humming and buzzing with excitement.  “Why’s he here?” they exclaimed.  I looked out the kitchen window while my kids ran out the door and saw my friend, one of the few added to that Facebook call of distress, climbing out of his car.

He hugged and toted my kids around, watched them climb the small Japanese Maple tree and we stood in the yard talking about chickens waiting for the bus to come.  After the older two climbed onto the bus, I pulled up Cat in the Hat on Netflix for the twins and we sat in the kitchen and talked over coffee. 

“I’m losing heart,” I said.

“I know,” he replied.

This friend of mine has the look and build of someone straight out of Sons of Anarchy – a giant of a man complete with pony tail, beard and a Harley Davidson.  If he was a stranger, I would be afraid at best to see him approaching on darkened street or even in broad daylight. 

This friend has a Masters in Pain, a hard earned degree in life and loss and resilient hope.

“I could see this coming,” he said and I believed it to be true, because this friend and I resonate on a deep level.  More than anyone else in this world he has helped me understand myself, has given me new words and insight into my own brokenness which often provides just enough of a tweak to set me on the road to healing. 

Here are just a few of the things he said to me that morning that helped clear the fog of fear, things I remembered well enough to write down in my journal a few days later,

“Provision wouldn’t solve the problem.”

“It’s not hard, you can do hard, you’re a hard worker – it’s painful.”

and, “Pain is part of your gift.  You have pain in proportion to your gift and your gift is great, so you experience great pain.”

Talking together I saw that I’m again rounding a blind corner in my journey – I’m being asked, again, to trust. 

To trust pain can be a gift.

To trust God cares.

To live loosely, to lean in to the bend in the road, to believe seeds buried in darkness and fear can sprout and live again and the life that follows death is always greater than the loss.

//

Not much has changed.  Everything has changed.

We had a great yard sale.  There’s the dim prospect of overtime work for my husband.  I put my resume on hold.  We told the kids we would have to pray about a vacation for the summer. 

In the midst of the pain, faith is sprouting again, the tiniest speck of green.

Later that day one red tulip opened in the garden and the rest of those friends on Facebook sent their own thoughtful, compassionate replies, most of which consisted of some gentle version of, “Me too.”

I'm not writing this to garner sympathy.  I'm writing because maybe you also have been gifted with pain.  Maybe you too are rounding another blind corner in your journey.  I won't tell you it's going to be ok, but for now, I will pull back the curtain long enough to give you a glimpse of my own pain.  I will give you my pain, my life as I know it, in hopes that it will help you in some small whisper of a way.  

  

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Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.

What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God? 

That's my proposal - that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.  

You're invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder.  Don't worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right - you're welcome to come as you are. 

While you're here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.