Every.Single.Day

I have more adrenaline than I know what to do with right now. I guess that's what happens when you spend the majority of the day in bed, on your way to bed, or talking yourself into why being in bed is what you should be doing at a given moment. But that's what Sundays are for though, right? 

In other news, I did something really bold and uncomfortable today. I went out of my comfort zone and took a leap of faith. 

I don't know if I've mentioned it here, I don't think I have actually, but I have this sort of weird eat-sleeping disorder thing. It doesn't have a name, I don't know it's source or why I do it. No one has yet to figure it out nor have they found a solution for it. I've seen doctors, a nutritionist, and a therapist. I've changed my diet, my sleeping habits, taken supplements and tried to get more vitamin D. I exercise, I eat healthy foods, and I'm gluten free. I've tried to talk it out, talk to myself, and ignore it all the same. But nothing seems to work. Absolutely nothing.  

So here it is (it's simple really): I wake up, every-single-night after I've fallen asleep to eat. I go straight for the kitchen, have what is sometimes a small snack, sometimes something more hearty. Sometimes I wake up 2-3 times for the same purpose, usually an hour or two after falling asleep. I am aware of what I am doing. I know that I am eating and I generally remember the experience the next morning. However, I am most definitely NOT in control of myself as I do it. What I eat varies each night, having nothing to do really with what or how much I ate prior in the day. 

As you can see, this is kind of a weird thing. It's actually really uncomfortable and even embarrassing to talk about. I must admit there is quite a bit of shame involved in the whole thing. It's an area of my life I cannot control. It's weird. It's not normal. And it's very disruptive. Sometimes it ruins my day, starting off on such a negative foot. It used to ALWAYS ruin my day...I'd say the night eating got to it's worst when I was at my worst. I don't know if my depression caused the night eating, or if the night eating caused (in some way) the depression. Either way, they felt one and the same. Thankfully I am no longer struggling with depression. Anxiety on occasion and insecurities more often than I would like to admit. But depression is, in my opinion, a thing of the past. 

Which brings me back to today. I've had this feeling in my gut for the last few weeks that I should seek prayer for this issue. I've asked for prayer at various times from various people about it, but never from someone right in front of me who would take time in that very moment to lay hands on me and pray for actual spiritual and physical healing. Today was the day I decided to seek such a thing out.  

My church offers every single weekend for people to be prayed over by our church elders for physical and spiritual healing. I've always thought this was great, but never felt I had a reason to go. Until now. I was prayed over by a pastor a few years ago over something in my life, and I remember that time as a very memorable turning point. If it worked then, why wouldn't it work now? I know prayer doesn't work like that necessarily...it's not a "do this then that" kind of thing, but when you get to your wits end with no answer no solution and nowhere to go, it becomes your one and only hope. I know, however, that prayer should be my FIRST go-to, but that's unfortunately not my nature...or anyone's really. It's something I'm working on... 

Today, after church, I slowly sauntered over to the space I assumed was reserved for prayer. I wasn't sure how the whole process worked, but I walked in knowing I would soon find out. Immediately I recognized the woman who checked me in--a receptionist at the church. And then before I knew it I saw a good friend and her family walk in. I acted as "normal" as possible, inside feeling more uncomfortable than I have in a while. I swear, it was like buying tampons from the cute check-out boy or running into your mom's friend at the gynecologist's office. I knew there was nothing to be ashamed of, but there it was...shame...popping up at a key time. 

The prayer time itself was brief and purposeful. The elder, who also happened to be my boss' husband *awkward* anointed me with oil and prayed over me. I walked out feeling much the same as when I walked in, this time with a greasy forehead and a tiny, minuscule glimmer of hope. Not much...I wish that glimmer was more like a ray, but it's a start. I know my God is more powerful than I could ever possibly imagine and I am choosing to trust that he can and WILL heal me when he so pleases. I am useless. Nothing I do or say will make me more worthy of healing. I am on my hands and knees, giving it all over to him. And I will continue to do so every.single.day. 

Week 1 -- "My Mom's Blueberry Crisp"

1. In "My Moms' Blueberry Crisp," Shauna tells us about her food memories and the foods served around her family's table when she was growing up. What are some of your memories from your family's table during your childhood? [Shauna Niequist, Bread and Wine] 

Mixed with Love 

I guess you could say I've been a lifetime foodie. Growing up I often used the phrase "born on the second pew" to explain to people my relationship with the church. As the youngest of four kids I made it to church for the first time just weeks after my arrival and I haven't looked back since. Sure, there were those few years in college where sleeping in and a late breakfast in the caf became my Sunday routine, but as a church employee who now runs three weekend services every single weekend, I like to think I've made up for that time-and then some.

My relationship with food started just the same. In fact, one of my very first memories as a pre-schooler involves food. I vividly remember waking up in the middle of the night, hungry, and went straight to my mom's room for help. As a shy little girl I must have been more than hungry to actually wake my mom up in at such an un-ideal time. I didn't and still don't like to inconvenience people with my needs, so I must have been pretty desperate. With my stomach growling, my mom's hair up in one of those messy, mid-sleep buns and her cream quilted silk robe that zippered up the front, we walked down the stairs to our dark, wall-papered kitchen for a mid-night snack. Early as it was, my mom eager to get both her and I back to bed, my mom threw together the first and easiest thing that would satiate my appetite. White bread smothered in creamy unsalted butter. From that moment on, I was in love.

It's hard to choose a favorite recipe, meal, or food memory from my childhood. I am a firm believer that anything made by my mother's hands is better than anything by my own. Meatloaf. Spinach Casserole. Tostadas. Cranberry Bread. Peanute Butter and Jelly. You name it, it's better when mom makes it. I think it must have something to do with love. There really is nothing more comforting than a homemade meal and the love and conversation that comes with it.

If there was one food that my childhood centered around, it would have to be Texas Sheet Cake. I have more memories around that than any other and the legacy continues on year after year. With my grandpa from the south and my grandma from Louisiana, we ended up with a handful of southern recipes in our repertoire...and I couldn't be more thankful for every one of them.

One of the beauties of a large family is the plethora of birthdays that gathered us around the table on what felt like a monthly basis. With minimal finances to spread around much less splurge on a birthday, my mom made it a priority to celebrate each of our birthdays with our meal and dessert of choice. Corrina always chose Texas Sheet Cake. Daniel always homemade Lemon Merengue Pie. Missy usually Carrot Cake. And myself-I liked to switch it up, but with my birthday so near (and occasionally on) Thanksgiving, pie was a frequent dessert of choice. While TSC was the showcase on Corrina's birthday, somehow we found an excuse for it at least a solid half-dozen times a year. Grampse's birthday? Texas Sheet Cake. Memorial Day? Texas Sheet Cake. Sunday afternoon? Texas Sheet Cake. Potluck? Texas Sheet Cake.  Saturday Morning? Texas Sheet Cake. As you can see, TSC was a frequent bystander at family "events".

With it's moist interior and lumpy glazed frosting melted into every crevice and corner, no one can deny the beauty of TSC. Everyone has their favorite slice-most of us kids fighting over a corner (for the additional frosting) or the middle (for the additional moisture). It's always better the next day, but who can promise it will even be there? In the warmth of our San Diego climate, most things ended up in the fridge for us--hiding from heat and the ants that came with it. TSC was no different, other than the communal fork that laid hidden in the crumbs under the protection of plastic wrap that was hardly necessary. Bite after bite TSC lasted little more than a day in our house and for good reason. I'm sure this had much to do with the additional adolescent pudge that found it's way to my mid-section. But who cares? I had my good friend, TSC to thank for it.

With the discovery of gluten sensitivities in a handful of us as adults, TSC makes a few less appearances throughout the year. But when it does, even I, gluten allergies and all, are willing to splurge and sacrifice the potential threat it imposes for just a few luscious and memorable bites of heavenly goodness. Slowly we've spread the recipe amongst a few close friends that appreciate it's goodness as much as we do. But even in the hands of others, it's still not as good as when mom makes it. My brother is convinced mom does something different to it when she makes the recipe. I'm convinced too, but I'm pretty sure it has more to do with love and prayers she stirs into it than a pinch of this or spoonful of that. Food is pretty great, but so much better mixed with love.

Allison Elizabeth