This is the part of vacation where most people post a cute picture of their pedicured toes and the ocean beyond. I did give myself a pedicure before we left, in pastel yellow, which felt sunny and beachy, but no one sees my toes during our time at the beach. I wear these gross shoes that my oldest described as “oven mitts for your feet” to sit in the sun or stroll the sand and let the waves crash over my legs.
I take this precaution, because I’m highly allergic to fire ants. And, just like me, they love it here at the beach. I’d rather walk barefoot on the sand and wear fun sandals out to dinner, but I settle for ugly beach shoes and cute sneakers, so I don’t get attacked by a tiny ant and end up in the hospital. On this trip I’ve been marveling at how I’m not in this battle against the ants on my own. My family protects me far better than I do by myself.
Sitting at the pool my daughter grabs her water bottle and starts pouring its contents on the pavement to drown an ant and his pal that have just crawled our way. My husband shines the flashlight from his phone on my feet as we walk back from Rita’s, creamy chocolate frozen custard in hand, ensuring I don’t accidentally step on any anthills.
“Mom, you all right? I saw you rub your leg?” Asks one of my kids.
“Mom, do you have your Epipen?” another asks.
“Mom, I’ll walk around with you away from the ants while we wait for everyone else,” another offers.
And it’s this beautiful thing that makes me feel incredibly loved. Yes, I’m trying to be safe, but it’s not all up to me. The people who love me are taking it upon themselves to have my back, (well, feet) and keep me from harm.
If my wonderful, but human family who has their own worries and concerns does this much for me, can you imagine how much more our Heavenly Father protects us, looks out for us?
It reminds me of the passage in Luke where Jesus is explaining that there are going to be some incredibly hard times for His followers. But He assures the disciples, and us, that He will always look over us.
...every detail of your body and soul—even the hairs of your head!—is in my care; nothing of you will be lost--Luke 21:18
EVERY detail of our bodies and souls. How comforting is that?.
Meaning, if you are struggling with bills, a relationship, your mental health, your physical health, it’s not all up to you. God will care for you. Not only does God love you, but He pays attention to every detail of your life, and has all the resources in the world to take care of your needs.
If you trust in Him, He’ll shine His Almighty flashlight to illuminate a safe path for you to walk. He’ll douse oncoming trouble to keep it from crawling your way. He’ll walk with you away from danger and toward safety. He’ll keep you company along the way. He’ll remind you to take your medicine, visit your counselor or doctor, do your exercises. He’ll check in with you--are you okay? He’ll be patient with you as you do your part, whether that’s scouting out the outdoor table to make sure it’s clear of ants or attending a support group or journaling or working the extra shift. But it will never all fall on you. Yes, the fire ants of the world still exist. Some things are dangerous. And we need to do the things we know to do to protect ourselves. Wear our seatbelts or beach shoes, both literally and figuratively. But we don’t have to worry. Because our God is looking out for us at every turn. And through it all Jesus will remind us how very much He loves us.
No matter what happens, God has our back. He’s guarding us with angel armies. He’s stronger than anything that comes our way, and wants us to avoid stepping into a nest of danger. Even if that danger looks like fire ants.
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“There are extra doses of the vaccine at the middle school. Why don’t you swing by the house, drop Maguire off, and head over there?” my husband called with the breaking news while I was driving my youngest home from school.
“What?” I had so many questions.
“Chris called and said he got in line without an appointment, and just got vaccinated. They expire if no one uses them, so they hand out the extras. There’s a form, but I just filled it out for you.”
“Wow. Okay. Thanks. I’ll be home in about ten minutes.”
I dropped off Maguire and headed to the middle school. It was a gorgeous spring day--sunnier and warmer than it should have been for March. There were a handful of people in line in front of me outside, plus however many were inside the doors, and I didn’t have to be anywhere, except eventually back home to make dinner. The hitch? This location was administering the Moderna vaccine, which there is absolutely nothing wrong with and is a wonderful option for most people. However, it is the one vaccine of the three currently available on the market in the U.S. that had caused a very small number of anaphylactic reactions to people who had previous anaphylactic conditions. I fall into that previous condition category.
If you’re not familiar with it (and I hope you don’t have to be), anaphylaxis is when your body full-on rejects a substance that you’re severely allergic to and goes into attack mode when this substance enters your body--think bee stings or peanuts. Your blood pressure crashes and your tongue or throat may swell up. Within minutes it could take your life. It’s basically terrifying.
My body probably wouldn’t shut down if I got the Moderna. It was just a possibility, a slim one, but still. As I stood in the sunshine letting the warmth soak into my skin, I thanked God for the gorgeous day, but I also asked Him what He wanted to do. Is this safe, God? If you want me to get the vaccine today, please let me get it. If for some reason it doesn’t make sense, if it might be dangerous for me, please let them not have enough. I trust You. I’m praying for Your protection.
Knowing God was in control, I was content with either outcome.
The line grew behind me. Folks checked their watches and phones. Eventually, the man in charge came out and continued a count he’d begun inside. “Four, five, six… ” He pointed to the woman in front of me. “Twelve! You’re the last dose.” Then he looked at me and the others behind me. “Sorry, folks. We’ll run out right here. Come back next week. We’ll have more.”
The person in front of me would receive the last dose. I was grateful she’d get hers. She seemed kind from our brief interaction. She’d been there first. And I was suddenly relieved with not getting mine. Because really, the person right in front of me? Interesting, God….
Fast forward to a few weeks later when I was able to schedule an appointment for the Pfizer vaccine, the one that to date hadn’t caused any allergic reactions. The place I was able to get a slot was our local hospital. Which was also interesting. Because as scary as anaphylaxis is looming over my life, if it was going to happen, a hospital seemed to be the best possible place.
The whole operation was first rate. A friendly greeter, an efficient check-in, multiple vaccine administrators. I was told to go into the chapel. The chapel? Oh yeah, hospitals typically have those, but I hadn’t considered it an option. I saw people in front of me getting their shots in this room. But the chapel was three steps away and complete with pastel stained glass.
“Hi, I’m Laura, I’ll be administering your vaccine today.”
Her name was my name, too (are you singing?).
Laura was great. She did her job, gave me a Band-Aid, and directed me to a seat to wait thirty minutes (yup, allergy girls get longer wait times just to be safe), and then packed up her things and left as her replacement took her chair. I was the last person Laura vaccinated that day.
I’d prayed for God’s protection. I’d asked Him to be in control of when and where I got the vaccine. And He answered my prayers so beautifully.
A “no,” in line for the Moderna.
An appointment for the Pfizer.
At a hospital.
In the chapel.
With a nurse named Laura.
It’s so much. And so typical of God. To be so personal, intentional, and caring.
When we pray, He answers. Jesus tells us in Luke 11:9-10 “So I say to you: Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives; the one who seeks finds; and to the one who knocks, the door will be opened." When we ask Him relevant questions (not if we should make tacos or stromboli for dinner or which pair of shoes to wear, unless something hinges on one of those decisions) God wants us to hear His answer. He’ll open some doors and close others. God will point us in the right direction again and again to show us the correct path. He’ll protect us and give us the reassurance we personally need. And then He’ll throw in something super special to show off. Like a stained glass window or a nurse who shares our name. This is who our God is.
Are you worried about something today? Trying to decide between this and that? Not sure what the safest or healthiest or most fulfilling path would be? Ask our Heavenly Father. Take it to Him. He loves you and cares for you abundantly. When we ask, He’ll answer. When we seek, we’ll find. And when we knock on God’s door. He always always answers.
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On Wednesdays of our True Reflections journey I’ve interrupted my usually scheduled blog to post the current day of our devotional together.
If you just stumbled onto us, you can start today and always go back to the previous days later (or not, that’s fine, too). This is a FREE 30-day devotional to dive into how much God loves you, and to discover what that means for your life. If you haven’t downloaded your free copy yet, just leave a comment, and I'll get you added. Share with friends. The more the merrier.
Flying home from California my ears filled with pressure. It felt like someone was stuffing thick, fuzzy bath towels in my ears. And believe me, there was no room for them. I feel it on most flights, but this was a doozy. I told my husband if I was a baby I would have been screaming. I turned to all the tricks—chewing gum, drinking water, fake yawning. And I was doing them all a bit too fervently, hoping for even the slightest relief in my ears. Then, probably, because of all the bizarre antics of chomping and swallowing, I got the hiccups. I attempted to contain them, because although my husband sat on my right, a stranger sat on my left, and I didn’t want to weird him out too much. So my body twitched every four seconds and my ears felt like they were going to explode, and I was trying to breathe deeply, in and out, but I felt like a cartoon. The plane could not land quickly enough.
Somewhere in the midst of all the ridiculousness, I realized Jesus also got the hiccups. Jesus’s ears popped. I giggled in my seat—more antics. There was relief in this fact. It’s silly. And trivial. But also pretty cool. God, who designed oak trees to grow 80 feet tall and produce tiny acorns, less than an inch tall, with a point on the end so they could plant themselves insuring oaks won’t become extinct. That same God came down to earth to experience everything about being human. Everything. So Jesus could understand us better.
He didn’t have to. He could have stayed up on His royal throne. But Jesus chose this humbling condition—hiccups and all—out of love for us.
Jesus probably got splinters, experienced headaches. He sweat, got chilly, had to blow his nose. And maybe broke His ankle playing in the hills with His brother, James. Jesus most likely had nosebleeds, and definitely had his share of bad nights of sleep.
Whatever your body is experiencing today—migraine, fatigue, sore muscles—Jesus knows what you’re up against. He doesn’t just sympathize, but empathizes. So talk to Him about it. And take comfort knowing the King of the universe loves you so much, that He experienced all kinds of peculiar bodily pain so He could relate to you.
Take inventory of your body. What’s working well—a healed cut? Cleared sinuses? Praise Jesus for it.
What’s not—cramps? Allergies? Ask Jesus for relief.
Thank Him for taking on a human body, so He could truly understand.
My youngest has always been allergic to peanuts. A few Zyrtec and Kleenex won’t take care of his problem. Peanut allergies are life threatening. We’ve cleared our home of anything remotely resembling a nut. We’ve become experts at reading ingredient labels. We bake our own treats for parties and celebrations to ensure his safety. Epipens are stashed in every car, purse, backpack and cupboard of our house.
This summer Maguire had his annual allergist appointment. The doc did a skin test to check the status of his allergy and…there was no reaction. Zero. Next came a blood test to confirm the findings of the skin test. The results…negative. No peanut allergy? What? There was still one more test. Dun, dun dun…The Peanut Challenge, which basically consists of eating peanut butter for two hours in the doctor’s office while they monitor you. If something goes wrong, the doctor has the antidote to rescue you. If all goes well, you’re officially deemed no longer allergic. That day Maguire ate spoonfuls of Jif, and he was completely fine.
It was incredible. Life changing. Freeing! Maguire was thrilled he could now eat Reese’s and go out for ice cream without having to ask the worker for a clean scoop to ensure no nutty remnants from another flavor touched his vanilla. We were thrilled our son was safer in those situations. But despite all of the joy, gratefulness, and freedom, it was oddly hard to accept. Maguire has always been allergic to peanuts. How could he just start eating them now? How was it possible that Maguire was instantly free? He hadn’t taken a class, eaten pounds of spinach, or stood on his head to remove his allergy. It just vanished.
The same is true in our relationship with Christ. We don’t have to do anything, eat anything, turn around three times or pray a set number of minutes each day. Just by accepting that Jesus died for us, cleans our slates. We are no longer soiled by our recent or long gone past. We are not condemned by our mistakes, strangled by our fears or chained to our worries. I know that. Just like I know Maguire has outgrown his allergy. But how often do I question the freedom Christ offers?
When the school office called asking where Maguire’s Epipen was, I answered hesitantly, heat pounding, “He doesn’t need one any more.” Was he safe? I knew he was, and yet…
I put a note in his lunch and saw a peanut butter sandwich nestled inside. It freaked me out. I’ll have to sanitize his lunch box. No, I don’t. Because peanuts can’t hurt him any more. And we are also safe. Free. Loved. We don’t need backup medication or extra special sanitation.
Jesus says, “I love you. Just how you are.”
And I believe Him. Most of the time. Yet some days, I feel the need to prove myself—to God, to the world, to my family. I don’t want to let others down. I don’t want to let God down. I don’t want to let down my guard. Because I want to be a good wife and mama. I want to tell great stories. I want to be the kind of person Jesus wants me to be. Which are great desires. Just like keeping my son safe is a great desire.
But I have to accept that medical tests proved Maguire is no longer allergic. And more importantly I have to full out accept Jesus’ grace. That it is truly ALL I need. I have to stop doubting and second-guessing. I don’t have to take things into my own hands, just in case God doesn’t know what’s going on, or isn’t capable of handling the situation. Because God knows everything. And He can handle everything. In my life and in yours.
My grace is enough; it’s all you need. My strength comes into its own in your weakness. —2 Corinthians 12:9
What are you freaking out about right now? The balance of your bank account? Your relationship status? Your grades? Your quiet time, playing time, personal time, airtime, time of departure or arrival?
Christ’s grace is sufficient. Jesus says, “I’ve got this. I have this. Trust me. Don’t believe me? Look at all the times I’ve guided, saved, directed, and held you up in the past. Still don’t believe me? I died to save you, that’s how much I love you.”
“Right. He’s got this.” We don’t have to freak out. We do need to do our part. But then we have to trust. And when we do, we can outgrow our dependency on trying to prove ourselves worthy. Jesus says we are worthy. Jesus says He loves us. And nothing we eat or do or forget or achieve can ever change that.
Laura L. Smith