"I will send my terror ahead of you and throw into confusion every nation you encounter. I will make all your enemies turn their backs and run. I will send the HORNET [emphasis mine] ahead of you to drive the Hivites, Canaanites and Hittites out of your way. But I will not drive them out in a single year, because the land would become desolate and the wild animals too numerous for you. Little by little I will drive them out before you, until you have increased enough to take possession of the land" (Exodus 23:27-30).
As we deal with an asthmatic and hacking 3-year-old on a struggling Sunday morning, I zone into my home church's live online sermon addressing the trials of life. When that providential message concludes, I decide to empty the dishwasher; whatever it takes to feel grounded and steady. I earnestly attempt to help my daughter control something, anything. This is meltdown morning and Day 13 of Dad's lengthy out-of-state business trips. I arrived 16 days ago to lend a hand, and we look forward to Superdad's return home, in what seems like 3 forever hours.
Mom deals with her son's stressful tantrum, pushing 5 minutes. She's learned that in this type of situation, spanking is ineffective and fuels the fire. Cabin fever is at its peak. His tantrum is illogical and somewhat Albuterol-enhanced, because the prescription inhaler heightens his intensity with uncontrollably shaking hands and repetitive nonsense.
I prayerfully restock cups and plates and utensils into their cabinet cubbyholes. Then, I open a booby-trapped cabinet door and CRASH! A large Corning ware lid falls onto the counter-top, shatters, and glass shards fly everywhere. My first thoughts are: No way! My desperate prayer is answered with more chaos? This is NOT what we need on an already crazy morning! And I've ruined my daughter's lid.
To my surprise, the kitchen's sonic boom actually jolts our 3-year-old in a good way... he returns from battling the Land of Oz's Wicked Witch back to peaceful Kansas. My grandson is sensitive to certain foods and toxins, with milk, wheat and mold the worst offenders. Within minutes of drinking a glass of milk, his demeanor can change, for no logical reason and in an instant.
I recall his adorably mischievous eye gaze and sweet "DeDe" as I read and re-read sleep time's Curious George and 5 Little Monkeys books. Those eyes melt my heart, even in the midst of Chicagoland's chilling and snowy 2014 Polar Vortex. In a sudden moment this Sunday morning, those same eyes glaze over, combined with a penetrating, relentless, twizzling (circular), perseverating (repetitive) mantra that dizzies his Mom's sanity. We ask: Is there a food or toxin fueling his inordinate and illogical mindset?
These cues are what prompted my alert daughter a few weeks ago to believe that we are dealing with one determined little boy unwittingly laced with hi-jacked food intolerance. It will take trial-and-error and a patient, courageous Mom and supportive Dad to manage their precious little one's diet. Little by little, my daughter will study more books and cook homemade sprouted wheat pancakes; she will buy almond milk and almond yogurt; she will use the snow method to sterilize her area rugs and wipe down questionable window sills; she will blend healthy smoothies with hidden cinnamon-flavored fermented Cod Liver Oil. It is like our own complicated Sherlock Holmes mystery: "The Case of the Twizzled Hornet."
Worthwhile endeavors and challenges can strengthen us. It is extremely difficult for me to see "good" in the midst of trying dramas, and especially this one. To a minuscule degree, I compare it to the nightmare of breaking a Corning ware lid. We had an overwhelming, tornado with which to deal. We wiped counters, swept and vacuumed, and then meticulously hand-wiped the floors on our hands and knees. We kept our eyes peeled for residue (gratefully spotting a few missed nuggets and microscopic shards). Today, as I finally finalize unpacking and laundering, I'm shocked to discover a large glass shard in the pocket of the sweater I wore that morning (which I know I did not put there). Glass, indeed, flew to Oz and back.
In retrospect, good did come from the sonic boom. It gave us critical incentive to thoroughly clean the kitchen floor's nooks and crannies for newly-crawling little brother; and, big brother was instantly jolted back to reality. The day mellowed. Fortunately, the base for that lid had broken years ago. We tediously, and little by little, cleaned up a wild and dangerous kitchen. We patiently took possession of the situation AND ended up with this possibly fortuitous (unplanned and random) confessional for our M.D.I.M. (Mother.Daughter.Insanity.Memoir. a/k/a Missing.Dad.Insanely.Memoir.)
Our Sherlock mystery continues, and one could never imagine the goings-on in young parent homes on Sunday mornings. The link below, to the vintage Phil Donahue Show, contains insightful footage of a young boy hijacked by a food intolerance as well as key information. The outcome gives us hope as we believe in and love a very good God. That is the reason I conclude this "penning" with... tres bon.
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