That Welfare Mom is Just. Like. You.

For 6 short years, the flat plains of Nebraska were our home.

With no mountain in site, barely a hill to climb, we raised three boys and knew our neighbors, served in our church and had potlucks in the cul-de-sac. We drove 45 minutes to shop at Target (with no apologies on my part). We certainly were not rich, but we paid our bills on time, ate out if we wanted, and even saved a little bit.

And after 6 years, our lives suddenly changed. The husband and I both lost our jobs. Our friends were moving away from the state of flat, and for the first time in several years, his parents were settled and healthy. In Texas.

I have to admit that at first, the idea of moving south to a state that seems to adore itself (the three sons have never before pledged allegiance to the state flag EVERY DAY in school) was appealing. It will be a fresh start, I told myself. We will live by the parents and eat dinner with them on Sunday nights, our holiday travel will be minimal, husband will find a job and I could go back to school.

Silly me, thinking I know the plans I have for me.

That hard-working husband had job prospects, as I knew he would. The parents said we were welcome to stay with them until we found a place. Just a few weeks (maybe) of transition, I told myself. Our house would sell quickly, we could use part of those funds to settle into a life in the south.

Two months later, after job interviews and prospects fell through, all of us in one house of loud in the hot and the struggle and the choice to pay that bill or fill the car with gas, the husband was working at Target for measly pennies and the Nebraska house was still on the market, and we had no choice: we had to ask for help.

Gulp.

That issue is a separate post.

(Oh, and I thought it would be a good idea to take three online college courses, one of which was Chemistry.)

Good Lord.

But when it came down to it, we really had no choice (I am breathing a big sigh as I write). As I navigated the waters of Medicaid and Food Stamps, admitting to those handsome brothers of mine that yes, we did need some cash, thanks for asking, something changed in me.

That divide that had separated "me" from "them" had vanished and had been replaced with understanding, repentance, and grace. Although I still covered my food stamp card with my entire hand when I swiped it at the register, and I still termed the kids' medical plan "insurance" for my own self-preservation, I saw. I was given a small glimpse into the lives of those who will always work at Target for pennies, who manage their families on their own and must send their kids to after school programs so they can work late and try to make those assistance dollars stretch so that no one goes hungry.

I can't even count how many times in those two months I overdrew the checking account, missed bill payments, and prayed we would make it. I allowed resentment and discouragement to build up in my heart to the point of questioning what in the world we had done.

I felt ashamed, but for what? Who was I, that I did not need assistance in this season while we swam these murky waters?

Let me tell you, any sense of pride that I had left disappeared the day I walked the 8-year old into the public health clinic for 3rd grade shots, pulled out his Medicare card, looked at the sweet nurse and burst into tears. "I've never done this before", I cried. Her hand on my arm was enough to send the message that the most important thing right now was not that I had to ask for help, but that my child needed vaccinations.

The most important thing was not that my food was not costing me anything, but my children needed to eat. Whatever filled my cart, whether it was fruit snacks or bananas, chicken nuggets or free-range vegetarian no hormones no fun blah blah blah, was not the issue. For the season, we had food in the (parent's) pantry. If our kids got sick or landed in the hospital (which they did), they were taken care of.

Are there things I would have done differently? Absolutely, and that list is longer than the application (short book) for public assistance.

But one thing I have learned: that welfare mom is just like you. Just like me. Filling her cart, loving on her baby at the doctor's office, making tough choices. Diapers or bills? Gas in the car or savings? Work or home with kids?

That welfare mom was me. And maybe a season will arrive where it is me again. I only hope I approach it with an attitude of gratitude and grace instead of grumbling and grief.

And may God bless my steps so that I never have to take a chemistry class again. Amen.