Wearing your Medical History on your Sleeve

I started a new job this week.

On our second day, lunch was provided, and everyone else went through the buffet line and picked up pasta, rolls, and cookies for dessert. I grabbed a Dr. Pepper (am I the only one who drinks more soda now that I've had to become gluten-free and it's often the only thing I can safely consume at a group event?) and went to my seat.

As I sat down for lunch with my colleagues, the conversation began.

"Are you only drinking?"

"Um... well..."

I pulled my little purple lunch bag out from under my seat. Heads tilted to the side. Why was I eschewing the free food? I love my field of work, but we certainly do not make bank. Free food is pretty much always welcomed.

Our society keeps medical issues very private. It's the law. If you have tuberculosis or epilepsy or Hepatitis or a spastic colon or a really, really bad hangnail, no one has to know. In fact, it's your right that nobody (outside of your medical care team and your insurance provider, of course) knows unless you elect to share what's going on.

We all have a friend or two who shares too much (my friend Bethany calls these "overshares"), but for the most part, we don't know the medical troubles of anyone but our closest friends and family. We could easily be sitting next to someone on a plane who is HIV positive or only has one kidney. We'd never know.

Yet if you have celiac, everyone knows. Good luck hiding it during communion or at a birthday party or even during a night out on the town. Your family and close friends will know, of course, but so will your third cousin's visiting roommate, the colleague you met yesterday, and perhaps even the guy sitting one table over when you meticulously order your food in a restaurant. Welcome to wearing your medical history on your sleeve.

To be fair to my colleagues--all of whom are very thoughtful and sensitive people--they were just concerned about me. Wasn't I hungry? Did I hate marinara sauce? Was I on a liquid diet? When I explained why I couldn't partake of the free lunch, they asked educational questions (the field I work in involves LOTS of education):

What was it like? What happened when I got sick? When did I get diagnosed? Was I misdiagnosed at all first? And (my favorite) what did I miss the most? (Answer: Oreos. And naan bread. But mostly Oreos.) They were empathetic, sympathetic, and not at all badgering. If I were in their shoes, I would have asked the same things.

But the conversation gave me pause. Who else wears a medical diagnosis like a badge at every meal?

Diabetics, I suppose. Those who follow a Kosher diet (though that is generally probably not for health reasons). Those who have other food allergies. We the Gluten Free are an interesting and united cadre, finding kind and sensitive ways to answer the same litany of questions.

I am often struck by the desire to just blend in. To just eat what everyone else is eating. When I showed up to work in my professional attire (suit! starched shirt! PANTY HOSE!) I felt a little dorky carrying a lunch box. But this is my lot. Polished shoes, neatly filed nails, mascara, lip gloss, lunch box.

This has ramifications for faith, I think. In my faith, much like my eating habits, I often just want to blend in. To not rock the boat. To do what others are doing. To go with the flow.

Yet this is not what Christ calls me (or you, or us) to do. We are to sit at lunch (metaphorically) with our bright purple lunchboxes of Jesus so that people take notice. Yes, this is a hokey symbol, but I'm going with it, so stick with me. Followers of Christ are to be different. We shouldn't quite fit in.

Why not? Is it because we are learning to love our neighbors even if they're hard to love, to welcome in the strangers among us, to both speak and live the Gospel? Is it because we love one another like ourselves, and love our God with our whole heart, soul, and mind? Is it because we are more concerned with being like Jesus than in being like our neighbors, our culture, or our peers?

Disciples don't fit in. This is what I aspire to do and be. This is what I struggle to do and be.

When I look at it like this, I'm almost grateful for my diagnosis. I'm already different. I already can't fit in. Perhaps it's time to rock the boat some more.