Spoons for Manna

“I’m running low on spoons today.”

This is a statement which, at first glance, seems like an odd commentary on one’s silverware inventory. If you dip your toe in the chronic illness community, however, you will quickly understand its meaning.

I am many things: A mom, wife, lawyer, Broadway musical enthusiast . . . and chronically ill. I have so many diseases and disorders that I have a (literal!) spreadsheet to keep track of them all. When I began finding people with similar chronic illness journeys online, I came across a blog post titled “The Spoon Theory” by Christine Miserandino, who used spoons to illustrate her daily allotment of energy as someone suffering from a chronic illness.

When most people think about their daily schedules, they think of tasks like taking a shower, walking the dog, going to work, cooking dinner, and watching a movie. These errands and daily practices are done without a thought about energy conservation or illness. People with chronic illnesses, though, are given only a fixed allotment of “spoons,” and each activity costs various amounts of these spoons. I have what is commonly referred to as a “dynamic disability,” meaning that my level of functionality can vary significantly from day to day. Some days I have a bounty of spoons and can afford to do all the things I need to do. Other days, I wake up and realize I have three spoons in my hand and have to strategize about how to make the best use of my limited capacity.

I have found the spoon theory illustration useful when trying to explain my limitations to others. It has not been useful, however, when I try to explain my limitations to myself.

As someone with a front-row seat to my own life, it is astonishing how often I catch myself trying to justify my activity (or lack thereof) to some invisible supervisor. I have a running narration in my head, always trying to calculate the most efficient way to get all my tasks completed, so I can conserve my “spoons” and make them last as long as possible. It frustrates me when people don’t understand my illnesses and limitations.

But to be honest, I don’t understand them either.

My brain battles with itself, berating my body for being so tired, so sensitive, so overwhelmed, so painful. I have two competing narratives in my head. The first says that I need to be a productive, functioning member of my family and society. I need to do things that need to be done, even if I’m tired, sick, or feel unwell. I have responsibilities and a young child, so I must hang in there and do my best. Suck it up, buttercup.

The second narrative tempers the first, adding softness, compassion, and understanding. Yes, it says, you have responsibilities and commitments—but there isn’t a judge critiquing your performance. You have nothing to prove, no one to impress. You are strong and good, and these things are true just as much as when you are cleaning and working as when you are resting.

I tend to listen to narrative number one. As a result, I have grown resentful of my own limitations. The spoon theory began to sound cold, withholding, and cruel. Everyone around me delighted in their silverware drawer of excess spoons, knives, and forks. I, on the other hand, clutched my two spoons tightly in my hand, resentful of anything that would cost me a spoon. I was the Gollum of spoons.

Until recently.

A thought popped into my head when I was driving on the freeway one afternoon. My two-year-old son, Patrick, was sleeping in his car seat, and I had a few minutes of silence to myself.

You need to trade your spoons for manna.

God spoke, telling me that I needed to change my metaphor. I was shocked at the clear message, which spoke so much truth into my bones in so few words. To me, the spoons in the “spoon theory” signified scarcity, a lack. It was a limit, a reminder that I have less than others. Spoons, it turns out, aren’t the right image for me.

Manna is.

In the Book of Exodus, the Israelites are wandering the desert, and they’re hungry. The text uses the word “grumbled” a lot to describe their state of being. They were, in a word, hangry. I can certainly relate. God sends them food (in the form of manna) every day, enough for that day and that day only, with the only exception for the preparation of the Sabbath, when they are to prepare enough for two days so they can rest.

I felt God tell me that my daily energy levels and abilities were actually a gift, an addition, and not a question of subtraction. My life isn’t about the daily snatching away of my dwindling number of spoons. Instead, my life is a testament to God’s unfailing provision. I never bothered to think about the meaning of “give us this day our daily bread.” It was just a rote phrase, something I heard with my ears a thousand times but never absorbed the meaning in my heart.

In the Bible, God forbids the Israelites from hoarding manna. Instead, they must trust in God’s daily deliverance. Of course, some Israelites decide to take extra manna. Maybe they were selfish, or maybe they were hungry. Or maybe, like me, they were fearful. Afraid of feeling the sting of hunger, hoarding their manna like I did with my spoons. Their disobedience did not end well; the food became infested with maggots and spoiled.

Similarly, when I would selfishly hoard my energy and time, I realized that I still felt hollow and empty. My eyes were fixed on potential scarcity, even when I had abundance in my hand. The result was the same—a spoiled gift.

I am learning to trust in my daily allotment of manna. I’m sure this will be a lifelong endeavor, but the future looks brighter when I focus on the manna in my hand instead of the spoons in my drawer.

Bethany Everson Na is a writer and attorney from Southern California. She married her law school sweetheart, Christian, and has two sons: Patrick (human) and Perry (schnoodle dog). Bethany has traveled the world, from Amsterdam to Uganda, and believes that the most magical place on the planet is New York City at Christmastime. You can find her at www.bethanyeversonna.com or on twitter @BethanyNa007.

Photograph © Alexandra Gorn, used with permission