I was not an easy child. Chief among the reasons for this was my severe asthma. My parents taught me to accept myself and live without succumbing to self-pity. It took great personal sacrifice on their part. My parents gave me life twice, once when they said yes to God and He knit me in my mother’s womb, and again, as they affirmed me for whom I was, despite the condition of my health. My father was in the military, and as a result, we moved frequently. It was also a time when smoking was fashionable and problems like asthma and allergies were considered more psychological than physical. My father used to blow smoke rings to entertain my sister, but when he realized that my sister’s hives were being caused by the “harmless little puffs,” he and my mother immediately quit smoking. It made him sick to think that the smoke hurt his little baby girl. In fact, my parents went beyond quitting. No longer could friends or family smoke within our home. Thankfully, this happened before I was born. It would be one less thing with which my parents would have to cope.
        I was born in Colorado on Christmas Eve, 1963. I was a healthy and happy baby until I turned two. That was when my asthma kicked in - it was not uncommon for me to suddenly turn blue. In addition, I was allergic to most of the medications used back then, so it took some time before my asthma could be treated effectively. My mother sought help from the National Jewish Institute of Allergy and Immunology in an attempt to improve my health. The Institute put me through an out-patient program, where my parents learned what it would take to deal with my severe asthma. There they were told that my environment would always have to be strictly controlled if I was to be healthy. From that time on, they considered it their job to teach me how to control my environment myself so that I could lead a normal life.
        My parents had the challenge of providing a normal life for my siblings, while creating a lifestyle to control my asthma. Life at the Chilton’s was changed forever. Either Mom or Dad had to be with me at all times. An unpredictable onset of asthma would frequently turn me blue. I had to be given medicine immediately and then it became a race to see if my medication would kick in, before I needed to be rushed to the emergency room. My parents would often drive me to the hospital parking lot and wait there to see if I started breathing better on my own. Imagine what this did to their social lives, their sleep and their emotional reserves!
        By the time I was six years old my parents were already teaching me how to cope with my asthma. Here is a poignant example of why they felt the need to teach me these skills so early. I was but six when my family traveled to Indiana to see my mom’s family. I remember my parents allowing me to take a short walk with my twin cousin Eleanor. We were called twin cousins because we were both born on Christmas Eve, just hours apart. We stepped off my grandparents’ porch and walked past the next door neighbor’s house. By the time we reached the next house, I was struggling to breathe. I knew I needed help, so we turned around. When we got back to my grandparents’ house, I could hardly breathe and was already beginning to turn blue. I pounded on the walls because I did not have enough air to call for help.
        Two short years later, I saw my father get misty-eyed for the first time. It was my eighth birthday and I blew all the candles out on my cake on my own. That was the first time I had enough air for this simple birthday tradition. My wish came true that year.
        In the fifth grade, it was a big deal for my peers and me to participate in the 21-mile bike-a-thon sponsored by our school. My best friend Christine and I were very excited, but thought for sure my parents would never allow me to do it. Surprisingly, they did! We spent a couple of months collecting sponsors and riding our bikes to build up our endurance.
        On the morning of the bike-a-thon, my mom had a terrible backache. My sister Margaret offered to ride along with me, but Mom wanted to go herself to guarantee my safety. My memory is of a glorious day of fun with my best friend and my mom. I was proud that I successfully finished the race without having an asthma attack. You know though, I never knew Mom’s back hurt that day. She unselfishly rode those 21 miles so that I could have that normal experience in my life. When I went back to school the following Monday, I enjoyed talking about the bike-a-thon along with all of my classmates.
        By seventh grade, I was feeling pretty cocky that I had this asthma stuff under control, so I informed Mom and Dad that I was joining the basketball team. I could tell by their faces what was coming next, so I threw a big, fat fit to get my way. It worked. That season, Mom came to every single practice and every single game. My asthma was troublesome, but we got through it. In fact, I still have the afghan that Mom stitched as she watched me play basketball. Stitch by stitch, my mother sat and endured long evenings, so I could have the experience of playing on a team. She was affirm-ing her girl who was attempting to find herself, while learning to live a normal life. I’m sure Mom and Dad grew weary at times, but I’m thankful that they led a life worthy of the vocation to which they were called. With all humility, gentleness, and patience, they supported me and each other in love.

Friday: Planting Day
O God, please plant in me the need in me to play with my children,
so that they will grow up knowing that I not only love them,
but that I like them as well. Amen.

Saturday: Cooking Day
Help me, my Savior, to brew a big kettle of faith
and to serve it with the sweet bread of hope! Amen.

***