Death Comes First

I sat down low to pray, though I am no saint. I went there in grudging obedience, empty of sincere expectation. But God speaks to the grudging and hopeless. He said (again), "present your body as a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable to God, which is your reasonable service; do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed..."

And He said let go. Let go. Let go.

I don't want to let go.

And the days pass by, one after another. The seasons change three times. I've had no time turn, no time to be different. I and see the poor choices every day, piling up around me. I've chosen to rely on myself, to fear and to strive. And the joy seeps out of the walls of this house and everyone is grasping for what they want and I run away in my mind, living in the world of thoughts and intentions again.

I find this little furrowed brow in every room. This one with the grumpy face, the other with the grumpy spirit. Here's two small boys that need me to lead them gently to that place where they can hear that Voice, too saying, "present your body as a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable to God, which is your reasonable service; do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed..."

And here the marriage and the home. My works will not praise me in the gates. Rubies? Let's just say that my worth might be slightly above a bucket of rocks. I may not be like a constant dripping on a rainy day, but I am not sunshine either. Sleepless at night, considering all that I have failed to do or say, I hear it again, "present your body as a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable to God, which is your reasonable service; do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed..."

I slowly lay down the season of books and study and see the mess I made. I was asked to steward this: these boys, this family, this home and in the midst of it all to abide, abide, abide. But I abandoned this holy call to follow other things: reading and teaching and being important and feeling recognized.

It's true that I was confused when I made the choice to wander. Didn't He also say, "Having gifts that differ according to the grace given to us, let us use them...?" The books and the words and the flow of learning these are stuck deep, deep down in me, all twisted into who I am. And all the mama stuff, the washing and scrubbing of hearts and floors, seems to me ill-fitting and itchy. It's difficult to say 'no' to what feels right. But confusion and difficulty are excuses only, silly justification for propping up tipping idols.

It's true that I long to teach and to learn. C.S. Lewis said, "the love of knowledge is a kind of madness." I feel that madness racing through me always. I want to know and discover and understand. And the madness itself is not evil. Didn't the Lord say that He could be seen, "being understood by the things that are made, even His eternal power and Godhead?" (Rom. 1:20) But I have not been content to see Him and understand Him in the space He has chosen for me and in His timing. Ever reluctant, my roles have felt to me too constrictive and small. How can I be what I was created to be in this little space? It seems like I have to give up who I really am to walk this path...

"present your body as a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable to God, which is your reasonable service; do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed..." (Rom. 12:1)

Let go. Let go. Let go.

I think of Jesus there in the grave, presented as a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable to God...

We were buried therefore with him by baptism into death...

We are... always carrying in the body the death of Jesus...

For we who live are always being given over to death for Jesus’ sake...

And fragile and beautiful hope springs up. The resurrection is coming.

...in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, we too might walk in newness of life. (Rom. 6:4)

...so that the life of Jesus may also be manifested in our bodies. (2 Cor. 4:10)

...that the life of Jesus also may be manifested in our mortal flesh. (2 Cor. 4:11)

Go Ahead, Give It A Name

I have named four children, some cats, a dog, a rabbit, and few rocks. Only the names of the children were carefully chosen to reflect my deep hopes. I'd like to name the new year. It lies all fresh and shadowed in front of me. No footprints or worn paths. Just shining potential stretched out white.

I hesitate to name the year because this may set me up for failure. After all, if there's no expectation, then technically I can't fall short, right? Here I behave as if life is a series of mathematical equations. I start with a positive intention, add time and effort; subtract laziness and fear; multiply by the number of days I wasn't chasing the wind or running around in a panic, and arrive at my life's grade, which I feel is always running around the 60% mark. Arithmetic: Give. Take. Follow this 'rule'. Tally this mistake and that shortcoming. Nice and straightforward.

Except I'm following a God of grace and, apparently, grace does not follow any rules of mathematics. In the Kingdom, the least is the greatest and the weak are strong and to gain anything you've first got to go and give everything away. And to gain the treasure hidden in the ground, I need to buy the entire field.

“The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field. When a man found it, he hid it again, and then in his joy went and sold all he had and bought that field." Mat. 13:44

So, I'll buy the field. I'll name the year. I'll spell out all that I secretly desire to be true for the next twelve months, hoping to get a firmer grip on the Kingdom. I'll start digging.

This will be The Year of Turning. The year of μετανοέω (me-tä-no-e'-ō).

I want to turn over the soil of my life, break up the clumps, let the air in. I want to sow new seeds. I want to turn from self-reliance, fear, laziness, selfishness, and distraction. I want to turn to the Spirit, to prayer, to love, perseverance, joy, servanthood.

My bucketful of intention won't get me far. I need a plan; one that won't allow me to stray into arithmetic. What steps come first?

Lord make me restless and homesick for You this year. Teach me to turn to You in new ways.

What is the chief end?

A busy season has called me away from the computer, though I long to share photographs and strings of words. I have carried heavy thoughts these two months and watched bits of life through my camera lens.

Tonight, I wonder if I should continue with my postings. What is their purpose? To talk about myself? To put my heart and family on display? What is gained by a few meandering paragraphs? I did not grow up in the church or in tradition, so imagine my surprise to hear the words of a catechism spring into mind: What is the chief end of man? To glorify God and to enjoy Him forever.

If I continue with my varied thoughts, I hope the result is sincere praise and thanksgiving to our God. I feel like a pilgrim, groping through the shadows, waiting and listening for direction. This mama stuff is hard and I fall so often. Fear entangles me daily and I am weak from trying to throw it all off. The Lord gently leads me with His Spirit and His Word, but I linger in distraction and arithmetic.

But Creation around me sings His praise and sometimes I see it. He redeemed me and that's no small thing. I could post that news every day and it should never get old. When I acknowledge His patient work in my heart or in my family, isn't that praise?

Is God glorified by these words of mine spilled on the page? If not, then I should be done with it. Push delete and don't look back. Some prayer is in order I think. If you read this, would you join me?

Heart's Snapshot

Often the sentences and paragraphs can't hold it all. How do I put into words the turning in my soul as I watch the movement of purpled grass in the breeze? How do I give an account of the mixture of joy and grief that grabs at me when I see the familiar look of the lost child in the smile of his brother? And what string of words could convey the overflowing thankfulness for a life of blessing that I do not deserve?

Some pictures, then. The photos, too, fail to hold all the feelings, but they might add something...

Sorrowful fruitlessness and failure to abide and still He gently calls me back. Why do I resist?

Feet that tread on my heart; curious, adventurous, boyish love tangled up and knotted deep.

He grows and reaches for a faith of his own and oh how I pray he'll cling to the Rock; there's an unseen war surrounding him, Lord be his Shield and his Salvation.

The ache of being a mama: joy and sadness all wrapped up in a package and I just shake my head and smile because only God gives these kinds of gifts.

His steadying love that continues to my daily surprise and wonder and how I wish that I could be more for him.

God paints this life with His patient, loving artistry and I give praise for the beauty and color and who would have guessed that the smallest hands shape me the most?

Sunshine and lollipops and sometimes you have to squint 'cause it's just too much.

The one-foot-in-front-of-the-other irresistible pull of daily life and a Savior who says He's with me.

The smell of autumn and the peeking sun and the shhhhhshhhhshhhh of the grass all around. The creation gives glory to the Creator.

Friendship in blossoms and shared spaces and shared meals. So good to see her smiling and God's grace to me is new friends for new seasons.

Let all those who seek You rejoice and be glad in You;

Let such as love Your salvation say continually, "The Lord be magnified!"

But I am poor and needy; Yet the Lord thinks upon me.

You are my help and my deliverer; do not delay, O my God.

(Psalm 40: 16-17)

I Remember Her Dancing

I remember her dancing, my mother. On the lawn there with her sisters and brothers around, tapping toes and spinning in the grass, all smiles. The band played loud behind the house and we children stood and watched our parents in their happiness. And grandmother, too, joined in to the movement, laughing along. The day was golden, humming with flowers and sunshine.

Uncle sang joy into the microphone while his friend the drummer grinned to keep the dancers’ feet moving in time on the green. The sounds of these drums and strings had always been confined, in our short memories, to a garage or basement. But that day the rhythm rolled out across the yard, shaking the neighbors’ windows, telling the world that we were enjoying life.

It was perhaps the first and last time that I remember us all together in this way, before twenty-some years of life came smashing through. Before the marriages broke and the young faces moved off in anger and the addictions clogged the hearts. When I consider again the picture of that afternoon in my mind, I can see the small cracks that were already visible. After all, where was my father on that day? Why was he not there dancing, too? And even then, small and shy, why was I afraid to join in the dancing?

Sobering now to think that I am the age my mother was when she danced on that lawn in the warm sun. Holding to her sister, feet moving quick, did she have any idea where the next twenty years would take her? Could she see the cracks in the family then, the fault lines that made that picture crumble? Would she have lived that day differently?

And today, on my own day of sunshine, have I lived as if these happy moments are slipping quickly away? My children here watching me, have I drawn them out to dance with me? Where are the cracks that I should tend to? These next twenty years will come racing by. With eternity in my heart I want to chase after what God is doing, because it shall be forever.

What profit has the worker from that in which he labors? I have seen the God-given task with which the sons of men are to be occupied. He has made everything beautiful in its time. Also He has put eternity in their hearts...

I know that whatever God does,
It shall be forever.
Nothing can be added to it,
And nothing taken from it.
God does it, that men should fear before Him (Ecc. 3:9-11a, 14)

Rule the Kitchen

Monday nights around here are reserved for fun. That's the night my home is invaded by three hungry ninjas. Inspired by a desire for convenience or health or challenge (or all of the above) I usually attempt to provide a meal. Last night, I made Curried Cauliflower Soup, a recipe I discovered in an old issue of Vegetarian Times. The picture in the magazine looked yummy, as it so often does, and the ingredient mix was curious.

A head of cauliflower, an onion, a Granny Smith apple, and a couple Tablespoons of curry powder later found me powering up my Ninja, a food-processing gadget I purchased mostly because of the kicking ninja lady on the logo. A few spins around and my soup was happily puréed. I poured the greenish yellow goo back into the soup pot to serve.

At the table, fresh French bread in hand, we're all able to (barely) swallow down a bowl of this concoction. The soup tasted alright, but there's simply no remedy for the texture of finely chopped cauliflower floating in broth. It took a great deal of effort for me to keep myself from gagging at every bite. The ninjas said it was 'pretty good,' but they were quick to turn down a second helping.

So what happens when you feed hungry guys a disappointing foo foo vegetarian soup for dinner? They conspire to find a dish that is diametrically opposed to what they just consumed. Enter the ''cake shake," an experiment to test the laws of culinary physics and hilarity.

Ingredients:

One store-bought chocolate cake, frosting removed, chunked

An unspecified amount of Half and Half

Chocolate syrup (just in case)

Pinch of nonsense

Directions: Place chunks of de-frosted cake into food processor and blend until cake is stuck on sides of blending cup. Scrape cake down with long handled spatula. Add half and half (follow your instincts here; you're looking for a cake to cream ratio that is thick, but not so thick that it can't be sucked up a tiny straw). Blend until your bored or until you count to ten, whichever comes first. Your shake should be the consistency of cake batter. Pour into a cup to serve. Add chocolate syrup if you're determined to take this dessert as far as you can into the realm of the outrageous.

Voila: A dessert that more than made up for the disappointment of my Curried Cauliflower Soup. We effectively cancelled any dietary benefit conferred on our bodies by the vegetables and increased our calorie intake five times over.

I like providing healthy, wholesome foods to eat, but I also want to enjoy the time I spend in the kitchen. Sometimes you have to rule the kitchen, and sometimes you just have to play in it.

Learning to Dance

What if all my work-- the movement of my hands across the dishes, the steps from room to room, the bending of my knees to meet the gaze of a wondering child-- was all a dance? Maybe housewifery shouldn't feel like a forced rhythm of economy or a plodding-through to meet expectations. Maybe it should feel like a slow waltz with my Father.

I'm no ballerina and these movements are awkward and halting. I drag selfishness and pride and insecurity around like wrecking balls behind me. My time and effort are often given in sacrafice to the idols of Approval or Control and sometimes God's song over me is difficult to hear above the sound of the world.

If only my old eyes did not see work, and toil, and labor everywhere. I would like to look at a list of school lessons and see the Potter's hands forming the clay. A pile of laundry could lead me to the Servant of all who knows my name. In the dishes and pots and pans I could find a chance to take off the old self and clothe myself in humility and love.

In the best moments, when I pull my eyes off my own feet and follow God's lead, there is grace in my dancing. There's no fancy costumes, no disco ball, and no audience. It's just the jealous love of my God surrounding me, refining me, and pulling me closer.

“O Israel, stay away from idols! I am the one who answers your prayers and cares for you. I am like a tree that is always green; all your fruit comes from me.” (Hosea 14:8)

First Snow

Yesterday morning was Ian's first real encounter with snow. He wore his first scarf and his first pair of boots and his first snow pants. After becoming somewhat accustomed to the winter bundling waddle, he bravely walked out onto the snowy front porch and surveyed the white landscape. Ian wasn't too keen on actually walking through the snow, but was happy to explore after I had shoveled some paths for him. I'm certain that he learned a few new things...

...about the difficult and necessary work of shoveling,




the near inaccessibility of playground equipment,



and the usefulness of big brothers.

Yesterday, I was reminded that there is no better way to see the world than through the eyes of a young child (and that there are few things that are more cute than a bundled-up toddler who is stuck on his back in the snow).

Petit à petit, l'oiseau fait son nid

A while ago, I browsed through a book called Gorgeously Green by Sophie Uliano (a book I do not recommend because of it's girly, edgy, new-agedness). I also flipped through a book called Easy Green Living by Renee Loux (a book that I do recommend for it's thoroughness). These ladies went on and on about the presence of nasty ingredients in bodycare products. Things like parabens, phthalates, sodium lauryle sulfate, and propylene glycol were residing in the products that I used every day: shampoo, soap, toothpaste, lotion. Our family had already made huge changes in our house-cleaning supplies because of offending industrial chemicals. It was time to change our bodycare lineup as well.

To pass the time during one of our last extended stays at the hospital with Graeme, I picked up a book from the gift shop called Organic Body Care Recipes by Stephane Tourles. It combines two things that I love: natural and organic ingredients and hand-made concoctions. Not being a beauty queen, I had never really taken the time to reasearch how to consistently care for my skin. Honestly, I still don't know much, but Tourles's book gave me some information and recipes that I have found to be very useful.


Being a fairly low-maintenance girl, I use just a handful of products each day, some of which I make by hand. Using Tourles's book, I have come up with a recipe for facial cleanser that I really like. It contains powdered lavender buds, bentonite clay, oat flour, and lavender essential oil--ingredients that I can buy within a few blocks of home.


I also make my own facial astringent and moisturizer, which I use every day. These are made with very basic ingredients, most of which are edible. In the past I have made lip balm (which tasted really yummy) and lotion (though now I just use unrefined coconut oil). I was surprised to learn how simple these products are to make in the kitchen and how easy it has been to assume more control over the dangerous substances that I am exposed to. Little by little, I'm moving toward my goal of a more healthy, sustainable life.

Decadence?

So, I'm confused...

This often happens: I think that I know the meaning of a word and I even throw it around in casual conversation, only to find out later that I used it incorrectly. That's fine; I'm happy to refine my personal vocabulary (since it's one of my most beloved possessions), but there are times when I am shocked to discover the true definitions of my thoughtlessly tossed-out words.

Chase and I had an enjoyable time making two decadent cheesecakes for a bake sale.* You know, cheesecakes that were rich and yummy and perhaps a bit over the top? Does this make sense? I thought it did. Here are some synonyms for decadent:

corruption, debasement, decay, decline, degeneracy, degeneration, degradation , devolution, dissipation, dissolution, downfall, downgrade, fall, incontinence, lasciviousness, lechery, lewdness, licentiousness, regression, sensuality, sybaritism

These are not words that I would have chosen to describe our (triple chocolate and chocolate-peanut butter) cheesecakes. I was hoping to convey the idea of deliciousness. I perhaps should have used the words toothfull, dishy, or hunky-dory, just to stay in safe morphological territory. Safer still would have been words like esculent or comestible, words which look fancy but could also be used to describe celery.



I can see the nuanced trail that connects the ugly words above with our decadent cheesecakes when I consider other synonyms like excess, gluttony, and intemperance. Perhaps it was excessive to lick out the bowl in which we melted the chocolate. And I may have been an intemperant glutton when I consumed an entire slice of cheesecake in one sitting. But the cheesecake was decadent. How could I resist?

*The cheesecakes were donated to the children's ministry at our church. Some of the kids helped to organize a bake sale to raise money for a few local organizations who are busy sharing the gospel around town. They raised $150!

The Mysterious Popping Sound in the Night

Last night, as I sat quietly sipping on some coffee and reading In The Land of Invented Languages, I kept hearing the sweet 'ththththpop' of canning jars sealing. Yesterday, my garden friends and I spent eight hours canning tomato sauce made from the almost three bushels of tomatoes that we picked from our garden this week. Canning tomatoes is not on my list of top 20 things that I enjoy doing, but it was good to share my kitchen with friends and to preserve some garden goodness.

It seems that canning is a rather lost art in my generation. Last summer was the first time I had ever preserved anything (I made strawberry jam) and when I had questions, I inevitably had to ask someone older than myself. There are bizarre looking tools of the trade and an entire canning vocabulary to take up. The process itself is time consuming and often difficult. There is food splatter and mess, there are heavy pots and hot water, and sometimes there's intense pressure to move quickly so that things stay as sterile as possible (this pressure is intensified when you don't really know what you're doing!).

Our canning adventures yesterday were fraught with many questions, but we persevered and succeeded in making over 20 quarts of tomato sauce for our four families to enjoy. Though no one in our gardening circle grew up learning the art of canning and preserving, most of us will tackle any kind of learning curve to become more efficient stewards of our resources.

Though the education and the fresh vegetables are great, our gardening adventures are more about community. We can buy a book about canning and we can buy a jar of tomato sauce, but we can't buy fellowship. And fellowship is the best part.

The View from the Booth

Copy. Click. Paste. Click. Copy. Click. Paste. These are the sounds of me working in the booth at church. Since last December I've been plugging away, trying to learn enough about the projectors, computers, and software to be useful the team of women who unknowingly took me on as an apprentice. Taking on the jargon of computers has been for me like learning a tonal language. I have a short list of vocabulary words that I can toss around with confidence, but everything else is dangerously fraught with potential double meaning. I prefer to point a lot and stick to words like, "thingy," "stuff," and "button," relying on the vagueness to hold the epistimological door open for me should I decide to bolt. Sometimes I feel challenged and inspired by the difficulty, like I'm about to crack an ancient biblical code that will open up the universe to my viewing. Other times I just feel like I'm copying and pasting like a trained monkey.

Sometimes we work under a vise-like time crunch, entering the message text and preparing song lyrics that inevitably change every fifteen minutes or so as the Spirit leads. I mostly work with the languages, entering Chinese, Japanese, and sometimes Korean text. I can't read any of these languages, so there's some semantic risk in my work. It's like I'm placing sign posts in Beijing or Tokyo with no knowledge of the landscape. On one level, I'm just digging a hole and stuffing a post into it, but there's always the chance that I'll get my instructions mixed up and people will end up taking a Ralph when they should be taking a Louis.

There's a nervous build-up before the service for me. Sometimes my legs shake and sometimes I feel like I want to climb out of the booth and run around shouting with my arms in the air like a panicking lunatic. I prayerfully remain in my rolling desk chair though, staring wildly back and forth at my computer monitor and the big screen in the auditorium, deperately hoping that I'm prepared to administer the correct mouse clicks to follow the winding musical and pastoral trails. It's the equivalent of bungee jumping for me. After the event I find that I'm still dangling by my ankles and that I haven't fallen on the rocks or drowned. My friends and family are waiting to drag me back up to the top of the bridge I just jumped from. It usually takes about a day for the blood flow to regulate itself in my body, but since Sunday is the Sabbath, I have plenty of time to regain liver and brain function.

My team is called 'The Nations Team' and our job is to serve the nations that attend our church. I didn't really understand the connection between my frantic mouse clicking and world evangelism until I sat behind four new Chinese students in the auditorium a few weeks ago. As our pastor gave the message, I saw them looking from the English scripture to the Chinese and back again, taking notes on small pads a paper and wispering to one other while gesturing toward the screen. "They just saw the gospel in their own language," I thought to myself. "How pentecostal!" I checked to see if my hair was on fire. Needless to say, that put new wind in my projecting sails. There is real purpose behind my frenetic booth activity and that makes it even more enjoyable. Purpose, community, a shockingly steep learning curve--what more could a girl like me want?

Shroonin'

Here's a lovely morel mushroom, peeking above the leaves.

On Mother's Day, during a small family gathering, the Hubs, Chase, and I followed my dad into the back forty to look for morel mushrooms. This is a yearly family activity on my dad's side, one that I had never participated in before. We had a nice time tromping through the leaves and trees, and we actually found six or seven nice mushrooms.

Tromping with fancy socks (under my sandals).

Looking for 'shrooms felt like fishing to me. On the rare occasions that I find myself fishing, I am constantly feeling anticipation. I'm always sure that the next cast will land me a fine fish. This feeling is heightened if I have an early catch on the fishing trip. That's what happened in the woods on Sunday. In the first 10 minutes, I found two cute morels sitting silently near the path. I was certain that the next few steps were going to bring me to more mushrooms, but it was a full half hour later before I caught sight of another one. Those little buggers are hard to see! Jim found one, my dad found another (besides two that he had strategically scoped out earlier in the day to show Chase an example), but sadly, Chase found none. He was disappointed, but felt compensated with the discovery of a large turkey feather.

The Hubs with his fine mushroom.

Yesterday, Jim fried up the 'shrooms. In the morning, he added them to his scrambled eggs and at dinner, he added them to his vegetable fried rice. I ate a small piece, but could just barely gag it down (it didn't taste bad, but my brain gagged at the thought of eating a mushroom). Astoundingly, Chase ate three or four pieces. We're still trying to figure out how that happened.

Mushroom pieces frying happily in butter.

La Capitana

As dangerous and potentially damaging as this information may be, I feel compelled to post about my most recent Game Night. For a number of years now, I've been 'gaming' frequently on weekends with the Hubs and our 'source', M. Caswell. I'm not talking about Uno or Pictionary here. I've been playing board games: games that require strategy, occasional deep thought, and sometimes a good deal of time to finish. Such descriptions make the situation sound very serious, but really it never is. Our gaming adventures are usually accompanied by copious amounts of sugar-laced snacking items and cream soda, which lead to (at least in my case) nonsensical comments and uncontrolled laughter.

In my defense, I find it necessary to state explicitly that I am not a LARPer. Though I have found myself in control of Greece, Rome, and more recently the Mediterranean, I am level-headed enough to throw off my titles when the game box is closed. This doesn't keep me from gloating over my victories, however.

On Saturday, I won a friendly game of El Capitan. Proliferation and frugality led me to a quiet victory over the Hubs and M. Caswell. There was no confrontation or battle, I simply outplayed them both, almost without trying. (It helped that they were locked in battle with each other; that always works in my favor.)

Here's the Hubs gearing up for the game. Notice the snackage.

Here are my bits of domination: 18 Warehouse, 3 Fortresses, and 20 Bucks.

Total Domination.

My Winnings: 175 Bucks (There's 15 tied up in bonds- not shown).

Bonus Spoils: 2 Sunken Ships.