Cherished

I wrote last week about how well my parents pampered me on my birthday; this week, I show how my sweet friends cherished me and helped me celebrate my 29th year...

At Babaloo's, enjoying a very geeky cake

Up close shot of the Tardis cake…if you don't know what the Tardis is, then you are clearly not as geeky as I am…and I am so, so sorry

The girls and some of my favorite waiters around!

The Year 29

So close to thirty, so far from maturity.  Tonight, I leave you not with lamentations of time wasted, hopes deferred, but instead, with times cherished, with a reminder that I am, undeservedly, unabashedly loved...

The best crab cake…ever.

Flowers from my favorite waiter, Gus!

A special birthday cake!

Gus, the man.

He even wrapped my wine for me to take home!

Thanks mom and dad for a great birthday celebration; and thank you Lynn's for treating me like a princess!

The Lonely Path of Comparison

“I know I shouldn’t complain, other people have it worse…”

My feet have ached before, but nothing like this.  For seventeen years, point shoes rubbed and tore at heels at toes, blood blossoming out across pink satin, gore tainting elegant beauty.  Miles of pavement left inches of callouses.  A dislike for shoes in general have flattened and spread toes.  Doors have severed toenails violently; salty sea waves removed them gently…but nothing has left my feet as swollen and worn as waiting tables.  Add to it my brilliant decision to take two classes this semester (100 pages of reading a week for apologetics – help me, help me!) and there are days where all I can manage is when I get home is a few minute veg in front of the TV followed by five or so hours of oblivion.

But how can I be tired?  I don’t have a family to care for when I come home?  How do other people keep up with their reading?  How do they stay sane with a full time job, kids, and seminary?  I’m weak, I’m lazy, I’m a failure.  Other people are so much busier, work so much harder, have so much more on their plate and do it with a flippin’ Crest commercial smile.  I have no excuse to be tired, no excuse to be frustrated, no excuse to be behind.

“I think to have a regular job and be a mom is not as, of course there are challenges, but it's not like being on set.”

But at least married people have partners in their work; as a single, I’m doing it all on my own, creating a home, paying bills, making life decisions, worrying my family will end with me because I’m so insanely picky I can’t find the right guy.  My life is hard, it isn’t fair, I’ve always worked so hard, don’t I deserve a break, some kind of reward?

Does anybody else wrestle with these two mindsets?  On the one hand, guilt overload bears down, pulling us into despair and often paralyzing us against productivity and any possibility of deserved rest that might just restore the energy we need to keep going…while on the other hand, pride often rears its ugly head, lifting us up above our fellow workers in this world, destroying camaraderie and frankly pissing everyone off (Oh GP, please put down the mic and walk away slowly…).

Both roads lead to the wilderness, and not just a clearing in the middle of the woods with an awesome little stream nearby and green grass and an awesome view of the night sky.  This wilderness is dry and desolate and, above all, lonely.  When we compare our struggles to the struggles of others, we will always isolate ourselves, always. 

There is only one solution to this struggle, one remedy to this faulty mindset:  15 Rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those who weep. 16 Be of the same mind toward one another; do not be haughty in mind, but [b]associate with the lowly. Do not be wise in your own estimation. (Romans 12:15-16). 

We should neither downplay nor exacerbate your struggles or the struggles of others.  The one leads to guilt, the other bitterness.  Instead, I think we need to allow ourselves to mourn the effects of sin, give ourselves the right to be frustrated and stress.  Jesus wept when Lazarus died (John 11); it is not a sin to weep in our struggles.  Using the argument that others have it harder robs you of this.  But when you allow yourself to mourn your own difficulties, an accept that they are, in fact, difficult without comparing them to others, then you are able to mourn with others as well.

Thankfully, despite our propensity to compare ourselves to one another, despite the difficulty of rejoicing with those who are rejoicing when we wish their circumstances were our own, we have a God Who is working for our good, for our holiness.

“Moreover, I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit within you; and I will remove the heart of stone from your flesh and give you a heart of flesh.” (Ezekiel 36:26)

It is only by His power that we can love one another, and flee the lonely paths of comparison.

Friday Night Foodie: Facing an Eight Year Old's Fears

 “No sauerkraut for me, thanks.”

 

She wouldn’t have it; in fact, she demanded it be put on my sandwich, no matter how much I wrinkled my nose.

I remembered the last time I’d tried sauerkraut, hair blonder, curls looser, eyes wider, I trusted the lunch lady without the cynicism that would settle in later years.  One large, unhindered bite was my first step towards the wisdom of the world.  No amount of carton milk could possibly drive the sour (how many days old???) taste from my mouth.  With as much determination as an eight year old can muster, I vowed never to eat the foul substance again.

Yet, I found myself again faced with, what I could only remember as, the smelly giant.  I would try it, but only because she was my best friend’s mom…only because the family was of German heritage. 

It takes hours to make good sauerkraut, hours and good beer and (if I remember correctly) bacon.  Translucent and rather dull looking, the eight year old in me could hardly imagine that it would taste anything other than sour, bitter, and slimy. 

Gluten free bread for me, of course.

The smell of buttered bread, melted Swiss, and turkey made my stomach growl and my mouth water…why ruin it with what is literally translated as “sour cabbage”? 

Still, retreat was not an option.  With a polite face at the ready, I took my first bite. 

Swiss, 'kraut, turkey

The Reuben 

What I discovered that day was that there is a world of difference between cafeteria “sauerkraut” (if it can be so called) and fresh, homemade sauerkraut.  Tart, flavorful, and crisp, this topping made the sandwich instead of ruining it.  Once again, I am surprised by food; expectations trumped, childhood aversions upturned, new memories folded in.  It’s more than a meal; it’s family and friends and fellowship, and I am so very thankful for it.

Thank you, Spitler family, for having me to Oklahoma, and "forcing me" to eat your sauerkraut.

The Might of Words

 “An English Major?  Hope you’re ready to ask ‘Do you want fries with that?’.” 

I’m not a violent person, but at this point in the conversation, I felt ripping his face off would be an appropriate and reasonable response.  No court would convict me.  Crime of passion, right?

It wasn’t the first time my major of choice had been belittled, after all, I had not only chosen Creative Writing as my focus but also decided that attending an Agricultural and Mechanical university was just the place to do it.  Year after year Engineers of all types snickered at my passion.  The kind ones held up a smile supported by decency and asked, with the greatest effort at politeness, what my future career plans were; the less tactful laughed outright, suggested I might have nothing more to look forward to than serving up flash frozen fries.

Words.  Words powerful enough to cut like knives. 

I wanted my words to be powerful, too, to speak to individuals, to the masses, concepts, ideas that would bring about change, would rend hearts, would comfort and convict…I wanted to change the world with my voice as a mouthpiece for the Lord, for truth…

But words made me small; shrunk me down until I was tiny, a child looking up at adults, at betters.  My words meant nothing, I meant nothing; my path was that of a fool.  Even the armor of indignation and condescension based on their “inability to communicate intellectualism” stood little chance against the arrows of their words…

It only proved how powerful words can be, how they can mend or break, build or destroy.  The old adage regarding sticks and stones proves to be nothing more than the same armor with which is clothed myself, and poor armor at that. 

“…the tongue is a small part of the body, but it makes great boasts.  Consider what a great forest is set on fire by a small spark.  The tongue also is a fire, a world of evil among the parts of the body.  It corrupts the whole body, sets the whole course of one’s life on fire, and is itself set on fire by hell.”  James 3:5-6

I was listening, as I often do, to wrong voices.  I was listening to wrong words. 

“If you belong to Christ, then you are Abraham’s seed, and heirs according to the promise.”   Galatians 3:29

“I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.”  Psalm 139:14

Words have power.  Listen to the right ones.

True, This! —
Beneath the rule of men entirely great
The pen is mightier than the sword. Behold
The arch-enchanters wand! — itself is nothing! —
But taking sorcery from the master-hand
To paralyse the Cæsars, and to strike
The loud earth breathless! — Take away the sword —
States can be saved without it! – Edward Bulwer-Lytton

Super Late "Friday" Night Foodie (That happened on a Saturday…)

Her hands work quickly, much more quickly than mine, the long nailed fingers handling the specially sharpened knife with precision.  The pile of vegetables, a mixture of various colors, grows in the corner of the warped cutting board, soon to be bound together by white string, a garnish to flavor the sauce we've been working to perfect for months.  This is my father's brain child, my passion, but my mother humors us as we create a recipe found in one of our favorite book series, Nero Wolf.

A wine based sauce, this particular recipe is typically served with poached eggs.  My mother hates poached eggs; this time we use steak.  

The last few times this recipe has been attempted, the sauce met one of two ends; chunky and thick with excellent flavor, or thin and somewhat bland.  Maybe this time we'll find a happy medium.

Our steaks come off the grill at different times; my father's and mine first, juice pooling on the white china beneath the knife, my mother's second, charred through and ruined in our eyes. 

We serve the sauce atop the steaks and garlic mashed potatoes, paired with my new all time favorite wine; Silverado.  

Perfect thickness, perfect flavor, we all agree that this version was a success, the best attempt thus far as we sit enjoying our meal, the company, and an episode of Nero Wolf A&E put together.

I might have eaten the sauce straight from the pan…don't judge me.

But thick or thin, bland or flavorful, I needed that Saturday morning.  A lost job, the overwhelming prospect of the future, under a mountain of guilt by no means cured but eased by good company, a good meal, and entertainment.  Food is more than ingredients, a meal beyond wine and flour and produce…it is fellowship and experience, it should draw you back to another time like smells and songs and movies that stir up old memories.  Even failure can be success when such things bring us together.   

Song in Prose

Linking up again with Kiki's "Not So (Small) Stories".  This week the topic is "song".  I had planned to try and get super creative, but after having a very difficult week (losing my job, questioning my direction, interviewing, temping, trying to study for my upcoming class…ack!) I decided to try some fiction yet again.  This particular piece is one side/perspective of a conversation written as practice with another writer I did recently (hence the lack of her dialogue).  So read on, my friends!  Hope you enjoy and will forgive my lack of energy this week.

***

...He followed her out of the kitchen, glancing at the floor as they went to make sure he wasn’t still dripping, and chuckled at her comments about a lack of musical talent. Drew could hardly imagine what it would be like to voluntarily choose not to play an instrument, but then not everyone was wired the same. Piano was what he’d stuck to, but from the time he was a small child any instrument he picked up could be easily mastered. On the other hand, the last time Drew had attempted to take a picture everyones heads had been cut off and the image had been horrifically blurry… clearly not his forte.

When his dark eyes landed on the piano in the sitting room he couldn’t help the grin that spread. It looked almost exactly like the piano he’d grown up with except in slightly better shape. One hand slid across the slick surface and Drew shook his head at her comment about it just being an upright. “It’s perfect,” he said. “Just like the one my grandma taught me on.” He eased down onto the slick bench
, always somewhat shy about playing for an audience, and rested his hands on the keys.

Like some sort of ancient spell settling on his muscles, Drew began to play without much thought. His fingers needed little prompting from his brain as the two moved in sink and his eyes slid shut, the tune a soft, minor melody that flowed from the dark clouds hovering above, the kind of music Southern Gothic writers might have set their stories to had they become plays or been put to film. It moved low, suggesting at times that it might brush upwards but never quite reaching that peak, and sweeping on like a low rushing wave. For a moment Drew slipped away from his surroundings, disappeared from that room and from his circumstances, caught in a tide he could not control and would not have sought to, hidden in a space of gray peace he rarely experienced outside of his music…a space Genny called his happy place.

That thought brought the lids of his eyes up and focused his gaze back to the girl standing next to him and he offered a grin that preferred not to meet his eyes. “Sorry,” Drew said. “It’s easy to get caught up…” His hands continued to move over the keys, but much more quietly, the tune shifting to a major chord, the pace quickening. Easy as breathing…or at least as it once had been. He could play for hours and never tire, never grow bored, this was his paradise, his safe haven.

In the Name of Love

Even with Valentine's Day behind us, my mind remains on the subject of love.  Perusing my Facebook, scrolling through Pintrest, and spending even a little time on Eharmony, I got to thinking about the difference between love and lust.  Romantic love is such an odd dog.  Within a family you typically love even the most obnoxious of the bunch, clearly making a choice to put up with their quirks and annoyances; with friends it isn't quite the same, but coming together on that plain makes sense even to my addled brain…but romantic love?  A love that often begins with attraction?  Lust even?  This sort of love kind of shoots over my head.  Is it more complicated than hormones?  Less?  Why does it seem that the guys I'm always interested in are never interested in me and vice verse?  Am I too caught up in the attraction aspect?  Am I so dang screwed up that lust has become a driving factor in relationships I'm willing to pursue?

It's very stressful and likely I'm over thinking it, but it did lead me to confront some of the definitions I had in my head.  Ultimately I concluded this, that the difference between love and lust is really quite simple.  Once the object of lust ceases to satisfy whatever hole it has filled, it is cast aside much like a broken tool might be.  The object of love, on the other hand, will not suffer this fate because love holds dear the object itself rather than its usefulness.

This is how God loves us, how He loves me even though I am a broken and battered tool that might be easily tossed aside.  He created me in His own image (Genesis 1:27), knit me together in my mother's womb (Psalm 139:13), and He is working to complete the good work He began in me (Philippians 1:6).

This good work calls me to love in the same way, to care for those who can do nothing for me, and may even do me harm (Matthew 5:43-48).  This is difficult and painful and I fail miserably at it…yet God is patient and brings me to my knees in repentance, humbling and softening me.

I still don't have an answer about romantic love, it still remains a mystery, but I think learning about the difficult task of love is a good lesson that might one day help me love better in marriage, in motherhood.  No matter what, I am thankful for the lesson, and pray that as I continue to walk this difficult road I will be a beacon of Christ's love to the watching world.

Family of a Different Kind

This is my fridge.  Its landscape once bare, barren, now filled with the workings of tiny hands and young minds.

They are not my children, and yet in a way they are, bound to me by a bond even strong than familial blood.

For these children are part of my covenant family - tied to me by covenant, commitment... 

They are part of the body of Christ, now by profession of parents, soon by the words of their own mouths, and I have covenanted with the rest of the body to help train them up in the way they should go.  Barren though I may currently be, there are arrows in my quiver, children who love, and are loved by me.  

Romans 12:5

New American Standard Bible (NASB)

5 so we, who are many, are one body in Christ, and individually members one of another.

Friday Night Foodie: Valentime's!

My earliest memory of Valentine's Day is at a breakfast table in Plano, TX, a table where I played 'Memory' with my mom and often refused to eat my peas.  Other memories rested on the window seat near by; early mornings with my dad who, to this day, shares my struggle with insomnia, but this memory is a little further over.  Easter, Valentine's, Christmas, my mother always had something special.  I don't remember the specific candy or what she wrote on the card, but the warm light, the smell of scrambled eggs, and the reminder that I was dearly loved reach through the years, brought back to mind by certain sights, certain smells.

In recent years, this day has become somewhat painful for me, dragged down by the slight jab of bitterness and longing, but the memories from that glass table soften the pain.  My goal as of late has been to direct my attention to others, to remember that I can chase away loneliness and bitterness with acts of kindness.  My initial plan this Valentine's was to make a heart shaped cake:

I made two mistakes.  The first being that I bought two round cake tins instead of one round and one square, and the second was that I did not go to the grocery store armed with an ingredient list…whoops!  (P.S. Thanks everyone for chocolate cake suggestions!  Will be trying them next time I go to the grocery store)

On to plan B: Sugar Cookies!

1 cup of butter, 1 1/2 cups sugar

"It's so fluffy I'm gonna die!"  

1 tsp baking soda, 1 tsp vanilla, 1/2 tsp baking powder, 1 egg 

2 3/4 cups of flour - real flour for the office peeps!  I ended up breaking down and using my (clean!!!) hands to mix the dough because the flour kept spilling out onto the counter...

No, I didn't make my own icing, I'm not quite as talented as Kiki

Purple: the anti-Valentine's color ;-)

Soooo many cookies!

The good: I couldn't taste them myself, but everyone in the office claimed they were good!

The bad: Not a recipe criticism as much as a frosting criticism - the sprinkles didn't much care to stick the way they should have.  Next time I'll take my co-worker's advice and pour them in a bowl and dip the cookies…

The ugly: flour chaos!  

I would definitely use this recipe again!

Dewberry Pie - A Short Story

When I first started my blog back in college, I shared some of my fiction.  After going to Peru, this blog sort of morphed into more personal life lessons and events.  But this week, a little tired from studying and meetings and church and busyness at work (and, let's face it, watching the Olympics) I decided to go back to an old piece of fiction and share it with anyone willing to read.  For a little background, I wrote this for my creative writing class in college to get another perspective of an ongoing character named Tommy.  All of his stories are told from his perspective save this one.

Followed by the smell of Chanel Number 5, Judith Summers rushed into the white painted house grasping her five year old, wild haired son Tommy by the wrist.  So hurried was she that she did not even notice the smell of fresh dewberry pie that wafted through the living room.  But Judith Summers was constantly hurried and her sister Jo told her so.

            “Child, you need to slow down,” she said standing in the doorway of the kitchen, fists on her wide hips.  A bright red apron that stretched across her thick midsection was covered in flour and her dyed blue hair was just as crazy as her nephew’s.

            “Sorry Jo, my flight leave in a few hours and you know the nearest airport is an hour away,” Judith said readjusting the Coach purse draped over her bony shoulder.  “Thanks for taking care of Tommy again.”  She ruffled her son’s hair and without another word rushed out the door back into the dusty wind.

            Jo shook her head.  “That girl,” she mumbled.  Her eyes, the color of blue bonnets, turned to her nephew who was teetering backward under the weight of his ripped, red duffle bag.  “Well, Tom looks like it’s just you and me son.  Let’s get you settled upstairs and then you can have some pie.”

            Tommy grinned revealing a large gap between his teeth. 

            The two of them clomped up the stairs, Jo pausing every once in a while to help Tommy who constantly stumbled over his Superman shoelaces.  When they reached his ‘special’ guest room, a room Aunt Jo had made up pink in anticipation for a girl; Tommy dropped his bag and flopped onto the frilly bed, a sigh banishing the air from belly in a loud whoosh.

            Jo looked down at her nephew.  His chubby cheeks were red from heat stair climbing.  She sank down next to him, springs protesting her weight.  He looked up at her.  By some chance God blessed him with her blue eyes rather than Judith’s brown ones.  She smiled at him.  “Ready for some pie, hon?”

            “Can I have milk?”  The boy asked.

            “Of course you can honey.”

            Tommy jumped off the bed and ran down the stairs toward the kitchen, shoelaces flopping like dog-ears.  Jo followed his bouncing, blond head.  The boy slipped on her bristly red and blue rug but recovered quickly and darted into the black and white tiled kitchen.  He hopped up onto one of the wooden chairs surrounding the table.  His legs dangled above the freshly cleaned floor.  As Jo sliced into the golden crust he flicked the fake berries that hung from a wax plant at the center of the table. 

            From the living room came the rusty song of the old grandfather clock.  Tommy’s eyes darted through the door and he gasped slightly.  That clock had always frightened him.

            Jo placed the piece of pie in front of her nephew on a plastic purple plate along with a glass of milk.  She then sat beside him with her cup of coffee, black.  “So Tommy, how is school going?”

            “It’s ok,” Tommy said through a mouthful of dewberries and piecrust.  He swung his legs back and forth and berry blood stained his finger tips.  “We just had career day and there was this guy who was a fireman, and a guy who did something with rocks, and a guy who wrote stuff.  It was pretty cool.  Aunt Jo, what did my Daddy do?”

            Jo raised her brows.  Judith hadn’t ever told him, of course, why tell the child something like that?  Mark Summers had died of a heart attack when Tommy was two.  He had been out mowing the lawn and it just happened.  One minute there, and then the next…“Well sweetheart,” she said.  “Your father was a teacher.  He taught high school Chemistry.”

            “What’s Chem-ch- what’s that?” 

            “Chemistry,” Jo said rather slowly.  “Is when people study tiny little things that you can’t see with your eyes.”

            Tommy cocked his head to the side.  He was still holding his fork in his fist and sucking on one of his very purple fingers.  “What kinda things?”

            Jo thought for a moment taking a long sip of her coffee.  The tips of her fingers traced the raised outline of the blue cat on the front of her mug.  “Small things,” she said.  “You’ll learn about it one day.”  She watched her nephew as he licked the bluish juice from the plate and shook her head.  “Child, were you raised to lick your plate clean?”

            The boy grinned. 

            “You silly boy.”  Jo stood and took his plate.  She walked to the sink and ran the water.  Steam rose up into her face fogging her glasses.  “So Tom, what do you want to be when you grow up?” 

            Blue fore finger still flicking the fake berries on the plant and chin resting on his palm Tommy rolled his eyes up to the white ceiling, Jo’s glow in the dark stars yellow in the day light.  “I wanna go to the moon,” he said finally.

            “So you want to be an astronaut?”

            “No, I just want to go to the moon.”

            Jo smiled.  “How are you going to get there?”

            “Aunt Jo,” the boy said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.  “I’m gonna fly.”

            “Well Tom I didn’t know you could fly.”  Jo dried the plate and put it back in the cabinet.  She covered her pie with saran wrap then walked back to the table and put her hand on her nephew’s head.

            “Of course I can,” he replied.

            Jo poked him in the ribs.  “Oh really?”

            Tommy giggled.

            “Come on kiddo you wanna play outside or something?”

            Tommy slid off the chair and ran to the back door.  Jo laughed and unlocked it watching him run outside.  The boy turned around and looked at her.  “Aunt Jo, can we play with your marbles?”

            “Sure we can dear.”