Month: February 2017

Delightful Roar

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, Stella, The ChefLeave a comment

Two nights in a row Plum went to bed quite unhappy with me. Highly unusual, this is our snuggle time, the precious moments when his last wonderings of the day spur questions that fascinate me, when he wants to be a bit closer, when he reverts to being just a tiny bit smaller. I love bedtime, when our guards fall down under the nightlight glow and we can be our truest selves. Not so on these last couple of nights though. The first was after being at church too late, bedtime pushed far enough back that self-control was lost. Somewhere between the church front doors and ours, he morphed from my sweet boy into a horrid monster who found no delight in my presence. I was good with that, not the morphing really, but I didn’t take it personally, it had nothing to do with me and everything to do with tiredness and my role as the enforcer of pajamas and brushed teeth and butt into bed.  He very nicely in his horrible monster voice told me he only wanted grandpa and that I could not snuggle with him. His precious sing-song voice roared that he wanted to put a sign on the door saying no grandmas allowed. Delightful child. I accepted the rules of engagement, sent in Chef and told them both to hush and go to sleep. The miracle of the sunrise brought my sweet boy back to me. Until bedtime the following night.

I have read that it only takes one time of doing something to create a habit with a cat, maybe Stella taught me this. I think Plum thought he was on to something, was in touch with his feline side. I declined his offer of exile and chose instead to pick up one of our love books and begin reading over the growls and hisses next to me. A weird thing happened though. He stopped. He settled in. He forgot that he was mad at me while listening to me tell him all the ways that I love him.

I get it, he is growing older. He wants his grandpa more. Trust me, I know, everyone wants grandpa more. Still, I want those precious moments as long as I can have them, those still quiet minutes before he drifts off.  Those are the times I remind him that my love will follow him anywhere. Right now he thinks those books are about him and I which is true. My love will follow him even when he turns into a horrid monster and turns me away.  But one day it will occur to him that I was whispering to him each night as he slide into slumber about God’s love. That a greater love than mine follows him. That a deeper love than mine forgives his monster morphing and knows the Sonrise will always lead him back. I am sure of this because sometimes I morph also, too tired to resist the bait, fall into temptation of anger and strong words, morphing into my own worst self. Then I rely on the love of God to bring me back, I listen for His loving words to invite me back into fellowship and grace.

Fortunately our morphings are pretty rare, we mostly delight in nighttime book reading and quiet questions. Maybe a new habit has begun though, one in which I am banished from his room and Chef is the hero. A new stage in our journey, perhaps. Like sneaky cats that seek out a new solution to any problem, I just have to find new ways to show him God’s love endures. Awareness of our changing relationship requires that I give him the space to push me away and know that I will never go too far. I can morph into that.

Aware

Wanna Race?

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The Chef6 Comments

Plum’s shoes had grown holes in the toes, a bit of a slash in the tread. Back to school shoes that survived into second semester were now screaming to retire. I picked up a new shiny pair while out running errands, hoping the amount of green on them would be acceptable. There always has to be green. I left them in Chef’s car while I went on to church to begin the Wednesday evening meal. Then it began to snow, a really good snow that quickly covered the sidewalks and silenced my worries as the world grew quiet. I prepped and cooked in peace until a little boy crashed into my kitchen cocoon carrying his new box of shoes. Hat, mittens, coat and boots went flying as he rushed to open the box, a new pair of shoes!  I tried to slow the process, remind him to hang up what he had tossed but new shoes awaited. Scissors were located, tags and that elastic string cut. Tissue paper form holders removed, the shoes made contact with his feet.  The magic happened.

Children with new shoes know, just know that they are suddenly faster. They have amazing abilities that either come with the clean tread or are enhanced by the fresh fit. They can jump higher, are able to win all the races, have limitless potential. Favorite color only seems to enhance their magic. The laces were barely tied and he was off. The still vacant hallways provided the needed outlet, he challenged Chef to a race. Laughter and taunts mixed with the aromas of dinner almost ready. New shoes, new perspective.

That night, he dreamt about those shoes, about racing with his friend from church. He and J share dinner each week under the supervision of J’s mom, I can’t watch over Plum while managing the food line. This week they decided they were grown enough to sit all by themselves, sent adults to the adjoining table. I love this friendship, I love that as soon as they see each other, they hug. I am not surprised that Plum spent his sleeping time with both his good friend and his new shoes, following the directive I give him each night as I kiss his forehead, “Have sweet sweet sugar boy dreams.”  He dreamt that he had green shoes and J had blue shoes and they raced around the church hallways, each winning some of the races. He laughed again in the retelling of his dream, the joy of the race as real as If it were true. He delighted in his time with J, with his new shoes, they BOTH had new shoes.

It is not lost on me that in Plum’s dream, he substituted in his best buddy for his grandpa. Interchangable. What a testimony to the love they share, the connection that has never been broken, the trust established. Chef is the fun grandparent and also the one who gets those extra snuggles when things are rocky. Chef has taught this child how to have friends, how to be a friend. He is teaching him how to be a man. One day Plum will buy new shoes for a child and accept the challenge of a race. I know he will remember all the times his grandpa paid for his shoes and then lost out to him at the finish line, with a good natured high five and a request for another chance. I know he will look back and rejoice in his grandpa who has been with him from the beginning and lets him sometimes lose because that makes him stronger, gives him character. Plum knows I am the disciplinarian but still an easy mark. I  more often than not let him win, haunted by all that he has already lost. One day Plum will buy his own shoes and begin of running fast, I pray towards his goals and all that God has planned for him.

On days that are hard, I want to remember that feeling, that new shoe freedom and confidence that I can run faster, climb higher, go the distance. God gives me that, everyday. Sometimes all I can see are scuffed up broken down holey old sneakers, my life in tatters and my self-esteem shot. New shoes, just out-of-the-box super powers are awaiting in the form of prayer and devotion. Favorite psalms and lines of scripture to speed my pace and reset my perspective, prophets to remind me of what can be, what is. Centering myself in my faith is where the “magic” happens. My wakeful dreams are of a world where I have that feeling to spur me on but also, my friends and my not-yet friends have it as well, we all have “new shoes.”    Let’s pretend just for today the magic has happened, the box is waiting for us to open. What would you achieve ? How high could you climb? Let’s open our faith box and find our new shoes. Mine will of course be blue or maybe teal. What color will yours be? Wanna race?

 

I Do Not Deserve This

On By LisaIn Faith2 Comments

I know I don’t deserve this. I haven’t earned it, it isn’t fair. More, more, when I think I have taken all there is to give, more appears. Where is the end, when will it stop? This grace just keeps flowing like birdseed out of the feeder, rushing to the ground for those who prefer to snack there. I don’t understand it, am overwhelmed with it. I barely start to grasp the beauty of what has been given and then more, more still more.

It began with a whisper, maybe first the readiness to hear the whisper. A chance taken, following that nudge, next reaching out with the tiniest spark across the darkness, a connection established until a fire grew so bright we all can see. That was grace enough for me. I could have lived off of  just that much, breathing in that grace, exhaling new faith, deep restoration. More, though, more still came. Why, why is there more? Nudges that push me into holy places, nudges that awaken me to gifts that heal, nudges that rein me in and nurture me, Spirit prods that love with grace and show me more IS. Not just what can be but what IS right now, inside of me.

I don’t deserve this friendship, this one who gives more than I can ever return. I don’t deserve her family, her parents who send me messages and emails and take photos to further my craft. It isn’t fair that her mother spends the afternoon sewing breast pads for Mama, a young woman she has never met, it just is grace. Who does that? This grace rich family, they have so much it overflows, they must be unable to contain it. Unaware of it, oblivious to the glory of their gifts, they humbly carry on sprinking grace like seeds from feed sacks, they either don’t know or don’t care a hole is leaving a trail wherever they have been, a trail that leads straight to God. Their bag never seems to empty. Like little birds, those of us in their wake are fed, we find unexpected nurturance when we are most hungry. Some seeds find the rich soil and grow into ministries. Remember the parable of the seeds?  This family lives out the sprinkling.

I ate vegetable soup, homemade rich hot hearty soup as they sewed. Grace enough in that bowl, but there was more. We laughed and chatted, swapped light stories and deeper concerns.  I wondered if they had any idea of how deeply they heal me? We may not get the mother we want, I may not be the one I long to be, but sitting with them I was included in a relationship that is so beautiful I ache from just being near. I watched as grace raised the needle up down up down again and again with the ease of years behind the machine. I watched as grace cut circles and considered thickness of pads, easy conversations between them as the daughter’s expertise joined with the mother’s. I sat at the table and ate the seeds of relationship and prayed that somewhere my Stella has a mother-friend to love on her this way. She deserves this much grace. She has earned that second chance of hot soup and nurtured gifts.

We don’t get what we deserve, praise God for that. We can’t earn our way into heaven. If we are truly blessed, we find grace here, now, in a friend who speaks the Holy Spirit and an extended family who cares little for a formal tree and more about feeding the birds who gather on its branches. I know I am more, I have worth, by virtue of the grace they have shown me. I cannot deny the magnitude of their gifts, shall I squander those or spread grace of my own? Because that is what happens, when you begin to feed the birds, first maybe a chore or just an afterthought, you soon notice the birds show up with songs and beauty and bring friends who enrich your environment. More seeds spread and sunflowers grow in unexpected places, delights for all. I will never be really good at grace spreading like this family but I have an example of Jesus with each interaction. A work in progress, they see that I am redeemable, I trust them that I am worthy, a little bird still learning to fly.

I don’t deserve them, it isn’t fair that I receive their grace. Thank you God for sharing them with me. I truly understand the gift.

 

What Would Sarah Say?

On By LisaIn Faith, StellaLeave a comment

I sang you THIS LULLABY, a silly song every night as you drifted off to DREAMLAND. I can’t really sing but you didn’t know that then, you didn’t judge back then. My voice spoke God to you, brought love to you, in the midst of baby tears and scuffed up knees. Later, when I was kept under LOCK AND KEY, you had my voice on tape, I sang through my own tears and recorded my songs to send you to sleep with my love still close. How I wish I still had those tapes to send you, to remind you that I would give the MOON AND MORE to you, have given my everything to you, if you would JUST LISTEN. Now it feels like you are the one under LOCK AND KEY, you are KEEPING THE MOON, I am alone in the dark. The TRUTH ABOUT FOREVER is that SOMEONE LIKE YOU can only remember THAT SUMMER, not the years of singing before. ALONG FOR THE RIDE, forever connected even if apart, I sing quietly alone and wait for you to remember. I have never been a SAINT ANYTHING, I sing badly and make so many mistakes but my God how I would love to hear you sing to your babies. WHAT HAPPENED TO GOODBYE, where is our hello? All of our favorite stories include resolution, redemption. What would Sarah say about all of this? Wouldn’t she write the next chapter soon, where we come back together in a new way? Remember how we anxiously awaited the next book, bought the hardback as soon as it hit the store? I would pay anything for our next book to begin.  What would the it be called? CAST AWAY is already taken. I love you sis.

http://sarahdessen.com

Punishment Pebble

On By LisaIn Faith, Stella1 Comment

A pebble snuck into my slipper,  a tiny rock that wedged in between my foot and the soft cloth. I was busy cooking, I didn’t want to stop to touch my feet and then wash my hands and slow my progress. The irritant was no big deal, I shook my foot a bit, sending the pest to the left, to the edge, out of connection to nerve endings. Yes, better, back to work. About three steps later though, the pebble had rolled back to the lowest spot in my slipper, the snuggled in again to gain notice. Any reasonable person would at this point just stop and deal with the little issue and move along, barely a blip on the daily radar. I stood strong, on my little rock and my determination to carry on without being sidelined by something so minor. I have come to be quite excellent at ignoring the tiny quirks and pains of my body, it often betrays my wishes and works against my timelines. A pebble was doable.

Just like a seam along the toe of socks that has gone crooked, underwear that has lovingly chosen one cheek to cuddle with more than the other, sheets that aren’t tucked in and pulled perfectly straight, sometimes thing don’t stay in alignment. I have friends who address the issue immediately, who would have stopped and popped off that slipper to be rid of the rock at first poke. Do they have better self-esteem, to believe they don’t have to suffer? Do they have better understanding of their own power, to realize they can affect change? I am embarrassed to admit I walk around with the pebble and even forget to remove it when I change from slippers to shoes. Pebble awaits me next time I don the slippers. The problem may have snuck up on me but my avoidance has now allowed it to become fully mine.

I wasn’t always an avoider, I used to take the world by storm, at least I felt empowered to remove pebbles and straighten sock seams. I think it comes down to penance. A self-imposed punishment, just an added layer to say, “I get it, you think I did something wrong, I accept your time-out and I’ll raise you a pebble.” My broken heart has cracked a bit more recently, estrangement taken to an even greater level. How does one show enough suffering, that the number of pebbles is now so great I can barely walk with the weight of my shoes? Will my cards, letters, texts, phone calls, emails all filled with apologies and begging for fresh starts ever be enough? Is it ever okay to embrace joy or does that look like I have left the time-out chair, punishment to restart from the beginning, like a child who has to set the egg-timer back again, again, again, until they understand that sitting in the chair for 3 minutes is the thing and won’t kill them and no they cannot play their Nintendo DS while they sit or the timer will start over. Am I unknowingly losing punishment points by playing games of “Capture the Joy Moments?” I can’t know for sure. I can’t see the timer, see if it is ticking towards the end of punishment time or frequently being reset. What I can see is the blank screen on my phone, the call that doesn’t come, the text that never arrives, the empty mail box on the edge of my property as well as on my laptop. Silence, not even a tick tick tick.

What I am sure of is that I am not made to live in sorrow. I am not meant to be imprisoned by others lack of forgiveness, an inability to embrace mercy, to seek resolution. I am meant to be fully free of pebbles in my slippers and crooked socks, things that I can change. My heart is meant to be cared for lovingly, I am meant to care for others just the same. Heaping more pain on a wounded heart does not bring me closer to healing anymore than walking on a rock restores my balance. My soul aches for my Stella, so much so that I can feel her like a ghost so very close to me some days, yet I cannot change her mind. I can only change mine.

I can vow to remove the pebbles at first poke, I can promise to always straighten my socks when they firs go crooked. But really, I am better at finding joy. A mixed bag, poor self-care but excellent “God moment ” identifier. I can only try to grab some comfort in knowing that while the world brings punishment enough, I still embrace the joy as it comes. One day I will tremble, my slippers will fall off, I will shout loudly to the heavens, as my time-out ends and my joy calls home.   Tick, tick, tick, how long must I wait?
Lovingly
Tremble

Pursuing the Lost

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, Stella, The ChefLeave a comment

The commons area outside of the sanctuary was overflowing as the second service released, all those in Sunday school classrooms joined in search of coffee and conversation, the 3rd service attendees entered the building. A normal 11:00 site except that I was missing Plum, a miscommunication between Chef and the teachers in Plum’s crowded classroom area allowed him to be released into the larger church area without Chef really knowing. Plum tried to follow Chef but lost sight of him so he took his handful of newly crafted tissue paper flowers and colored bible verses into the sanctuary to lay on the seats we always choose. Seeing the chance to escape, he took the opportunity to hit the senior high room where video games awaited. Meanwhile, Chef sat chatting with coffee in hand, wondering when Plum would be released. Chef never picks him up, his class usually runs longer and chatting happens in the hallway after. I am the one who picks up, I linger in the commons during the second service and chat and tend to ministries and wait for them both to be done with classes.  I know eye contact with the teacher above the many rushing children and seeking parents means “I am here, I will take my grandson now.” The number of children, the crowded space by the door require that some of us stand further back. I look, she looks, I wait. That is our signal. We haven’t discussed this, it is honed from weeks and weeks of crowd control and successful connections. I haven’t discussed our method with Chef. One of the many conversations that don’t take place, considered unnecessary as we all play our parts, cogs in the machine. One added move, a change in the order, though, and we have a grandma frantically searching the crowded narthex for a little boy, a frenzied search that grows ever more so with each passing second.

Suddenly the sea of people who were mostly all friends became barriers, they were hindering me, I needed them all to MOVE OUT OF MY WAY.  Friends turned into strangers who I feared, I wanted to scream above the din. Cursing the circular design of the church as I wondered if Plum was going left while I went right. I stationed someone at the doors, hollered over the masses to Chef that our Plum was missing, gave the one sentence to Janet as I passed her in a hallway that every mother understands, “I can’t find Plum.” Trusted community mobilized, panic spiraling into terror with each passing second, spying Janet through windows as she searched left, right.  Rounding the hallways, afraid to move too far from the front doors, right, left, back into the sanctuary, around the commons, repeat. I could barely breathe. In my fear, it didn’t occur to me to check the one room that holds the most appeal: the video game and couch luring Plum into Chef’s Sunday school room. Another sweep through the halls and I heard voices first, “Found Him!” I arrived to see Chef, Janet and Chef’s co-leader all converged on this room, around a Plum who was slightly frustrated that he couldn’t keep up with his grandpa, a Plum who knew he would be found, didn’t even know he was lost.   Mustering the tiny bit of self-control I had left, I sank into a nearby chair and allowed them all to handle the first line of questions. I really wanted to push through even these most trusted friends and grab this child, hold on until my breathing was restored. When I summoned him to me, a necessary act that meant I didn’t doing any grabbing, I tried to find the balance between expressing how important it is to stay with trusted adults and not scaring him. Time will tell if I achieved that, I think a second conversation may be necessary. I want him to feel safe at church, safe with all of those adults, in the hallways, away from my eyesight. I want to feel safe with him more than a step away from me as well.

I tell Plum all the time he is my favorite. As of this writing, he is the only male grandchild so I am safe in this designator. This child has seen some horror in his life already, is feeling the pain of two critical but disconnected relationships, still is mostly well adjusted. He is my treasure. I reflected all day on Jesus’s parable of the lost sheep, leaving the 99 to search for that one who left the fold. I can only imagine the panic in God’s heart as He watches us wander off, as He sends out the search party to bring us back to the sanctuary. Oh my God, I am so sorry for those times I have wandered beyond the hallways that circle your altar, the times I ignored the calls of those trying to find me. That I have caused that terror in His heart while I played games, I could just cry again. Still, how comforting to know that just as I would never stop searching for my Plum, my God will pursue me, will stay after my soul. I am his treasure. So are you. Can you hear His frantic calls for us to return? Is He asking you to join a search party for a lost sheep?

My heart still quickens at possibilities yesterday. When I told mama what happened, admitting up front that we had a “bit of an issue,” her response was calming. “Pretty safe place to get lost, at church.”  I too get lost there almost every time I visit, lost in His mercy, lost in His grace. I am keeping my eye out for others who feel frantic, who feel lost or that something is missing. As God’s favorite, I need to be ready to join the search party. Today though, I mostly need to remember what was found and let go of the panic that still threatens to paralyze me. Plum was safe all along and he knew it.  So am I. God is always pursuing us, even more than a crazed gran after her favorite.

Holy Moments

On By LisaIn Faith, PlumLeave a comment

Plum decided he didn’t want to go to children’s time at church a couple of weeks ago, he preferred to climb on the steps and hang off of the railings. It was a Wednesday evening and I had no time to deal with his shenanigans. I asserted my views as I passed by carrying dishes to the kitchen, again as I went through for another trip. He was deep in conversation with Chef who had a group awaiting as well. The clock was moving ever closer to that moment when we all separate into our small collections of studies but also closer to Plum’s bedtime. Wednesday nights at church are a bit rough. Chef was finding minimal success in reasoning with this child who was enjoying his captive audience, who really just wanted our attention and to not be at church now that the running wildly through the hallway portion was over. Janet walked by, quickly assessed the situation as only a mother can and asked Plum to help her find her son so they could go to kids time. He went with her without looking back at us.

Several weeks ago I was stationed at a big table in the commons area of church, providing information about a new ministry when Janet’s daughter joined me in the extra chair. We chatted during the chaos of the comings and goings between services and then practiced her multiplication tables when it grew quiet, everyone either in a Sunday school or the service. It wasn’t until the doors to the sanctuary opened that she mentioned she might be in trouble for skipping her class!  She was not where she was supposed to be, where her parents trusted her to go, but on this day she was where she needed to be. A bit of one-on-one, no new information coming in, a review of what was troubling her. We found a pattern, a way for her mind to click and grab and explore the numbers in a manner that intrigued her. No one stops this child when she is in that mode. She didn’t get in trouble for staying at the table with me, the math helped. We conquered 6 x7.

What if we were all that intentional, available, noticing the moments that a subtle shift of our attention could change the course of someone’s day? I am not advocating the judgmental grocery store tongue clucking as a two-year old flops on the floor in a fit of rage while mom tries to remember why she ever wanted kids. I am not encouraging parental pointers during that moment, but I am not opposed to a pat on mama’s back to say we have all been there, (really, who hasn’t?) to encourage her and then move along. What I am suggesting is being present in those times with people we do know, folks we are in relationship with, who could use a different voice or more importantly a fresh ear. I am suggesting being aware that sometimes children will follow a trusted adult to their class by virtue of that relationship. Let the child go, be that adult sometimes. Children will self-select a cocoon at a table with a trusted adult sometimes, be that adult.

Children tell us with words but more clearly with behavior when they need a break, sometimes we miss those cues until it is too late. As adults we train ourselves to ignore many of our own signals and those of others, not recognizing that God is in those tiny moments. Our Father is in the grace we offer the harried mother and the tired grandpa and the cranky children who want to go to bed or are worried about 6×7.  Do we slow down to see how truly offering ourselves in those times is showing up as Jesus to lepers? Let’s face it, a melting -down child is surely about as attractive as those who were ostracized, sent to separate colonies. But also, how interested are we in the complaining friend, the old man who tells stories we have heard many times, the slightly stinky woman who sits too close?Do we recognize the child in each, do we see the God in all?

Personally I find it much more palatable to wash the dishes than talk to people at church, I am just rather introverted.  Behind that reticence though lies fear, a hold over from childhood, rooted in distrust. But when someone stops and really checks in with me, they are speaking to the child within, leading me back to the classroom. When I receive a text message inviting me to come to a group, one well advertised to the entire congregation, I feel nurtured in the midst of my stinkiness, a holy moment.  When a friend listens to my complaining for the umteenth time and doesn’t roll her eyes, she is caring for the cranky child who is tired and needs a nap and some stability. How blessed am I to be surrounded by those who offer up grace when I least deserve it, when I feel like flopping on the floor and kicking my feet and raging that it is not fair?

I pray that I can see those moments also, that I recognize the child in those around me who need an extra cookie and a glass of milk and to know that someone is aware that they exist, not just that they are there, but they ARE. Being seen at our worst and still valued, led to a safe place by a calm voice, a chance to practice our math and work out what worries us, this is holiness. God is in those moments and He wants me there too. Friend, I SEE you. Have I told you lately that you are important to me? I really enjoy what you bring to our relationship. Want a cookie? By the way, do you happen to know what 6×7 is?

Recognize

Just Feed the People

On By LisaIn FaithLeave a comment

Ah, a taco bar, I thought. When planning the meals for our Wednesday night church gathering, I try to make foods that everyone is familiar with but not necessarily what they would have had the night before in their own kitchen. Still, when feeding 100 people, that hope becomes more of a fantasy. My budget means I have to keep it simple, I can’t cook how I really love to, with extravagance and interesting cheese. Comfort food seems to be a better fit, with a healthy option and a nod to the 20 + kids who may or may not eat anything unless restricted from the dessert table until they have consumed their required number of bites (some have to clean their plates, others only a taste or two. No standard admittance to the dessert table, kids can feel the pressure). This week, a taco bar. It felt like cheating though, just too easy, few of my skills involved. Chef made the rice which was out of my comfort zone, he gave it the extra care that I could have given some brie and cranberry puffs or apricot crostini but rice is in our church budget, my appetizers are not. Forced to resist, I chopped and browned and assembled and barely had to concentrate. Everyone loved it.

Sometimes I overthink it, try to do more than is being called of me, missing the point. Feed the people. Not lavish the people, just provide some nourishment. By the time folks drive up to church on a Wednesday night, after working all day and then corralling children, getting back into cars after checking on homework and resisting the couch, they really don’t care what is on the table at church. They are hungry. I am so grateful they show up to attend all of the groups, that they have made the often herculean effort to reach those sanctuary doors. I want to feed them delicacies to show that I get it, I know the sacrifice and yet they just want to eat, to have something warm on their plate that they didn’t have to cook, a drive-through avoided as they choose to keep kids out late on a school night and seek some community and enrichment. They just want a taco bar, familiar food to eat easily while sinking into chairs, knowing their children can identify the offering and won’t balk.

I won’t be making tacos every week but I am considering adjusting the line up, toning down my lofty desire to wow. It may be too easy to feed 100 people comfort food, I may not feel stretched or that my gifts are being fully utilized. Yet, that might be my call: to keep it simple and not overwhelming, to allow the sanctuary to be a walk-in restaurant where everyone can identify the fare and find a seat. The focus on fellowship and not the food, a pure moment of presence as we break bread. Or taco shells. Or open a baked potato.  Still, I am watching out for that event that seeks fancy appetizers and salads with more than lettuce. A different hunger, an alternative feeding.  After all, my hunger to cook has not been fully sated.

Overwhelming
Clean
Resist