Category: Plum

stories of life with a our beautiful grandson

Icing on Our Home

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The Chef2 Comments

We are iced in, an unusual December storm sealing our home into forced togetherness. A week before Christmas when the usual activities mean we have more of drive-by relationships, rushing through lists and completing projects and shopping. My Chef has always worked long hours, I helped out selling gift cards. While we were in the same building we rarely had more than 10 minutes to talk, maybe a shared plate of chicken and mashed potatoes hurriedly consumed. The holiday was measured in gift card numbers which equate to January and February sales first, the birth of Jesus in the back of our minds until confronted with truth on the 24th. We spent many years growing the business, years without the funds to purchase presents ahead, relying on that bonus check to finally come through to go shopping. Later years meant we were able to have some security, some savings, but still minimal time together. The restaurant ate up our relationship space, spit back money.

This year, we have time together and no money. Savings gone after 6 months of unemployment, dipping into stocks and no idea about our future, the adage of time or money never truer. With so much uncertainty hovering, tainting our days, still we are together this season. We are in the same room, in the same car, eating the same food at the table like normal families or what I have imagined all these years. I need no other gifts, I am working on learning to talk to my Chef again, recapturing the intimacy that drew us together initially. Like the dishes that are served in a professional kitchen and have to be delivered to the table immediately before they lose their heat, mine has cooled while we both were too busy working to notice. I got old, broken down, the deliciousness gone. I pray I am not thrown out like the stuff left in the fridge too long.

We are together, Chef has discovered Pinterest. The power saws I purchased last year are in full use, the garage now a worksite instead of a dumping ground. Besides helping my brother finish his basement, gifts are coming from Chef’s own workshop. While I snuggle on the couch reading, the sounds of hammering buzzing creating filter in to remind me I am not alone. A comfort, what I always imagined other families experienced, together time, even if they weren’t in the same room. My Chef has taken a huge hit to his confidence, to his sense of self during these last months, but also he is finding the him I have always loved. No concerns about being thrown back, I see the reason we were attracted to each other in the first place.

We are iced in and our Plum is here bringing another chance to feel like a family during the holidays, a Christmas card vignette actually in our home. Chef and Plum made gingerbread cookies, we played endless rounds of Uno, watched The Little Drummer Boy and read Christmas books. We never got dressed and we drank hot cocoa throughout the day. A beautiful golden retriever and a yellow lab lounging next to the reading child completed the Folger’s ad picture. Christmas carols played through Pandora, I found myself humming until Chef delightedly taught Plum to sing “Grandma Got Rung Over By a Reindeer.” Laughter and trash talk and gingerbread and shouts of Uno look like Christmas here. Pans of fudge and cookie cutters filled with bird seed hide kitchen counters. This may be the best year ever.

Every Christmas past has found Chef and I moody, frustrated, exhausted and distant. Gifts for the kids were always a shock to each of us, not a joint venture. How our marriage survived an industry that chews up most is a testament to God, not us. This year we are given the chance to thank Him, to put Him first and find our family again. Forced into togetherness that normally doesn’t happen until late January or February, I am not missing the message. I am fully aware of the gifts we are receiving, not to be squandered but cherished like that babe in the manger. We are iced in together, our own gingerbread home. Life is good.

Moody

New Coffeemaker, New Start

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The ChefLeave a comment

It was the kind of day I hate. I need plans, order, schedules. Control, you might say. From the moment I opened my eyes, reached for my phone to check the time and found a text requesting my assistance in just an hour, my day was a mess. I didn’t have time to ease into my morning, no hot coffee and quiet reflection. Rush, run, squeeze. It didn’t help that venturing downstairs led to the indications of very sick dogs all over my floors. What little time I had before heading over to Mama’s to get my Plum ready for school and on the bus was spent scrubbing, moping, awakening to the knowledge we had entered into the vet zone, a costly area I didn’t want to visit a week before Christmas or really ever when it wasn’t for well checks. No time for coffee, I got into my frozen car and set out to meet my pajama clad Plum. A very pregnant Mama had a list for me: shower the boy, take the dog out, drop medicine off at school. Nothing too taxing except I still had no coffee and I wanted a restart on my day. I wanted to offer services not be told. Cranky. Not very giving. Ugly a.m. attitude, worse than morning breath. I pushed through and every task was crossed off my list only to return home to find more mopping was necessary.  Vet appointment made. On to my small group with faith filled women who listen.

We talked, I tried to complete some tasks but was drawn into the rhythms of the voices, I let go into the moment. The “moment” only lasted for the hour and a half we met, back to reality. I called Chef who was out of town, I wanted him to come rescue my day, save me from the anxiety of too much. I kept that to myself, I rarely tell him when my heart is longing for his presence. I know I can’t have him near just because I cannot face what is looking back at me, I dig deeper and find my own strength. More coffee, on to the vet. I complain loudly about my beasts but felt maybe history was repeating, maybe I was losing one or both just like New Year’s Day just a few years ago when my black lab suddenly got sick and then was gone. This vet understood my anxiety and assured me some medication and a bland diet for 3 days would turn these guys around, she was confident we weren’t dealing with cancer and didn’t see the need for extra tests to confirm her diagnosis. They helped me load the boys back into the car, I didn’t fall on any ice trying to corral 200 lbs of beast. My heart felt lighter even if my wallet was crying.

Back home I tried to start my day again, get my home in order for a boy getting off the bus in just an hour. I needed more emotional time but that was no where on the agenda. I made cookies instead because coming to gran’s house requires the smell of baking and something warm from the oven. This I could control. My boy rushed in to tell me the biggest event of his day, not that the teacher had given him a gift, still wrapped in his backpack. He told of a child in his class who ran into a pole and got a nose bleed. My Plum said he began to pray. He climbed under a desk and talked to God.

Boom. There was the fix I had been seeking all day. If I had just paused before I had even reached for my phone and given the day to God, if I had reacted to the first text with a plea to guide my day, if I had searched for God in the moment instead of my own comfort, what would it have felt like? What would I have felt? My Plum said after he prayed he stood up and asked his classmates if anyone else was praying.  Three other children raised their hands. This child is absolutely bold. When faced with a scary situation, one he couldn’t control and his teachers couldn’t either, He sought God. He trusted that his Heavenly Father would sort it all out. He didn’t ask if it was okay to pray in school, he didn’t ask if the child wanted prayers. He reacted based on his soul, he listened to the nudge from the Holy Spirit and followed what he knew to be true: when in need, pray.

As we finished setting up our plates for dinner, he asked if we might say another prayer for his friend. He began. His words could heal the world, not just a bloody nose. They heal a gran. Praying can be a habit, as critical to my day as that first cup of coffee or the satisfaction of compiling my list. I need those actions to get me centered otherwise I am off, I get anxious and cranky and unpleasant to be around. I pray at night before falling asleep, I pray in times of trouble or when friends are experiencing distress. I seek God when an email comes across regarding a specific need or my newsfeed alerts me to a global catastrophe. My praying habits are well established just as my morning rituals are ingrained. I wonder if I could somehow make my phone send me a message each morning to remind me to begin my day seeking out God before I search for the coffee beans. I know without an intentional break in my pattern, I will keep forgetting to give God that territory first thing, just as I forget to take vitamins. I know it is in my best interest, I just haven’t added this into my coveted predawn turf. My Plum has me thinking though. How different could my life as a Christian be if I started out with Christ, dropped to my knees regardless of my surroundings or asked others to join me when I was afraid?

I have learned I need coffee as soon as I get up. I have learned I need to make a list for my day, create order. I am learning I could probably do away with all of the ways I try to establish control if I just gave up some soul time with the One who woke and handed me the day. Maddening how much I have to learn still, how much I fight to be in charge. Ridiculous that instead of leaning on God when I know my Chef can’t be near, I double down and congratulate myself on my own power. Like the coffee that I warm and warm again, never as satisfying as the first sip, without changing my prayer habits I am never going to find my day fulfilling. Thank God I have a six year old teacher to give me lessons so often. It is up to me pay attention and make adjustments. I hope there is an app for that. What if my coffeemaker came with a prayer reminder: please insert beans, add water, push grind, now pray. Absurd maybe, but I need help changing my ways.
Maddening

Ever Moving Shifting Tilting

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

I have known my story forever, aware of the pieces and how they fit. I have categories and labels, every memory neatly organized. Like a puzzle with a thousand pieces, I sit back and look at the completed picture, admire how neatly everything fits, how well I managed to create something of beauty out of all the little random bits. Unlike the boxed puzzles though, I am not done, I keep finding more pieces, some that I would rather cast back, some that enhance the scene. Adjusting, scooting, shaving, rearranging, I am forced to make room. I gaze again. Get comfortable with the new arrangement, determine what it all means. Own my new story. Like the snow gently falling outside, more pieces swirl, my story changes again. My puzzle is ever growing, some days too large to manage. I want to be that person I was, back when I looked like, well, before addiction, before estrangement, before unemployment. But that means no Plum, can’t I keep those pieces?

Constantly allowing more into my story, owning truthful pieces with sharp edges that slice  as well as the sweet cottony sections that glitter with joy means my story isn’t done. I don’t get to sit back and admire. I am not that flat 1,000 piece boxed set that creates a scene to be admired, maybe glued in place and hung on the wall, maybe dismantled and put back in the box. Still that puzzle always go back together in the same way. Look for the edge pieces, find the corners, fill in the center. My story has no outer edges, I can’t find the corners. New information causes a complete readjustment, a tree is no longer brown and green, the sky isn’t filled with clouds. This is what it is to be a kaleidoscope, a shifting puzzle that changes with every movement. Finding that one glorious combination, it is next to impossible to share the view with any one else without a nudge or a slight tilt changing what they see. And just like that, they move the device towards the light and create more color combinations, find their own glorious stories. Who can resist a chance to find rainbows and joy in moving crystals? My story is secondary, only I know what all those pieces meant.

My story will keep changing, I get to tell and own my parts until my last breath. After, the telling will be handed off to those who choose which pieces are important, how they fit together, what it means, how it looks. Will they remember the section over here where we shared love and laughs, filled with light and or only the scenes that hold menacing clouds and monsters and caves?  This is the stuff of legacies, this is the stuff we can’t control. For now, I adjust my puzzle pieces, I make room for more of my story. I embrace the monsters and offer them cookies. I wait for more pieces to arrive, I tilt my kaleidoscope.

 

Be Not Afraid

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The ChefLeave a comment

I am afraid of heights and mostly conquered that with my trip through the mountains on the back of my brother’s Harley. Unclear on the origins of this fear, I haven’t found it to be too disruptive in my daily life. I still accept all trips on planes, I climb out on the roof to fetch whatever Plum decided to toss up there. This fear hasn’t stopped me. I am also uncomfortable on bridges. I love pictures of them, I am deeply moved by the symbolism. I prefer to be on either end, not on, not crossing. I think there is a story in there, another day perhaps. My longest standing fear though has roots in childhood, is not proportionate to danger, is difficult given that I live in the country. I am afraid of mice.

Friends and family who have spent time with me in the fall, in the winter mostly all have a story of their own, a story that most often begins with a scream and the rushing of help, a bewildered look at me, then the rescue. Always unclear if they are saving me or the mouse but creating distance and secure boundaries is critical for each of us. A colleague many years ago offered to help, to do systematic desensitization. I knew this would help but I was too afraid. Phobia level. My response is automatic, deeply imbedded. I don’t want long term help, I don’t want any mice near me. For the record, I also don’t visit pet stores without knowing the floor plan, not chancing an unexpected encounter. By extension, gerbils, hamsters, oh dear God ferrets, all on the no-go list. Doesn’t it make sense that before I had children I had a pet snake? Of course I couldn’t participate in his feedings, but loved that he took an active role in easing my pain. So it is with great concern that I must admit I have been dreaming about mice for the last month. Dreaming, in my bed, in my safe sleep time. Mice.

When I woke this morning and remembered the mouse who visited was actually a rat, I knew it was time for help. Firing up my laptop, researching the meaning of “dreams about mice” while the coffee brewed, I needed answers and then solutions quick. This is getting out of hand. What I found was interesting, thought provoking. I generally am able to identify the themes in my dreams rather easily, I know what I am avoiding, what needs to be faced. I know how my brain nudges me when I am more vulnerable. I trust my dreams, I think God speaks to me then. Many years ago when I was particularly distressed about my brother’s death, when I just felt the ache of things not said when suicide changes everything, my brother came to me while I slept. He told me he was fine, he was good, to let him go. He said he loved me and he was safe. Then he was gone. I woke feeling peaceful, knowing truth. Every once in a while, my daughter and granddaughter visit me in my dreams, at first this was startling. I no longer hurt when these visits happen, I cherish the peek into her life, I hold onto the vision that God has shared with me. I wake with a hopeful heart, storing up these night time moments as if they were photos on my IPhone. I trust my dreams . So what to do about these visits from mice?

In considering these dreams, I realized I am never afraid during these encounters. The mice are not the focus, just a side story. My friends are often the ones who handle the mice, who interact with the rodents while I am doing my other dream business. I don’t wake afraid, rather annoyed that it happened again. My Googling explained I may be avoiding a small problem. Um, always. Or I may need to see mice as survivors, a species that uses ingenuity and creativity to solve problems. Hmm. Or maybe, if I see mice as dirty, I am feeling shame. Well, none of this narrows it down. I want that one concrete answer to solve my mystery and give me the steps to stop mice from scurrying into my slumber.  Maybe I need to trust what has already worked, to look to God rather than the internet.

“Do not be afraid of them, for I am with you and will rescue you,” declares the LORD. Jeremiah 1:8 (NIV)  What if the message is just that? What if God is summoning visions of friends who will help, opportunities to show me Chef and I have nothing to fear? My greatest phobia is meaningless when challenged with faith. I don’t wake afraid. Emmanuel, God with us. I can rest easy knowing my shame, my doubts, my worries are nothing compared to the power of my God. During this season of great uncertainty, finances and futures looking bleak, God is telling me not to be afraid. Who am I to doubt?

I am not going to lie, I am hoping that by looking into the mice dreams, finding the message will stop the visits before they turn into more rat roamings. I am saying loud and clearly, I got it! We are firmly in God’s care, we will come out of this trying season exactly as God wishes as long as we continue to follow the path He is laying before us. We are not promised easy, we are not guaranteed riches. We only have the promise of His mercy and love. Sometimes that looks like handling mice for me. Always it means handling much larger problems. I don’t need Google to tell me that.

 

 

 

Damn Elf

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The ChefLeave a comment

That “Elf on the Shelf” thing seemed like a great idea a couple of years ago, back when Plum was living with us all the time. My need to create magic and joy to cast out some of the hurt and anxiety was in overdrive, Christmas was just the way to bring the sparkle back to his eyes. I sent away for our own elf, scoured Pinterest for ideas, created elaborate scenarios each night after he went to sleep. It was wonderful. Chef and I took pictures each evening, proud parents documenting the birth of elf activities. We all had sparkling eyes.

Life has since stabilized for my Plum, he no longer needs me to create his magic, bring back sparkle. Yet I am still stuck with this damn elf and I have to admit I am over it. I feel guilty writing that, I know this is very likely our last year in which he will believe such nonsense. I should be going all out. Still, the elf has about run its course, I am broke, exhausted and fully aware that any vista I create I have to clean up as well. Ho Ho Ho, merry Christmas.

Because Plum is only here a few nights a week, I could conceivably manage this. Yet he is so excited to see what “Elfie” has done that he wakes up several times throughout the night asking if he can get up. The beasts wake up, the cats run through the hallways, I say no and try to go back to sleep. Plum has my sleep patterns unfortunately, when he wakes it takes him forever to go back to sleep. We both look like hell at this point. I have explained that I am ready to contact Santa to see if Elfie can go back, Plum is calling my bluff. Is there an elf-recall hotline?  I put a digital clock in Plum’s room, taught him that the 6 has to be the in the first place before he can get up. This helps, he knows he can’t go downstairs. Now we need something that reminds him he can’t lay in bed and holler for me until the clock says 6 also. Or we need an Avenger, Captain America or Hawkeye, to come rescue us from the evil elf. I’m getting desperate, Elfie is no longer bringing joy.

I do have really cool ideas for the elf this year, I just don’t have the motivation by the time he goes to sleep and I am free to set things up. I am done by then, I am ready to sit for 5 minutes and then go to bed myself. Last night I was actually in bed when I remembered the elf, remembered he was waiting for his adventure. A certain level of denial is necessary for all of us to get through the holidays, suspending logic, relying on faith. I prayed for the strength to get out of my warm bed, back into the cold air, head downstairs, rousing the beasts, firing up the cats, all to set up the scene. A lame scene by Pinterest standards but Plum doesn’t scroll through that site yet. I am still only compared to myself, maybe memories of last year, but those are hazy in a child’s mind. I think. Elfie made it through another night, we barely did. “Gran, I’m thirsty.” “Gran, my tummy hurts.” “Gran, will you put the dog on my bed?” Each of these requests come about 2 hours apart, I am not equipped to deal with 2 hour wakings anymore. The Elf is going in time out, on strike, wicked away by reindeer, God help me, something.

I have at most 8 more attempts to make this elf rock, 8 more nights to reinforce the magic.  We are completely invested in telling the real story of Christmas, Plum is rooted in the faith. But just for a bit longer, I want to keep some magic for a little boy who hasn’t always had much to believe in. So today we are going to have a very serious discussion about sleep. A talk about waiting, about advent, about longing for things to come. We are going to remember all the people who waited for the Christ child, who walked and roamed and followed the star. We are going to consider how tired they were, how much they longed to rest. We will wonder what they did to prepare for the coming of the oh so special babe. Then we may just take a nap. Holidays are rough, elves are not so helpful, but the star is always leading to our true sparkle.

Love Gifts Across Time

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The Chef3 Comments

The turkey was in the oven, needing only broth and herbs added in 20 minutes, while Chef and I and our friend along with the beasts headed out for a quick 1 mile walk in the local edition of the turkey trot. I left explicit instructions for the woman who has cooked her whole life, I left the broth measured in a cup, the herbs in a bowl. I left knowing there was a good chance I would come back home to disaster. Upon returning I found she had turned the oven off, the broth from the noodles was in the roasting pan, almost overflowing, the herbs still sat on the counter.

My mother-in-law has alzheimer’s. It is still early in the disease, an ugly limbo where we aren’t sure how much intervention to take, how far to step in, how much to take away from her. Chef still wants to ask her, wants her to be his mother who tells him rather than be the one to parent her. It is an ugly transition, one I can’t say we are doing well. She has 3 boys, all who have benefitted from her active involvement in their lives. They are resisting the change. No one wants to step up, I understand their resistance and yet push, push my Chef. I pepper him with questions: “Did you check her medicine? Do you know when her next appointment is? Did you set up a meeting with all the brothers?” This is not helpful, my powerless matches his, we all are coping with the loss of all that is her differently. Thus, I was determined this Thanksgiving was going to be special, centered around her even if she wasn’t aware.

It began on Wednesday when I turned on Pandora to play while we were all tasking, I chose a 50’s classic station. Chef winked at me as she said over and over how each song was her favorite, asked how I found that song to play. She thrilled in the music, I delighted in her happiness. I snuck upstairs to let the tears flow, to thank God for the opportunity to bring joy to her. She followed me around, asking questions that I had answered only moments before. When is Plum’s birthday? (Last month, she made the cake.) Do you have just one cat? (remember, the other one is out on couch.) Where is Chef? (he just went into the garage, he will be right back) Where is Plum? (He will be back tomorrow) Do you need to get Plum off the bus? (He is with Mama, he will be back tomorrow) Is it time for Plum to come yet? (sigh).

I found tasks for her, simple things that ended up not so simple. Heart-breaking questions regarding which how to place the silverware next to the plates, complete inability to follow the pattern around the table. Dishes to wash, cats to feed. Still, I rejoiced that she was with us for this time. She asked what pies I was making, wondered about a butterscotch one. I have never made that, ever. Never considered it. I made it this year, a quick edition to the menu. She makes the cream pies, that has always been her thing. She asked, I found a way to deliver, scared I would ruin it, frightened it wouldn’t taste right. I forgot that it didn’t have to be perfect, it just had to be. I let her lick the spatula, she loved the pie.

She forgot to bring a necklace to match her outfit, she has hundreds at home. I found one to share with her. She forgot a sweater, I gave her one of mine. Each act of nurturing allowed me to say thanks for the years of her generosity, the years she showed up for every surgery, every party, every school event. I kept track of her drink, her phone, her book. I kept track of her. I ached when she came down for the meal on Thursday and her hair was a mess, she is a hairdresser by trade. Her collar was tucked under, she was a bit of a mess. I gently straightened her up as I passed by, tasking, running to complete the pre-meal prep.  “Lisa, what do you need me to do?” She never used to ask, she just knew. I asked her to set the table. I laid out placemats, plates, gave her the exact number of silverware. She asked how it was supposed to go, repeatedly. She just couldn’t remember. Fork next to knife, some places had 2 spoons, some not at all. We sorted it out as my heart ached.

During the meal, several times throughout the days, I found myself snapping at Chef. “Hey, stop teasing her.” “Don’t talk to her like that.” “Stop pestering her.” His mother who has always felt comfortable as the butt of any joke as long as it brought laughs, the woman who laughed with us all, I felt so overly protective I was battling with her son. Warning glances from him unheeded, I just couldn’t back off. Our views of her are no longer the same, maybe never really were. He has history, the childhood that carries both the joys and the hurts. I have mostly just deep appreciation for who she has been to me, the mom I didn’t have. Our early years were not so easy, I battled for my place next to Chef, thought I needed to claim my territory. I really just needed to open up more space. She wanted me too, not just him. I am one of the lucky wives who can tell mother-in-law stories that are both hilarious and tongue-in-cheek, no rancor or anger or hurt to be found. I was fighting with Chef over his mother, probably millions of wives were doing the in kitchens across the country. Ours was an uncommon battle maybe. I was claiming her, mine, back off.

I soaked up this holiday, one in which I knew it could be a last. We don’t always get that knowledge, that gift to really absorb and be present. I will rest easy knowing I won’t be consumed by “what-if’s” and “if only’s.” I realize we are moving into a time where she is child-like, fortunately I love children. I have unlimited patience for them, for answering questions and teaching how complete tasks. I may be facing unbearable heartache, but for this holiday, I gave her my attention, my all. Just as she has given to me. Thank God for the chance, one more time.

 

My Plum Sees

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The ChefLeave a comment

Plum participated in the greatest of Thanksgiving traditions, the kindergarten program replete with paper bag costumes and turkey hats. A roomful of parents with phones on video mode sitting in chairs designed for much tinier posteriors, children anxiously ruffled and rattled as they waited for the teacher’s cue to begin. Each child looked out into the sea of faces, searching for mom, dad, their special person. Chef and I were invited by Mama to attend, we got in first, parking was a mess. Plum insisted we sit in the front row, I’m not sure how those coveted seats were still open. I assured him when Mama got there I would move. He looked puzzled then agreed I could move one row back. The sound of paper crinkling filled the air. Finally it was time to begin.

First up was the standard alphabet on a feather skit, each child had a part in the play, memorizing the story of the first Thanksgiving based on a letter. As it neared Plum’s turn we noticed the child next to him, lip quivering and eyes filling with tears. This child had yet to spot his mother. Plum began to pat his back, his knee, assure this child his mom would be there. Plum almost missed his cue because he was too busy comforting the other child. When he was called, he stood up loud and confident, stated his lines with the assurance of a 6 year old. Next up was his classmate who made it through without the tears falling. He hurried back to his place on the floor next to Plum, turned sideways, facing Plum instead of the audience and accepted solace from his friend. Soon his mom appeared, all was right in kindergarten land.

More songs followed, Plum sang with the corresponding moves, a delight to watch. The finale was each child holding a laminated drawing with the writing describing what they were thankful for, Plum’s said his mom and dad. His new dad. My heart rejoiced. Chef and I were not on the poster. I hugged Mama who had snuck in next to me, Chef graciously had moved to the back of the room. Not too long ago, that paper would have said grandpa and grandma. It would have showed an imbalance in Plum’s life. It would have hurt Mama, it would have indicated that we took precedence. Now Plum is secure in his home, we are grandparents while not fully in the traditional sense but getting closer, ever closer.

I considered this play, I loved hearing the songs in little voices. I was proud of my Plum, remembered how timid he was last year in pre-school during that version of this play. He has grown in so many ways, his security at home and all the years of our sacrifices to ensure stability bearing fruit. More though, I was so deeply touched by his compassion. He noticed hurting, he saw pain and naturally began to soothe. His empathy is uncanny, highly developed for one so young. He is that child who cares. Last night as we read books, I selected one called “The Invisible Boy” by Trudy Ludwig. It tells the story of a child ignored by the teacher and classmates, a child left behind, until a new boy joins the class. An act of caring by the invisible boy, reaching out to the new kid who is mocked by the class, creates a bridge that allows them both to be included. A beautiful story with haunting illustrations, this book never fails to elicit discussion.  But last night, I used it to praise my Plum, to point out that he was an “includer,”a child who has a heart so big it takes over the room. I told him my favorite part of the play was him comforting his sad friend. I didn’t tell him how much I liked his poster, that is for older Plum.

Thanksgiving brings many opportunities to include, to set an extra place, pull up an extra chair, open our home to those who might be feeling lost or alone.  I am thankful for teachers who put in the work, teaching songs that explore gratitude. I am thankful for opportunities to see children is paper bags. I am so very thankful for my Plum, who has survived and thrived and loves with his big heart. I pray I remember always the example set by my so very sweet Plum in kindergarten. If I miss my cue for the big show, I hope it is because I am patting someone’s back.

Winter Cats and Gideon

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

We are transitioning from summer cat to winter cat around here. Summer cats run wild and stop in only to eat, leaving me to wonder if they are alive. They rarely come when called, hide in the drainage ditch when storms come, wake me during the night when battling other summer cats with fierce declarations about territory.  They bring in treasures like moths, frogs, even a bat this year but forget to tell me, leaving the creatures as reassurance of their skills, reminding me I have no reason to worry about my summer cats. Unfortunate finds of baby birds and slower adult ones, moles and the occasional mouse have become so commonplace Plum no longer is sad, has bought into my “circle of life, just a part of nature” routine and merely hollers, “Gran, I found another one!”  Summer cats are not my favorite.

Winter cats run about the house at night, chasing each other and imaginary (I hope) creatures. They lay on anything warm, my lap and my laptop the preferred spots. Sluggish throughout the day, their skills go into hibernation, they get a bit fat. They sometimes look out windows, waiting for spring, dreaming of freedom. Mostly they sleep. I like winter cats, I always know where they are, I don’t check fur for scratches, I never step on frog bits. Winter cats share their warmth and their hair, a trade off on cold snowy days. They create marginal interruptions when I am writing, most often just a scoot to the left or a nudge to the right as one of them chooses the space between my arms and the keyboard as the best resting spot. Still, I enjoy the company.

Winter cats are returning, easing into our home on a more regular basis. Our beasts are still too young to understand the cats were here first, the cats believe they have dominance. I have worried about this transition for a while, wondering how beasts who insist on chasing everything that moves would accept winter cats. I worry about things like this, fret over the small things because there are too many big things that just squeeze the breath right out of me. Focusing on the cat situation has allowed me to for a time to ignore our loss of income, our broken relationship with our daughter, our lack of health care. I researched ways to integrate cats and dogs, I sought wisdom from others. I bought a squirt bottle to discourage overzealous beasts and treats to encourage them when they listened. I have never been great at dog training, mostly I taught them that the command “leave it” means a cat is close by, run, chase, fun is at hand. Still we are transitioning.

Yet for all my efforts and concern, the cats and beasts are working it out by themselves. They actually need very little intervention by me. Winter cats want in, beasts get tired eventually. The world keeps going. All of my fretting and hand-wringing created nothing but distraction for me.  Just as these small issues seem to resolve themselves, the big ones come and go and appear smaller in hindsight, counted as blessings with distance and perspective. I can see clearly how the huge upheavals in my life have created space for more, have prepared me for the greatness that was coming. Trusting that truth each time in the midst has been the seed of faith God has asked me to cultivate. Believing in Him, knowing that He loves me, ME, has not been a one-step process, rather a long transition. I am reminded of Gideon, that great leader who was visited by an angel, had a conversation WITH and angel and yet still needed confirmation from God. He tested God, asked for reassurance even AFTER the first test. God was patient, He had plans for His child and knew that much would be asked of him. God accepted Gideon’s need for proof, for hard evidence. He didn’t ask him to go only by faith, believing in the face of hard times, rising up against armies of those who worshiped idols without the affirmation of God. Gideon talked with an angel and still he needed more. I know God is patient with my testing, with my doubt, with my worries. I know also that in this really hard time, He is delighting in my faith.

I don’t know what is going to happen, what our future holds. The hurdles of the past have been my testing, God delivered. I feel a “peace that surpasses understanding” (Philippians 4:7) and somedays I wonder if I am crazy to not be consumed with anxiety. Then I realize this is what faith feels like, a deep soul knowing. We are in a really big transition, one we didn’t anticipate. We know where we were but not where we are going. That usually freaks me out, to my very core. I like control, I like to drive, I like to KNOW. Yet I am okay this time, I just feel the goodness coming. I can feel it like child anticipating Christmas morning, getting cranky with the waiting but knowing the elves are watching so best behavior is required. I am still being good, I know God has greatness in store for us. I am waiting. This is so new it surprises me, surely delights God. Still old habits remain, I am freed up to brood about the little things, like whether my eyebrows will ever grow back in or why Chef must rearrange my cabinets. God has the big stuff and I am trusting Him. As for my winter cats, they are in and the beasts are adjusting. My home is full, my lap is rarely empty and my heart is joyful.

Of course, we haven’t put up any Christmas trees yet.

Giving Thanks

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

Thanksgiving week is here, my favorite holiday of all. No gifts, just food, just enjoying who ever shows up at the table. I love the meal, I love the cooking and planning and setting the table. I love that every year I plan for those I know will be here and Chef says late in the game, “Would it be okay if I invited a couple more?” Every year. I know my Chef, he can’t bear to think anyone would spend the day alone. Our table always is big enough, there is always enough food for more. But more than the meal, I especially relish the spirit of gratitude that descends upon us.

Remembering years past, previous tables and guests who won’t join us this year, I can’t get lost in wishing. While it would be amazing to collect people and just keep adding more chairs, more plates, I know that memories will have to do. Saying grace together before our feast, captured in pictures and forever in my heart, these meals make each new one richer. Laughter and stories echo around the dining room, we still remember those who are dining elsewhere, their place at our table forever etched in our history. I pull out recipes, consider that this is the favorite of my daughter, I remember her licking spoons and sneaking tastes. Another recipe calls to mind my mother, the best cook ever, who instructed me on my first time cooking the meal over the phone, my notes are on the back of envelopes, still tucked away in my recipe box.  I think about my son who mostly likes the desserts, prefers to eat without all the fanfare, making huge plates of leftovers after everyone is gone.  We used to always celebrate with a neighboring family, they didn’t cook anything, loved everything we made. They always brought something from the store, a pie and a great bottle of wine. They stayed the longest, late into the evening, laughing, oh how we laughed.  Mama has been with us for most of the last 7 years now, she loves sweet potatoes, so much so that when she was breastfeeding Plum he turned orange!  A couple of years ago we served our meal to parents of each of our good friends, mothers who would soon pass away. These images of sweet women sitting at our table, everyone loving them with gentleness and care, will remain with me forever.

This year has brought many changes to our lives and yet we are moving forward with our meal, our celebration of thanks. We continue our tradition of cooking, cleaning, shopping, preparing a feast and gathering around a table. One day, for just a few hours, together to remember who we are to each other, in that moment. To create some new pictures, to build new memories.  The food is always delicious, the clean up a chore, yet I cannot abandon this one holiday and all it brings.

Our chairs will be filled out this year with our Korean friends, we celebrate with them often. Their son is the same age as Plum, only weeks apart. They are expecting a baby girl soon, just a few months after Mama’s new baby. They are as at home here with us as anyone, an extension of our family. Mama and her new husband will be here, with Plum. Mama expects my cooking on Thanksgiving.  She knows her place at the table, she is due in just a few weeks and we don’t argue with pregnant women. We have come to love her choice of spouse, he has grown comfortable here as well. Next up will be my favorite guest, my mother-in-law, J.

J stands barely 5 feet and could run the country. She has no idea what strangers are, she is the most generous person I know and is completely lacking in a filter for her thoughts. She  creates energy, she creates joy, she can sometimes drain mine as well. She has never missed a family gathering, a child’s event, a surgery, an illness. She shows up. This may be our last holiday with her when she really knows how much we love her, dementia is setting in. I plan to make it her best. We have always cooked together, she is an excellent baker. Those skills are going but she will be present in my kitchen regardless. I need this time with her, I need more pictures.

With each successive Thanksgiving, we come together, we remember, we count blessings, we share joys. Chef and I are always here, serving, loving, celebrating our friends and family.  Whatever else the year has brought, we always come around to that Thursday in November when our table is full and our hearts are bursting. We will be saying grace and thanking God for all of our blessings, near and far, old and new. May your day bring lasting memories, great food and extra chairs for those who show up unexpected. Remember to take some pictures.

Joy Drops

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The ChefLeave a comment

I am a planner. I begin preparing for any upcoming event with several days of thought, imaginings of the food, the environment, any special needs. Next comes the recipe search, digging through my big box well organized by course and all the books I have acquired. List making comes next, menu and then ingredients, all the items for decoration to create the mood. Music selections, a whole different list. Next comes the gathering and finally the by the time of the event, I have given so much attention to all of my prep, it goes pretty smoothly.  That is my system. It works. Until I am given less than a week to throw a bridal reception for 20 people and I already have many of those planning days taken up with my Plum’s birthday events and a couple of days of wallowing in self-pity. Little time to do this event justice. I added a first step without realizing it, though, I asked for prayers about it all, sharing it as a joy Sunday at church.

I rushed about on the day of, yesterday, and made phone calls when I knew I was in over my head. My friend who’s home exudes beauty and warmth, I called her in to handle creating something out of the senior high classroom where we were celebrating in just a few hours. As we talked she said what I was doing was holy.  Not only did she agree to come and help, she slowed my anxiety and gave me perspective. She transformed that funky room into a place worthy of any wedding venue. It was special, it was magical, it was not on my list and it was so incredibly meaningful to have her hand in this union.

I called in Janet, asking for a quick hour of help to do something artsy with the huge chalkboard in the room. She dropped whatever she was doing and created a gorgeous backdrop that will be forever remembered in pictures but more than that, included a reminder of the love God bestows on all unions created in His name. Her thoughtful spontaneous gift added to the magical room, transformed something not on my list to a prayer for this young couple. To have her hand in the preparations for this event added another piece of the foundation of prayer, prayer that will continue long beyond the party.

I ran by the flower shop of an amazing woman in our congregation, she had offered to create a bouquet for mama, her gift to the new beginning. She has shared her love with us many times in the past, clothes for Plum, flowers for events created with real love. She prays for our family and puts her prayers into action. I was beyond grateful for this gift, I don’t have an income, flowers were not in anyone’s budget. I cried when she offered her livelihood to us, not something to be taken lightly. When I arrived, I was overwhelmed with the beauty she had created, even more so with the little buds she included for the groom and my Plum. Not on my list, on hers though and she added to the beauty, created magic in this last minute rush to celebrate a union. My tears were joy drops, words unable to capture my thanksgiving at having her hand involved in this day.

I rushed about in the church kitchen, without a real list completely unsure where to start. Our Associate Pastor wandered in, listened to me babble and then reminded me that many were praying for all of us on this day. His steady assurance, so calm and sure, slowed my anxiety, washed my frenzy away and allowed me to focus. Later, my miscommunication led to my friend not being at the church to take over when I need to leave to rush home for a shower. The back up crew of my Pastor, the small groups leader and my decorator took over. They shooed me out, I trusted something good would happen while I was at the ceremony. When I returned two different friends were there, the food was all arranged, better than I could have hoped, dishes were done, it was magical. No cake server, my sweet pal ran home and got her mama’s. A legacy, a tradition she shared with us, a piece of history well loved to start the union of this couple. Gifts of time and talents and love given so freely, I didn’t even ask, people just showed up.

This couple may never realize all the hands that went into the evening, they don’t attend our church. They don’t know all of my friends, the people who attended the event don’t all come either. We showed them the love of Jesus, the amazing hospitality of folks who just love, love new beginnings  and love to support each other when times are crazy and no one has a list. Sometimes I ask too much of my friends, often I forget to ask at all. I forget that I have friends who will support me, that I am worthy of their time and gifts. God takes over at those times, nudges people into action who live out His desire that we be the hands and feet of love. His grace lit up the church last night, brighter than the candles and little white lights strung about. His grace came in the form of friends who showed up and threw a last minute wedding reception for a couple they didn’t even know, a couple they will continue to pray for as the wedding ends and the marriage begins. I didn’t make a list that included God’s grace, that included prayerful loving hands touching every aspect of the evening. God fixed that for me, He had a plan all along. I couldn’t feel more blessed.