Category: The Chef

stories of my amazing husband, my favorite teacher ever

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.

 

Still, The Light Shines In

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Stella, The Chef2 Comments

I broke a glass in the dishwater. Drain plugged, steaming water filling the sink, soap bubbling up, dishes added and left to soak while I drank coffee and fed beasts. I returned to discover shards of glass hidden amongst the suds, one long stem of a wine glass no longer viable. Knowing danger was waiting, understanding other, safer choices were possible, I slide my hands into the water. The secret rush of wondering whether I would get cut. Would I beat the odds, could I find all the pieces and still get the dishes done? A ridiculous game to play for one who avoids risk. A really stupid choice for one with no health insurance. Yet I wanted to win over the brokenness. Just this little battle, a private struggle at the sink, a wine glass, some soap and me.

I am an expert on broken things. I have little sensation in my fingers so I often drop whatever I am holding, I usually keep lids on my cups. I have the same issue with my feet so I trip and stumble as if just learning to walk, especially after a long day. I break stuff. It is no longer remarkable around our home, we use plastic mostly. I don’t bother with glue, usually I create a mess beyond repair. More than that though, I am broken inside. I know my broken soul, my broken heart. These fractures are not meant to be mended either. The words of the great Leonard Cohen express it best, “There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.” My brokenness allows for grace, opens me up for growth. But fractures hurt. Each snapping of a relationship, a connection severed, carries shock-grief-aching-howling-wondering why-rush-to-fix time. I can embrace my broken soul, I give that to God. My heart, though, not so readily. I still howl, I still ache. I resent the cracks, I don’t see the stitched together portions as beauty, I want wholeness. Gifting love to another comes without their promises to handle with care, their assurances not to trip or stumble. Giving without strings, keeping that thread to close our own wounds, unconditional love, agape. This is how we break inside.

Like the glass in my dishwater, many broken things will never go back together, their purpose in my life complete. Facing that reality is easy with a wine glass, unthinkable with a marriage, a career, a child. How do we go on, do we howl forever, do we mourn continually, do we sit in the broken shards, naming and counting our cuts, watching our life drain away? The greater risk is to get a new glass, a fresh start, some Neosporin and a bandaid. Each step moving us away from the pain, maybe edging us to newness, to light. I didn’t get cut when I reached into the water. I walked away whole this time.  I have more glasses, I have a healing broken heart. I have new relationships and other wounds still fresh, maybe never to be fully restored. Still, the light shines in. Just as a prism reflects one light into a rainbow, God uses my broken heart, brighter more colorful lights reaching His other broken hearts, a beacon of welcome, a guide to find our way home. With Him as my Healer, my glue, the One to stitch me back up, I howl and cry more softly, I ease toward a new day.

 

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.

Speaking from My Gut

On By LisaIn Faith, The Chef2 Comments

Chef and I have one phrase that can stop a debate, a disagreement, a battle of wills. We never pull it out willy-nilly, it is the big gun. Fortunately we both respect the rules of engagement, we understand the force of these words. They mean something. “My gut is saying…” means there is something deeper happening that maybe I can’t fully express and I don’t have to. I have a twitching, a twinkling, a clenching, that says,”Listen.” We trust not only our own gut-warnings but each others. That message means back off, let go of the argument, your spouse is hearing something and you need to pay attention. We have never gone wrong with this system, only the times we have individually ignored those warnings. As I talk to many of my female friends, I notice a tendency to dismiss that inner voice, to minimize their own early warning system, to find ways around it. But what if this is the Holy Spirit, what if this is God with us, speaking directly to us? No lightening bolts, no burning bushes, no angels, our own connection to God through an opened soul ready to hear Him say, “Be aware.” Would we dismiss this voice so easily?

My sweet friends are conditioned to ignore their inner voices, to challenge their own motives and look for the greater good. This is important, this is work towards a selfless life, one that Jesus asks us to live. Becoming accountable to each other is critical in our walk, ensuring our motives are not based in old drama, yucky patterns that distract us from growth and true soul searching. Yet my friends are just that self-aware, I think so many women are, and still they allow the external voices to drown out what is whispering inside of them. Excuses, allowances, bending, finding space for what feels wrong because that seems like what we are called to do. Yet I think we are so busy being nice we forget to be strong. The bible is filled with women who listened and acted, made some folks mad and furthered the work of God. Why are we afraid of making anyone mad? Where does our fear come from? Why do we have culture of being nice, of going along within the church?

When you speak up and are dismissed, when you ask questions and are gently rolled over, when you are not even invited to the table, you learn what is expected. You learn that while liberation may have come to the country, it may not have fully settled into the church. Just as we have a long way to go to find equality in government positions, look at leadership spots within the church, does that reflect the true make-up of the congregation? Do women handle education and men the finances? Is it really biblical that women follow quietly while men lead?  I am a rebel, I want to find our Jaels, our Abigails, our Esthers, Lois and Eunices. I want to hear the voices of our strong women whom I know God is speaking to, I want to listen to what their guts have to say. I trust their wisdom.

I think about what my former pastor always said at each baptism, what if this is the one? The one to cure cancer, the one to stop wars, the one. He allowed us to see each babe as full of possibilities, swaddled in a purpose only God could see. Our job was to nurture that child along the way, to open the doors so that God could speak freely to this child. He didn’t just do this for the male babies. All babies. Somewhere along the way, we as women stop trusting our guts and so does the church. What a loss for us all.

What if you are the one? Would anyone know because you are too nice to speak up? Prayerfully considering what your gut tells you and then using the voice God gave you may just change the world. We might have to get louder, we might have to get mad. We might even have to flat out ask that our voices be heard. Thank God Chef accepts my gut as worthy, as enough. May we all be so generous to each other.  May be find room at the table for loud women, strong women, women who are followers of Jesus, not men. That is a revolution I believe Jesus can get behind. My gut just tells me it is true.

Which Gilmore Girl Am I?

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

I finally completed my Gilmore Girls marathon. Not the new editions, the 7 seasons I watched as they came out, rewatched with my Stella. Like millions of others out there, this was our show, our story. I wasn’t sure I could handle sitting alone on the couch, clicking next over and over, if this was masochism, picking at a wound that never heals. Yet something pulled me to the series. Maybe I was searching for answers on how to bridge the gap, maybe I wanted to capture a sense of Stella, whatever the cost. I discovered truths I wasn’t expecting, I gained perspective. Our show, our story provided plenty of warnings, I missed them all.

I was always Lorelia, Stella was Rory. It was clear. We were buddies, we hung out, we enjoyed each other. We were the envy of other mother-daughter relationships in our circle. We were so tight we often excluded others unintentionally, we just had too much history, too many inside jokes. Thoughts from my mind were processed into hers and the response delivered, light speed. We didn’t slow down for anyone else nor did we think we needed to. Chef was our Luke, he made us food, was grumpy. We forgot he wasn’t playing a role, he wasn’t a character. He didn’t appreciate being second fiddle role to his step-daughter. Meal time was rough, Arrow and Chef were often frustrated because we monopolized the conversation. It was our bit. Endearing around the table at Luke’s or Emily’s but not so much for real people who want to be in the show as well, active and not sitting in the audience. We missed that, we were too absorbed with ourselves. Still, I was Lorelia and she was Rory.

I noticed this run through just how enmeshed they were, how Rory was a late-bloomer in many of the normal teenage separation rites. I noticed how Lorelia interfered, got friendly with boyfriends, decided she needed a relationship with them as well. I noticed just how manipulative yet desperate Emily was, I saw her with understanding eyes this time. I got that the inability of Lorelia to seal the deal with a suitor, her relationship with her father cast a long shadow. What I saw differently the most though was the big fight, when the break between Rory and Lorelia took place. I remember being so angry that Lorelia was not going after her, was not doing everything she could to fix the rift. This round, I heard her say she trusted her daughter, she would find her way back. (Easier for her, she knew she was safe in the pool house and the break only lasted 2 months) I watched as she ached and avoided and tried to bring new things into her life to fill the gaping hole left by her daughter. She gets a dog, she remodels her home, she gets engaged. She is rash and determined and still unable to watch shows or go places because everything is connected to Rory. Easier for Rory, she left, she is on new ground. I knew Lorelia’s pain.

I watched Rory struggle too, all the times she wanted to call her mom and share the tiny moments of her day. She didn’t break down in one crash, instead she eased back, she had pride. I knew, just knew with a certainty that defies understanding, that my Stella has felt the exact same way, reaching for her phone before realizing she has chosen not to share anymore. It was hard to watch the reunification, yet like an archeologist dusting gently for clues, I hit next, I watched. When Rory was ready, she came back. That is what I came for, she came back. I wanted more. I wanted a secret recipe for the breadcrumbs to create a trail, to lure her home. I wanted to see something maybe I had forgotten. It wasn’t there.

What hit me the hardest though is that I think my Stella no longer sees me as Lorelia. She has become convinced I am Emily, that her life has been full of manipulations and tricks, that she has to move far away to escape “that world.” I may be Emily, I have followed her path of sending lots of things through the mail, not useless antiques but bits of her keepsakes left in the attic, drawings from Plum, letters, cards, pictures. It worked for Emily, not for me. I realized Emily was always trying to draw her daughter back, wanted to heal their fractured relationship but was too broken herself to make the changes needed to keep her. I hurt for Emily. I hurt for them all.

Finally I watched the revival episodes and ugh has been written about them. Many are disappointed, they wanted story lines resolved. I am really good with the series. All the women of the Gilmore family have found each other, have found a way back into relationship that is healthier and less enmeshed. Patterns are repeating, yes, but many have been broken. After all thats the best we can ask of any of us.

I completed my marathon, I survived the desperate yearning to laugh with my daughter. I found that I am stronger and healing and while still waiting, I too am filling my life up to cover the gaping wound. I know my own Rory will return one day, this isn’t Stars Hollow but it will always be home. Coffee is always available, mom and Chef are here. One day she will call, text, appear. I pray I remember my lines, that all she hears is grace. I pray I remember she is an adult and not a character on a show, not a child returning home from camp. I pray I can give her the space she needs. Mostly I pray I get the chance.

 

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.