Category: The Chef

stories of my amazing husband, my favorite teacher ever

Socks, Smokes, Showy God

On By LisaIn Faith, The ChefLeave a comment

The first round was over the socks. I grabbed the package of white ones for Plum, Chef wanted the black ones. I quipped that black socks are for old men not little boys. Bad quip. I did not realize I had entered the battle zone, that this was a thing, that my choosing the package of $4.99 cotton to put on my grandson’s feet was going to turn the tide for the entire day.

I shop alone when I have a list. I don’t peruse, I run in and conquer. It isn’t a social event. I am especially skilled at conquering Target, I have to be currently or I could fill my cart with all things wonderful and then empty it at the checkout when I remember I really can’t spend money on wonderful things. Thus it was a “stick to list grab-and-go” trip. For me. I didn’t realize Chef was looking for more. Not more stuff but more from me. He wanted to be included. He wanted to be needed in the decision making. I missed the warning signs until too late. All efforts to lighten the mood did little to unruffled feathers, the damage was done. Just as a sentence can hold too many cliches, a day can be filled with sunshine and yet not really the Son. The meaning of our day was lost in miscommunication, hurt feelings, silence and frustration. I ached to find our way back to clarity and closeness, to figure out how a pair of socks became so important and divisive.

I know some truths about my Chef because I love him and have loved him for a long time. I  also own that I am a fixer and I so wish I could heal his broken heart. Further, I am sure there is One who loves him even more and actually can heal his heart and his soul and is just waiting for my Chef to surrender. I know that this dark time is the before, that season Steve Wiens talks about in Beginnings. Steve so beautifully describes the emotions surrounding waiting: the hurting, the anger, the loss, the “fog that won’t burn off.” Unlike the outside of our home that shows the leaves turning to bright reds and yellows, clear evidence of autumn, Chef and I aren’t experiencing the same season within our souls. I am in a time of discovery, a time of finding those fresh new buds poking out in spring, seeing hope and possibility in the greening of the grass of my inner world. Like a long-distance relationship, being in different seasons is straining us. We are challenged by the need to be present with the other but not fully able to see the whole picture. We are stuck Skyping while in the in the same room, only getting a portion of the picture, the connection fuzzy, the possibility of a disconnection ever looming. We are unable to talk about the deep stuff so we talk about socks until socks become so big they force the communication. Target socks force us to get in the same room, find our best connection. Remembering that regardless of season, God is present in all, God works wonders in all, God blends one right into the next, centered my approach. God gives us spring after winter by design.

As much as I want to hurry Chef out of his own hurting season, I know he has to grieve and wait. I don’t have answers about what is next but I know what is now. He doesn’t wait alone, he isn’t sitting in his despair alone. I am not able to join him as deeply as he wishes maybe but God is waiting for Chef to recognize His Presence, to trust that a way better Friend needs him right now. My Chef needs to feel needed, he is searching for his purpose. He feels lost and unsure. There is no way around that just being a sucky place to be.  So I asked him to go get me cigarettes.

I needed him to run up to the store because it was already dark out and I don’t drive in the dark and I was out and frankly hours of talking had warped my nerves. He was not so interested in being needed this way for all the obvious reasons but complied. And then God just laughed and laughed, the angels were dancing and the choir couldn’t help but sing loudly. Chef went to the little store just 2 miles away but had to stop on the way home to change a flat tire for a woman stuck on the road, a teacher at Plum’s school.  He left our home grumbling and came back smirking, knowing I would delight in our Show-Off God. I am confident that God is not pleased with my smoking but He will use what we give Him, an opportunity to remind His child that he has purpose, that he is needed, that God will use him for good if he just keeps showing up.

Just in case you were wondering,  we got the white socks, Target didn’t have the black ones in Plum’s size. I got more smokes, Chef realized God is active in His life. All around a pretty successful day.

 

 

Dry Bones

On By LisaIn Faith, The ChefLeave a comment

I went to this antique store yesterday with my really good friend, my college friend who knows my soul and my story and I know hers. Easy company after a rough week. We had this trip planned for many weeks, a foray to this shop several towns over that is the mecca of every Pinterest project I have on my boards. Metal, wood scraps, bits and pieces of old stuff gathered in rooms and barns and add-ons that just don’t end. The possibilities are endless if you have vision and talent and funds. All of those are in short supply for me but it is fun to pretend sometimes, to escape reality and listen to the other shoppers, eavesdrop and wonder what they are going to do with the doodad they just picked up. While it may have been wiser to bring someone who could advise us, knowing we each held the same skill set allowed us to mock and dream and joke, something we each desperately needed. We left with purchases that required little imagination, cups to hold candles, tin buckets for flowers, a piece of wood on which to attach a letter. Except for the old steamer trunk.

One attached area was labeled the “Rough Room” which should have been a warning to us. Beyond our competence of repurposing, we should have been barred from entering. There should have been a bouncer who asked for evidence of completed projects worthy of internet postings. Instead the kind folks at this shop just let anyone in and we took advantage. We went in. Tucked away in a corner was an old steamer trunk, pink paint flecking off, marked down price tag begging me to take it home. I immediately saw all of the possibilities, forgot my limitations. I saw beauty. I saw life in the most unlikely place, the joining of this  relic and my abilities. I guarded it while my friend went in search of staff, sure that someone else would come along and snatch up my treasure.  My friend agreed to purchase the trunk for me for my birthday, still months away, in order to get it by my Chef who would surely struggle to share my joy. The trunk fit nicely into her van, I just needed to figure out how it would fit into my life. Details for another day.

As we wandered about all these discarded pieces of others lives, we who wanted to breathe newness and hope and bring them into our homes, suddenly Ezekiel 37 came to mind. God promised to breathe new life into the dry bones, to bring renewal to the dead, to restore the nation of His believers. Just as my friend and I were searching about, looking for ways to breathe new life into old cast offs while we sought to escape the realities a fearful nation  outside the barn doors, I remembered God is the ultimate crafter. His Pinterest boards are not just wishes but completed projects, showing off wonders and majesties beyond any of our dreams. More amazing still, He wants us to join His crafting table. He doesn’t guard his techniques like secrets, He doesn’t show off without letting us in on the process. It is all in His guidebook, step-by-step. He promises to breathe new life into dry bones, to rise up an army, to bring the nation of believers together again. This may just be the project that we need, the rising of believers in this time of uncertainty.

I don’t know what is to come of my pink trunk. It is a bit smelly, the paint is peeling, Chef is creeped out by it. I wonder who owned it before, what hopes and dreams were stored in this trunk, what stories it held. I am going to breathe some life into it, I probably won’t post any results. I am just an amateur, sitting at the Master’s table. That brings  comfort today.

19 Years Ago

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

My brother gave up 19 years ago on this day. He had actually given in many years before, given in to alcohol and drug use, given in to stealing from family and abandoning his child, given in to a selfish life that promises everything and delivers nothing. He didn’t begin with those goals, no one does. He also didn’t grab the help that was offered, he didn’t fight for himself, for a life that included the ability to look others in the eye. He gave up on this day 19 years ago but it all began with his first beer, the first time he smoked a joint. I am not convinced how much choosing he did after that, I understand the genetic component. Sometimes it works that way for kids. Others can try it out and walk away. Some kids try it once, not believing the warnings, and find themselves on a path not glamorous or exciting, rather it includes such disillusionment that they themselves become the warnings. They are the mugshots, they are the newspaper obituaries.

When my Arrow was in rehab we heard the mantra that addiction leads to one or all of these three places: jails, institutions, death. We are thankful that we have only experienced the first two with our son, my brother lived out all three. I have many friends who visit the gravesite of their children, not so lucky as us. The substances my brother chose back then were not so lethal immediately, more of a slow destroyer. Today a first dabble can be the last. Terrifying.

I heard a story this week of a young man who dabbled and lost. A young man who did not fit any addiction profile, a guy with everything ahead of him. Well-loved, highly educated, active in sports, he made the choice to experiment. One time. That one attempt led to a bad trip which escalated quickly, he grabbed a gun from the family home and now his community mourns the loss of all that he could have been. They mourn the suddenness, they grieve the finality.  My heart is aching for this family and so many families across our nation. I wish I had some answers, some way to break the spell that drugs and alcohol have on our young people. I have nothing.

Nineteen years ago my brother closed himself in a garage and stopped fighting the demons that had taken over his life. He couldn’t find a way back to the person he wanted to be, he couldn’t find any way to transform his soul into something good when the last 2 and half decades had been so ugly. I can’t honestly say I would have been able to guide him back, I had taken his calls too many times and was too angry myself. Yet I still mourn the loss of him, the him he could have been if he hadn’t started using at age 12, the potential he never saw. I think that part is just a dream for me, wisps of fantasy that surround the memories of my brother. I no longer really know who he was, the real stories are just so horrible.

My Arrow sent me a picture this week of the rehab center he attended several times, said he drives by it everyday on his way to work. Today I am grateful for that, the gift of a route that takes him by what could be, what has been. Today I am beyond thankful that he is still  able to send me pictures. I am praying for all those who are not so blessed. I am praying for all those who are still in the struggle. I am praying especially for all those who think it is worth their lives to give any of it a try. I also am beseeching our God to show us a way out of this. To help us support those on the front lines, the counselors and providers, and to unite our country around the goal of saving our children.

What used to be a nasty little family secret now is so prevalent that it no longer shocks. That is shocking in itself.  I don’t have any other answers, I only have memories. I know that 19 years ago my brother gave up. There are many others that still have a chance.

Waiting for the Ultimate Win

On By LisaIn Faith, The Chef2 Comments

Confession time: I don’t know the words to the Cubs song. I can barely remember the chorus. I grew up watching the Cincinnati Reds back in the Pete Rose days, I played Little League before they really let girls join, my little brother and I spent hours playing catch during hot summer evenings. Yet I have fallen away from the sport, too much life, I have found my excitement elsewhere. I am not one of the faithful.

Chef took me to a Cubs game this season, they lost. The star pitcher was taking a day off, the back up players were taking over. The experience was still awesome, the crowd was loud and wearing various hats and shirts supporting their Cubs. They sang the song. They knew the words. They still believed, hoped, held onto the promise they saw in these young men. I loved being part of the group but knew I was a pretender. What would it be like to really belong? I left the game and didn’t consider it any further. I wasn’t moved to join, I didn’t catch the spark.

Chef and I made the 3 hour trip to Chicago to revel with 5 million others, to celebrate the greatest win for a team well loved among people who have waited and believed this day would come. They all knew the song. “Hey Chicago, what do you say, Cubbies gonna win today.” I could hear it breaking out spontaneously all around, on the train, in groups of people on top of bus stop shelters, in trees. I couldn’t help thinking of Zacchaeus who climbed that fig tree to catch a glimpse of Jesus. (Luke 19:4)  It was incredible to witness. I was in it but knew I didn’t really belong. I was not one of the faithful. I didn’t watch all of the games of the World Series, I even went to bed during the last game. I did get back up towards the end, more to support my Chef than out of team unity. Yesterday I felt jealous, green with envy in a sea of blue. I couldn’t claim the full joy when I never experienced the agony of losing years, suffered the taunts from others who backed successful teams, sang about Cubbies winning only to experience another loss. I just didn’t put in the work, never gave it my heart and soul. I was an outsider.

As we moved through the crowds, I realized this is what it feels like to be a believer in Christ. We wait, trusting in the promises of that day when He will come again. We suffer setbacks, terrible seasons that make us question our allegiance. We are persecuted by others who think our confidence is misplaced, we are tempted by teams who are showing wins now. Yet we hold strong, we keep singing our songs. We meet up regularly to discuss our standings, we confess our doubts and encourage each other to keep strong in the faith, to remember that our team will eventually win. Just as I didn’t follow the Cubs religiously, I have dipped in and out of church throughout my life but have not fully abandoned my faith in God, the ultimate coach. Fortunately this team is forgiving, welcoming regardless of any history of allegiance. They welcome new fans without mocking them as fair-weather joiners. They make room in the “bleachers” and offer snacks. God’s team is not made up of one color, one uniform. Young and old are welcomed, people die before seeing the big win, Jesus coming again. Yet we hold on. We keep singing.

I know the promises He has given are true, I just know. I can wait, I believe just like those Cubs fans trusted that one day they would fill the streets of the city and glory in the team that fulfilled all the hopes of an entire generation. I am not going to be an outsider for God’s big parade. Participating in His work to bring in others who can claim the same is what He has asked of His team. Yesterday saw the 7th largest gathering of people in human history. I was one of those people. Next time, when God brings His son back to us, I want to know I belong and have that feeling I witnessed yesterday. Surely the crowd will be  even larger but I know first-hand it feels so much sweeter to have been involved all along. I will sing loudly, I will know all of the words. I am already a fan.

 

The Game America Needed

On By LisaIn Faith, The Chef1 Comment

Much will be written today by actual sportswriters who know real statistics and the full history surrounding the Chicago Cubs win in the World Series.  I am not one of those people. What I do know is that my Chef who has been a fan through all the bad seasons is glorying is the win. That is enough. He needed that win. I needed to see him jumping up and down, running to hug and kiss me, his hair standing on end where he had run his hands through it during the ties, during the rain delay, the scary innings. I also know that America needed this game, this series.

During a most divisive election season, hurtful angry words have been hurled like pitches in the big leagues, coming at such speeds we can’t do anything but swing and try to knock them back, away. The rules of the election process have all but been cast aside as if this were just a pick up game and not history making before our eyes. We are weary, all of us, from too much adrenaline, too many posts and reveals and innings, finally nearing the last stretch yet unable to congratulate the other team if they win. We won’t raise our glasses, say good game and start planning for next season. There are many who will challenge every call, question the validity of every out which ever way the election unfolds.  But last night, the game showed me the real America, the one that is already great.

Baseball is our national sport and based on my newsfeed, the country was watching. There really could be no wrong ending, either team deserved it, needed it, had waited to bring the title home to their fans. My friends let their children stay up well beyond bedtime to watch. Friends who had stopped commenting on each others posts were “liking’ and responding with each new comment. People were uniting around these two groups of young men, passionate about their cause, supporting them from living rooms across the nation. It was beauty, it was unity, regardless of side. I was struck by the variety of skin color of these young men, the multicolored youth who wore the same uniforms. They were not divided by nation of origin, they were not divided by political views, they were not separated by family income. They wore a team uniform and hugged and celebrated or hugged and mourned together. They came in together and left together. They all fought and none gave up, they are worthy of our respect and are truly role models in this time we are so desperately seeking some. There couldn’t be a better year for this World Series, for the national pastime to take over our attention and remind us who were really are.

Thank you Cleveland Indians and Chicago Cubs, America needed you. You all delivered. We are still great at heart, on the field, where it really matters.

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.

 

Freedom From the Chains

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

It felt like an old pattern repeating, I recognized the set of unhealthy steps each of us were taking. The best of intentions began the sequence, the middle is where things get muddled and messy. I realized where we were but didn’t know the right next move to change the progression, every option seemingly creating hurt. Stand up for myself and get honest about my hurt feelings could be reasonable options but when attempted in the past have furthered the problem. Remaining quiet and going along felt wrong as well, just another step in the unhealthy dance. I picked option three which was to let the hurt swallow me up and glue me to my couch, rob me of energy and thoughts about anything other than old pains and disappointments. Still more of the pattern. Then Sunday rolled around bringing church and I had to go because Chef needed me to bring him something and all my efforts to avoid were thwarted.

I walked in to the welcome area and this beautiful woman sitting behind a table jumped up and hugged me, even though she was in the middle of conversation with someone else. She doesn’t usually greet me that way, I don’t give off a “hug me” vibe. She stood up, reached out her arms and I went. Right inside the doors, barely made it two steps in.  A gift of acceptance that asked nothing in return.  I moved on to the sanctuary, found another friend who was busy scribbling notes. She shared that one of the songs from the morning felt like a prayer, she was preparing for the next service, said it was so powerful. I took it as a warning, the music is dangerous for a wall builder like me. Dropping my purse at my seat I went in search of another friend, one who could help with behind the scenes wedding food, one who doesn’t expect me to smile or carry on witty conversation when I am hurting. She gives me that gift while we serve, I asked for her help. I asked for help. A new thing for me. She immediately agreed, a 3 minute conversation with little details shared. She is a doer, someone who shows up and digs in. She understands brokenness, she understands that coming back is so much of the battle.

Services began, Chef was late as usual, too many people to talk to outside in the common area. He doesn’t avoid real conversation like I do. I sat alone as the music began, looking around for Janet, my touchstone when I am feeling lost. I remembered she was out of town, I considered what she would tell me. She would be proud of me that I came to church when I didn’t want to, she would make some comment about me talking to people. She would smile and mouth hello from her spot a few rows back. My ritual of looking for the safe friends around me, those who bolster me up and share their courage was another pattern. These are the healthy choices, the ones that can’t fix the other problems but change who I am and what I need. I had found other touchstones, more “Janets” in the women who worship around me.

The music began, that song surrounded me and entered my soul. I didn’t have a defense strong enough to ward off the message, God was determined to speak to me. I managed to hold off my tears, I made it through. Then my friend led us in prayer and one of our gifted musicians who oozes the Holy Spirit from his guitar and sweet voice began to gently sing parts of the song again. The tears began and I lost control. I sobbed in my seat, Chef held me, no idea what was going on. I cried, a catharsis finally. I opened my wounds at the altar, I allowed God to see into what I had been trying to cover up. I heard His promises. New pieces of a pattern began to emerge. After the service another friend rushed up to hug me, a sweet embrace to transfer some of my hurt, an acknowledgment that we carry the burdens of our sisters in this congregation. We are never alone here.

I am often a slow learner, I find myself hearing the lesson repeated but it doesn’t sink in until I am ready. Today I heard that I have a choice to feel victimized by the actions of others, that I can feel hurt or just know this is their dance. I can do the cha cha while they tango. I learned again that Jesus is with me in the hurt, beside me in my pain and He alone will heal me. These others in my life are not responsible for my feelings, not responsible for changing the patterns with me. Jesus will work on them as well, maybe one day we will dance together but not today.  Right now it is enough that I stepped away, came back to my foundation and allowed the grace of my faith community to minister to me in so many unique ways.  When I consider how to share the gospel, I think about the real meaning of that word, good news. I can’t ruminate on the bad news around me when I am surrounded by the light and grace of Jesus lived out in this faith community. The good news is that I have a savior who pursues me, stands beside me in the fire, heals me.  That saying, “Dance with the one that brought ya,” just might be biblical. Swaying to this song today, praising God for His faithfulness and His children who share their gifts with me. I walked into church hurting, I left rejoicing. Pattern broken.

Jesus by Chris Tomlin and Ed Cash 

There is a truth older than the ages
There is a promise of things yet to come
There is one born for our salvation
Jesus
 
There is a light that overwhelms the darkness
There is a kingdom that forever reigns
There is freedom from the chains that bind us
Jesus
Jesus
 
Chorus
Who walks on the waters
Who speaks to the sea
Who stands in the fire beside me
He roars like a lion
He bled as the Lamb
He carries my healing in His hands
Jesus
 
Verse 2
There is a name I call in times of trouble
There is a song that comforts in the night
There is a voice that calms the storm that rages
He is Jesus, Jesus
 
REPEAT CHORUS
 
Bridge
Messiah
My Savior
There is power in Your name
You’re my rock and my Redeemer
There is power in Your name
In Your name
 
Chorus 2
You walk on the waters
You speak to the sea
 
You stand in the fire beside me
You roar like a lion
You bled as the lamb
You carry my healing in your hands

Happy Birthday Plum

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

We were asked in our final small group meeting to answer the big question, “Why are you a Christian?”  As someone whose life is littered with messes and filled with hurts, my answer was that I just couldn’t live without my faith. My belief in God, in His redemption, in His grace, that gets me out of bed when I want to wallow, when I want to give in and give up. I keep seeking joy, finding my blessings in the midst of the pain because they are there, sometimes as difficult to spot as Waldo but my job is to keep hunting them out among the distractions. I am a Christian because my life would have absolutely no meaning, I would have no hope without the promises of God.

As I pondered my role as a believer, I began to see the similarities to my role as grandma. Without my sweet joy bringer, my Plum, I would linger on the couch, no need to make dinner or cookies or find the vinegar and baking soda for another experiment. My Plum carries the weight of my hope, I carry his as well. We delight in each other much as God must delight in His children. My whole body gains energy when I know it is time for Plum to be here, like I am coming our of hibernation. After too much “me” time ruminating on hurts, I rush to the bus stop to find purpose. He brings a flurry of his own activity and energy, rapid changes with each visit. Reading and math are becoming so easy, still we sneak in our pretend games when no one is around. I plan for Lego play, he has a handful of Pokemon cards we have to discuss. Next time I plan for Pokemon and he has his eye on the Play-doh, something he hasn’t touched in years. I can no longer anticipate where he will take us. I just follow and sneak in a kiss when I can.  I accept my role as snack provider, back up voice to characters he doesn’t want to be, and listener.

Six years ago today Mama’s water broke right upstairs from where I write these words. Stella was here, she was meant to be the birth coach. Chef ran around for garbage bags to put on the car seats, he needed a task. I drove Mama and Stella to the hospital, Chef took another car to go pick up Arrow.  We converged on the hospital, all ready to meet the one, the child who would unite this family, bind us all together. Mama had an unexpected C-section, nothing went quite as we planned, that is certainly the case since. Arrow and Stella have scattered, Mama struggled for a while to find her way, leaving the parenting of this babe to Chef and I for extended periods. We have stepped in and back so many times,  a real life hokey-pokey fraught with pain and distrust, wrong moves. We also keep asking for a fresh start, offering one. We are big on fresh starts. I think Jesus calls that forgiveness.

Loving my Plum has taken all of me, the nights we had to retrain him to sleep, the horrible times we have had to send him back when he was begging to stay. Many days  I don’t want to play mud, I don’t want to clean up the house again from another experiment. Then I flash to his delight and the mess making commences.  More recently his fascination with battling games where I am always assigned the bad guy and I always lose, even as I restructure the game to include my more peaceful philosophy, I am challenged to find that sweet baby that I held and sang to, rocked and looked at, always just looking at him. I still just watch him, he is so very expressive, I wait for his gaze to land on me, one of his knowing smiles to seek me out. I feel like God smiles at me in those moments, my soul rejoices. I hear the Hallelujah chorus, I know these moments are the point of it all, the reminder that grace and hope are sitting right here at my table. I keep learning that loving people, real people, is hard. It takes everything I have most days to be as forgiving as God wants me to be, to be as selfless as He asks. Plum reminds me it is worth the effort, the pay out is that singing chorus, the joyful soul when God says He is pleased with me.

Plum’s eyes shine when he smiles, those blue eyes that were my mother’s, his father’s, mine and now his. I looked into those eyes when they were my moms, seeking love and approval. I was disappointed. She looked back with her own brokenness, unable to give what I needed. I looked into those eyes of my son, his brokenness matching my own, we are connected so deeply that all efforts of his to reject it fail. I have looked into those eyes in the mirror, often seeing shame back. God has given me another chance to see us all through those same eyes, to see us as a long line of people who have hurt each other but loved still. People who can never be perfect but can show the love of God to each other with fresh starts and willingness to play even when we want to stay on the couch. This is our chance to see God’s redemption through those blue eyes. I accept.

Today is my Plum’s 6th birthday. He will have a party, get gifts, blow out candles.  One day he may realize he has always been the greatest gift to me. I am blessed to be his Gran. Thank God we still get to snuggle for book time at the end of the evening, that he still climbs on my lap occasionally. I crave those times when he surrenders into my embrace, when he allows me to just feel the warmth of him, smell his little boy scent as we ease into the night. Those are the times I remember the babe I gently put in the crib and then stared at, unable to look away from the miracle before me. I celebrate my joy bringer today and pray he never stops asking me to play even when I have to be the bad guy.  He knows my imperfections and loves me still, reminds me to surrender into the arms of my God who delights in my smile and watches with me adoration even when I have made a mess of the day.  He offers me a fresh start. He brought this child into my life, a joy bringer, my Plum, the greatest gift I have ever received, a child of grace. Happy birthday Plum. You are my favorite. I love you so very very much.

Loving Who God Brings

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

I found this post I wrote 6 years ago about loving and leaving, filled with worry but also trust in God that the future would work itself out.  Looking back on those years, I see how we struggled in mighty ways, how we relied on our faith and the prayers of our community relentlessly. The following is that story, from November 9, 2010.

 

Several years ago, Chef and I went to visit a home that advertised a Border Collie mix in the paper.  We already had one who was hyper and we thought, wrongly, that getting another would give her someone to play with and burn some energy.  As we circled the area downtown, I became skeptical, it was getting rougher by the block.  What were we getting into?  When we found the house and approached the door, we were startled to see a mangy, dirty mutt tied up out front, eating rocks and barking frantically.  We tried to talk to the owner but she had no care or concern about the dog, couldn’t tell us much beyond the fact it was 10 months old and had been in 5 homes already.  This woman never got off of her phone.  Her small, dirty-faced, raggedy-clothed children wandered aimlessly through the duplex, unattended.  It wasn’t the dog we wanted but we knew we couldn’t leave it there either.  Without even a second glance from the owner, we untied her and put her in our car.  She shivered and shook, looked at us with distrustful eyes the entire ride home.  Chef dropped us off and went to work, probably feeling a bit relieved to have an escape from what was clearly a mess.  I just kept looking at this dog and at our other, oh so beautiful full-blooded one and thought, “Well, I can give you a home I guess but I just don’t really love you…I don’t even like you.  Your coat is ugly, it is so dirty and you are smelly.”

I set to work.  I bathed her and fed her and let her sleep.  We let her create a safe place just for her so the other dog didn’t bother her.  She began to fill out and we discovered that her hair shone, really sparkled.  I have never seen that on a real animal but it does.  She flourished in this safe place, knowing her food was steady, her bed was secure. She clung to me, followed me everywhere, I was proud to show her off.  One day we realized we loved her as much as the other dog, that all the nurturing back to health was falling in love time.   

Our story with Mama is much the same.  It just isn’t over yet.  We took her in for a night and she stayed for 10 months. She came with a just backpack, as she left it took 2 trucks and 2 cars to remove all of her belongings.  She came to us emaciated, broken down, scared and depressed.  We love her and when you love your children, you have to say no as often or more than you ever get to say yes.  I look forward to the day of saying yes, you can come back, we love you.

I have been blessed to love many pets but there will never be another like that one we rescued. I miss her still, my shadow, my sweet snuggler. I have two new beasts that I adore but my heart still belongs to that girl who needed so much nurturing to come into who she was and then gave back all that she had. Our friends and family have watched me invest the same amount of nurturing into Mama. They question the wisdom of getting involved again, many times I do as well. There are days when I am sure that I hate this child, I am so full of resentment, anger, frustration that I pray to never have to see her again. God ignores those prayers. He brought her into my life as surely as he brought my favorite pet. People aren’t so easily convinced that we have their best interests in mind, people don’t trust just because you give food and shelter. People just aren’t always lovable. I know this because I am so often not. Yet despite any efforts to protect my heart, I love this girl. The nurturing time long ago was falling in love time.

This young woman needs a mother, I long for my daughter. Neither of us are the one we would choose. We are each who God has provided. This week I am helping her plan a quick courthouse wedding, I am making food for the after party. Twenty excited phone calls a day asking about details, several lamenting the lack of interest from her mother, I can’t help but be reminded of Stella’s wedding that I was not included in. I am careful to ensure Mama’s mom has her rightful place, mine is very much behind the scenes. I know the hurt that comes from snap decisions about forever memories. Still, God just keeps throwing this young woman and me together, the seeds were planted almost 7 years ago. I look at how she has grown into a woman who truly sacrifices for her child, who tries so very hard to be the best mom. I see her doing it, all the hard stuff, telling him no as much or more than she tells my Plum yes. I see that she is maintaining her own home, feeding her child, attending parent-teacher conferences and acting as a real advocate for her son.

I don’t mean to compare Mama to a canine in any pejorative sense. I love dogs. And damnit, I love her. I let my actions tell her, I keep showing up with food and support, giving her a safe place for her emotions. I am trusting that God only asks that I love who He brings, He will handle the transformation into something beautiful. After all, I know He is still working on me. I am forever grateful for those who set aside frustration and anger and let me come back, time and again, as I grow into my own beautiful coat, shining with the love of Christ.

Dirty Word

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The Chef2 Comments

I’ve been hearing a dirty word a great deal lately, in our church, even in the worship service.  A word that makes many of us so uncomfortable we look down, away, maybe chuckle nervously, seek out our coffee, something to do with our hands. We don’t want to meet anyone’s eyes. I attend a wonderful Methodist church in a university town, the members are skewed towards the highly educated and self-aware. We have been looking at our personal gifts, what we have been given by God to share with the world to build His Kingdom and bring glory to His name. But this word is cropping up and we don’t really like it. We can give money, make food for potlucks, teach Sunday school, but seriously, please don’t ask a bunch of introverts to become EVANGELISTS.  Yikes.  Might as well be cussing.

The concept of evangelism has been taken over in my mind to include the pushy judgey Christians who leave a card telling how to find salvation instead of a tip for the waitress who brought them their Sunday lunch and 20 sweet tea refills. It conjures up the image of the men on street corners telling passersby they are going to hell if they don’t repent. It makes me think of the elders who interviewed a young couple to see if they were worthy of attending that church, elders who said no and left these two young people so hurt they didn’t attend church for many many years. Evangelism feels like hurting others. I would rather cook for the potluck.

What I am learning is that the word has been coopted by a movement, twisted, distorted, surely the devil’s hand is in this. What greater delight could Satan have than to take the very tool to bring believers to God and make it so ugly and distasteful that God’s people recoil?  If I really dig into what it means to become an evangelist, I know that I am already fulfilling that role, I can’t escape it. My very life and actions are either bringing people to or away from God, my words can heal or do damage. This is not a choice, rather the very essence of every child of Christ. The fact that some push others away just makes my job more critical. I won’t be picking up any bullhorns, I am not printing up cards for restaurant distribution. I am becoming more aware of opportunities to invite others to meet my friends who worship with me, great people who are sinners and accept that there is room in the church for those who are struggling and seeking answers. We have space in my row for others who mess up every day and just keep trying.

While I have been inspired by the stories of John Wesley and the true evangelical nature of his faith, it is really a witness much closer to home that has convinced me to act. This week my Plum chose not to attend Sunday school, feeling shy again. He took up his place in the front row with me instead of working at the art table in the back. He declined my offer of one of the wonderful bags assembled for children full of coloring pages, books and crayons. He just wanted to fiddle with his Play-doh and hang out with gran. Pastor Joseph’s sermon on reaching out to our friends, inviting them to our church, didn’t fall on deaf ears.

A special event was held Sunday evening, Holy Halloween in which kids trick-or-treat to biblical characters. My plum had been returned to mama, we met up at church for the dinner before the fun stuff began. Once we began the tour of the rooms, mama pointed out a little girl from their apartment complex.  I was surprised to see her there, they do not attend our church.  When I asked how they knew of the event, she said Plum invited her.  I leaned down and whispered in Plum’s ear that I was proud of him, it was so nice of him to invite his friend. He looked at me a bit oddly and replied, “Pastor Joseph said to do that.” It was just that simple.

Maybe I have too many years of negative connotations with this one word, maybe I can’t overcome the anxiety that builds as I imagine some door-to-door preaching. What I do know is I can follow the example of an almost 6 year old and simply INVITE. I don’t have to make it harder than it is. Listen to the Pastor, do it. So, umm, err, hey, what are you doing next Sunday? I have room in my row. Come as you are, I’ll meet you there, as will the love of Jesus.

Practice, I need practice. Like anything, the more I invest in this the better I will get at it. Hope to see you Sunday, any Sunday. Also, Jesus and little kids rock. Just ask my Plum.