Category: The Chef

stories of my amazing husband, my favorite teacher ever

Mismatched Plates

On By LisaIn Faith, The ChefLeave a comment

Our Pastor asked the congregation to join in on an all congregation wide study, sign up for any number of times, find the one that works best, but sign up. The slots for Wednesday with the promise of a meal together preceding the study went quickly, more groups were added. Chef and I volunteered to create the meal, our small groups leader admitted she didn’t have that piece worked out yet but was trusting God did. Our church takes some faith leaps like that. We were given great latitude, they know we can feed 100 people easily. We asked if we could skip the paper plates, get back to using dishes that could be washed and reused, saving money and the environment.  Yes! The church didn’t have enough, shop Goodwill, we are no longer a congregation that must having everything match.

As the first evening approached, we had some hiccups. The planning time between Chef and I didn’t happen. I thought he was taking the lead, I thought he needed this project right now. When we are both in a kitchen, he is always the boss. I am forever his sous chef.  The crazy busy schedule of the 3 weeks preceding left little time, time we didn’t use to have dinner planning conversations. I thought, he thought, neither of us said, until Tuesday when my panic spoke for me. I was the chef this week, last minute, not ideal for a control minded, list making planner. I got grumpy then went shopping for dinner.

Wednesday afternoon we carried in boxes of dishes and bags of produce, we hauled in cans of tomato sauce, containers of cottage cheese. The kitchen counter now buried under what in only hours needed to become a meal, we set to work, silently. I was still slightly frustrated at my Chef, his salad chopping took all afternoon. You may never see a more beautiful salad, he does nothing in the kitchen without precision and attention to detail. He feeds people visually also. I raced around arranging tables, directing our helper who stopped in through each step of the ziti, finding napkins, silverware, running all the plates through the dishwasher. Chef kept chopping. I didn’t talk to him except to ask how much longer, how many bowls he needed, would he be able to help with the drinks. Intent on his task, I’m not sure he even realized I was not talking to him, my anger rebuffed. He was in his element, creating beauty to put out for the people.

Dinner was being served in the sanctuary, every other meeting room was filled with a group. Each time I entered to add something to the table, my anger lifted, at least until I went back into the kitchen, only steps away. I chose to pick it back up. What an exhausting exercise, carrying all the food out and moving large tables was not what wore me out. I didn’t stay in the sanctuary long enough, I chose to see my Chef and get mad. I chose not to see that actually everything was working exactly as it was supposed to, everything except my attitude.

The food was ready, people began to enter. A table filled with mismatched plates, big bowls of freshly chopped salad,  more bowls of crisp cucumbers, tiny carrots, and then foil pan after foil pan of baked ziti, a table laid out as an offering to those who would gather for a Wednesday evening bible study. I couldn’t get beyond the plates. They took up much more room on the table, paper would have stacked more neatly, more compactly. These plates, discarded from numerous homes, no longer needed or wanted. We added these plates to our meal, to our church as an investment in our future, a commitment to feeding more and more, again and again. These plates of diversity said we are a group with some chips, some roughness, yet we all belong in this sanctuary. Some were fancy, some scratched up, maybe more loved by constant use. These plates were us.

Everyone ate, loved the salad. They noted the care in which it was created, they felt cared for. A communion in the sanctuary mid week over diced produce and pasta prepared us to study our path as disciples. God does amazing things with tomato sauce and grumpy cooks. Chef and I are talking again, planning for next week. This is a challenging time for us, too much time to communicate, forgetting to say things that matter. As time wears on, we may get grumpier with each other, we may find our plates showing cracks. God in His infinite wisdom has put us in the kitchen together, led us into the sanctuary for the next 6 weeks. Next week I plan to walk a little more slowly between the two, spending more time remembering that we are just there to make some food, God will feed the people. My Chef will make it beautiful. I will put out the napkins and tend to God’s plates. We might find peace in the kitchen, we know grace awaits us in the sanctuary.

Sunflower Legacy

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The ChefLeave a comment

My Chef set up a pizza bar for dinner, little bowls with choices of bright red and green peppers, basil from the kitchen garden, onions both purple and white, bright romas and earthy mushrooms. Containers of seasonings, a bag of shredded mozzarella, personal pizza crusts, a tiny bit of olive oil, a pastry brush. Chef was ready for dinner and pizza class. He and Plum got to work. A most patient teacher, Chef picked up bowl after bowl and presented them to Plum. Chef asked  him to smell the contents, identify each item. Mama and I were captivated. I would have just told him, rushed through the process. Chef fully involved Plum in such a way that he would then remember as he began to create. Together they spread oil on the bottom of the crust, flipped it over and then slathered sauce. Plum chose his toppings, created his meal. Our new pizza master then made pizzas for mama and me. We all gathered around this child as he prepared gifts for us, gifts laid out by Chef, staying within his glow, hanging on each piece of joy he shared. Glances at mama’s face to see her eyes smiling, Chef’s face devoid of worry in this moment, I knew we all were feeling the warmth of his spirit.

After dinner we skipped the dishes and escaped to the play set. Time is precious now with my Plum. He abandoned me for formal education, no longer my daily playmate and joy bringer. I have to make do with dinners midweek and every other week end. He is tired, learning to read and follow rules that can’t be pushed with a sweet smile at grandma wears him out. I push him on the swing and delight as his smelly little boy feet come near, catching the scent of this babe I once rocked. He wants to go higher, higher, he doesn’t realize he is going farther away as well. I could stay there all night, pushing and waiting, listening to giggles. His day catches up, though, bedtime is nearing.

No longer full of energy to run, he listlessly pulled petals from the stray sunflowers around  the porch. Fascinated by flowers, he has done this since he could crawl. I haven’t taught him to leave them alone. I have taught him to explore, to feel them, I plant extras around the yard knowing little hands will find delight in their discovery. This night he wondered about the seeds. We moved to the huge sunflower in the front, the lone stalk that survived the squirrels and the dogs. Rocking together on my old porch swing, side by side we harvested. Peeling away layers of outer leaves, scrubbing away the inner covering, we found the seeds hidden. Hundreds of seeds, amazingly arranged each in a safe pocket, one flower able to feed and bring new life long after it is gone. Sunflower legacy. My sweet Plum carefully arranged seeds atop his boulder on the edge of the yard, away from dogs, for the birds to reach. He found other seeds and picked flowers for the bees. He asked for a piece of bread, tore it into small bits, arranged it on his new nature center. Not caring about the big picture of other feeders full of seeds, plenty of flowers for the bees, he created his own gathering place. He asks me to watch over his offerings of grace when it is time for him to leave.

This child is the stray sunflower, not intentionally planted but part of God’s plan to feed us all. He shines more brightly for the unexpectedness of all that is him, his face raised to the Son amidst all the battles for his very survival. A heart so pure, so freely giving of grace, his soul nourishes us all as we gather around him. He shows us God. I realize while I am pushing that swing, I am stable, solid, steady. I am watching My plum to be sure he is still holding tightly, still firmly in the seat, I watch for weariness, I help him go higher, ready to catch him. Does my God do any less? Plum reminds me that as I swing away from God, He still delights in me, waits for my return, eagerly accepting me in my filth, shame, in my exhaustion. My Father is pushing me, up and away, into the world to do His work. He listens for my giggles. God sends me out again, again, higher, farther, hoping I will find His flowers and spread some seeds, I will make His pizzas and feed His family. God wants me to see all He has hidden inside of me, safely in little pockets, waiting for me to expose them to the sun. Seeds ignored grow moldy, no good to anyone. God plants flowers in unexpected places, waiting for me to discover them with joy. I am a flower also, discovering me.

This child is no longer my little playmate, he may always be my teacher. Maybe I show the Face of God to him, He surely is His face for me. May I always be open to learning and feasting at his table, may I always remember to plant extra flowers. When he no longer needs me to push him, I will still listen for his giggles, still gather close to catch the scent of this babe who came to bring me grace.

 

 

Ropes and Lights

On By LisaIn Faith, Stella, The ChefLeave a comment

Remember that old movie Poltergeist? I barely do and I am sure I have it all mixed up but I keep hearing the odd little woman tell the little girl to go to the light.  My Chef told me more details, said the woman knew there was peace and serenity in the light. She didn’t believe the child could come back into this world.  The parents instead attached ropes and went in after her, drug her back from the demons and saved this child. I think my story is filled with friends who have attached ropes to pull me back AND shouted at me to go toward the light.

I was given the opportunity to let go of a major church responsibility, to free myself to mourn. This is kindness, this is grace. I received an email from my so very wise pastor reminding me to  go towards the light. The choice is mine to wallow or accept the challenge to pull myself out of the demon filled depression and find a flicker of hope. The choice is always mine. I chose to maintain my schedule, tug on the ropes of those who are pulling on me. I answer calls, emails, I eat some lunch. Food is toward the light for me. Interaction is toward the light for me.

My friend from college who can assess any situation in my life because she knows all the players and she has a razor sharp mind, found the joys. She highlighted the positives. She met me in the mud but tugged on the ropes to pull me out, making certain I knew where the hopes were.

My chef who has tiptoed around me now for days because I am not very pleasant keeps bringing me food and orange juice and lets me lay on his lap. He deserves a gallon of peanut butter chocolate chip caramel ice cream, if such a thing exists, and big bricks of cheese. (We don’t have dairy in our house as Plum and I can’t tolerate it.) He is gently pulling me back to the light with his constant love. This is grace.

Depression lies, tells me to stay in the dark with the demons, tells me the ropes will never be strong enough to pull me out. It tells me the light will burn me. I have believed those lies before. I stayed stuck in the dark, ignoring all the friends who threw lifelines, all who tried to connect until they slowly went away. Now I can see I actively pushed myself in further, back then I thought I had no part in any of it. Depression lies. What feels like great passivity is, for me, rejecting ignoring throwing away the lanterns the candles the glow sticks offered, with great force. Turning away into the darkness. Choosing sadness, unwashed hair, smelly sheets, choosing to wallow. Depression tells me it fells better there, it is easier there. Depression lies.

At 52, I have come to accept that I am not going to have one of those easy lives that some may be handed. I am never going to be rich, I won’t be posting pictures of all my children and grandchildren for each holiday around a grand piano or a grand oak tree. I won’t be running races or winning awards, I won’t receive a retirement package. My life has had many trips through the darkness, many chances to choose my path back. It gets easier, finding the light, each time I do it. Accepting help, listening to the calls of friends is finally  becoming habit. Trusting their voices, instructions, insights, wisdom when I can no longer see.

Challenge accepted, life. I am in this for the long haul. Knowing it will never be easy, knowing any day could hand me heart ache, I am still going to look for the light. I know where that will take me, towards hope, little shining bits of hope. As elusive as fireflies in late summer or stars in a cloudy night sky, I just have to trust the light is there and start walking. God’s light never burns out, never leaves me alone. As I turn towards it, slowly move in that direction I find the glow grows bigger. Bigger, always big enough to warm me with hope. Peace and serenity might be a stretch.

Photo credit to Pastor Pat Sleeth, fisher of men, women and the rivers of the northwest

 

Lying

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

Shivering in the morning chill, my porch is no longer my comfort place. Birds chirp insistently, the feeder empty. Flitting from tree to tree, they come back to complain. Still, I remain, unable to gather the energy to add seeds for my winged friends. Later, I whisper, later I will bring you food. I may be lying. I’m too cold but can’t get up, I know warmth is only steps away, inside, a blanket, socks. Still, I remain. Everything is empty, drained of hope, drained of joy, drained of caring.

The dogs are slowed, responding to my ache. They don’t play, the sit and asked only sometimes to be petted. They know we are having a funeral for my hope.  My Plum told me at dinner that I looked sad. No masking my desolation from this perceptive child, he sees into my soul. I admitted that I was, asked what he does when he feels that way. He suggested I hug one of my specials, he hugs his purple blankie. He is my special. I cannot hug him long enough to quell this hurt.

Sunday again, time for church. I don’t want to go, I don’t want to move from my cold porch, change from my ratty robe, talk to anyone, hear music. I don’t want to enter into God’s house. Rather I want God to come see me here on my porch and bring me hope. I want God to tell me this isn’t a funeral. To whisper, be patient, my child. She is safe. Even then I may think He is lying. I don’t know how to trust again. This is what it feels like to be alone, without the surety that God is leading the way.  Tricked, confused, lost, how can I know what is right anymore. Then the sun begins to hit my chair, spreading warmth. Damn warmth, damn light, right where I sit. Angry, I miss the cold. I want to stay in the cold, the empty. It keeps my numb. I don’t want to feel angry, that lets other feelings in. I can’t bear the other feelings.

My head is screaming just leave me alone yet my soul is aching for the presence of the One who sees me. Grieving again, too much grieving. Unbearable heartache and I have to go to God’s house to sit with others who worship. I may sing the songs but I could be lying.

Splinters

On By LisaIn Faith, Stella, The ChefLeave a comment

How do you fix something this broken? I was sure this was from God, the chance sighting of my long lost daughter. Chef had lunch with a friend from church, she walked in, didn’t see him in this tiny campus thai spot. Four years ago on this day we were visiting our strong bright girl in South Korea, our girl who was capable of speaking multiple languages and finding her way. Soon I would go back to travel Cambodia and Thailand with this girl, so proud of the young woman she had become. Now she sat in the thai restaurant inches from me and couldn’t find her voice. She allowed her husband to speak ugly hate-filled words to her mother, to her step-father, in front of her child. She didn’t use her voice, he spoke loud profane threats. He called the police. She stayed quiet. I know she allows worse for herself. The officer tells us she has to choose to leave, we can just let her know we are here for her. They suggest easing our way back in. Incredulous, I explain that was what I did. I said hello. She looked down, wouldn’t meet my eyes. She didn’t speak.

I taught my children to use their words. We didn’t allow violence into our home. Teachers always remarked with awe at the unusual ability of my kids to express their feelings. Teachers didn’t know we learned feelings words like primary colors. I was determined my children were never going to be silenced like I was. I gave them voices. I thought I gave them strength to make safe choices as well. I thought I gave them faith to always lead them in the right direction. I only gave them wings to fly away, minds no longer strong enough to stand up to cruelty, hearts hardened so easily against their one true champion.

Intellectually, I am angry at God, what a mess this all is and where is He? I could have had a perfectly normal Friday, not knowing she was even in town. How could I not believe He was in the timing and yet the disaster that ensued was surely the devil’s work. This story has been dragging on for almost 2 years, maybe this is the middle, not the end. Maybe God is using this horrible time to wake her out of this fog, God doesn’t tell me all of His plans. I don’t get to see each day’s outline, the agenda for the meeting. I know God can handle my anger, my questioning, I am not abandoning Him, He hasn’t done so to me. But surely, surely something must be gained from this?

Hours and hours of fantasies about a chance meeting, this was not ever how it ended. I went in too quietly, apologetically, slowly. I missed my opportunity to say everything I have stored up for 2 years. I didn’t know I only had seconds. I didn’t expect him to become aggressive and hostile in public. I thought I could hug my daughter, hear her voice. I ache to hear her laugh, to look into her eyes again, to hear stories about her daughter.  Maybe this is not the end of the story, just that really scary awful middle part. God hasn’t told me the rest.

I sat on the porch swing, the rocking disguising my quivering body. Still shaking an hour later. The slats of the bench need sanding, weathered by too many summers in the sun. Rubbing my hands along the seat, I realized I was just trying to feel something. I have lost my words, my feelings are so deep, buried, too dangerous to release. I think my Stella and I might be closer than I thought. Voices and feelings are often powerful, tornadoes that can destroy all in their path.  Ours have been buried, silenced by fear. I imagine another force of nature, a volcano, long simmering. I pray when she does erupt she does so with a safety plan that keeps her and little princess away from the distruction. I don’t know when I will let go of my feelings, I wish I had the strength to break a wall or cut down a tree but quickly dismiss these as wasteful and I love trees. I don’t advocate the cutting epidemic among the youth but have new understanding of just wanting to feel. My Chef tried to hug me, he is seeking any way to comfort me. I told him to stop. I learned early how to not feel. This is too big for my to allow into my world.

Rocking, shaking, touching the rough wooden swing, I try to begin again living without my daughter, an artificial loss, neither of us really gone. My laments only heard by God, I know He hears my cries. My prayers are soul screams. My heartbeats are demands for help. Rooted to my seat, silent, I swing and wait for the Lord.

.

Sharing Our Little

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The ChefLeave a comment

Before we left home for the Labor Day parade in Chef’s home town, I asked my Plum to grab 5 large baggies. Full of questions as he went about his task, his patience for my hedging mixed with the chaos of three families struggling to pack for a day trip led to disclosure earlier than planned. I assured him he would need them later, during the parade when the participants threw candy out. I have been around long enough to know you don’t tell children about candy until it is time for candy. The hour drive and subsequent 15 minute walk to the parade site saw him clutching his bag, ready for donations.

Firetrucks, more firetrucks, more than I have ever seen, led the parade with sirens and waves and no candy. Plum tried to stay interested, he waved back at the first few and then sat somewhat dejectedly in the wagon, still holding his bag, legs flopping over the side. I assured him candy would happen. Finally I spied the telltale signs of sugar tossing: children running to the street further up the parade route.  “Get ready, Plum!” He jumped up, energy restored, as did all the other children around him. Big pressure for the one person tossing. Plum got one piece. His bag looked pitiful. “No worries, more is on the way.” Soon another rider tossed some out, all the children grabbed. Plum was out-battled by the bigger girl next to him. Close to tears, he slunk back to his wagon.

“No, no buster, we aren’t doing this,” I told him. I told you there would be candy, there will be plenty of candy. We are not crying about something that is being given freely to us. It is for all the kids, you will get yours and you can share some too. “Didn’t Gran promise you there would be candy? Have I ever let you down? We have to be patient.”  No tears, no pouting. Have some water. My best boy squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, waited. The candy came. Before long his bag was overflowing, he started on a second bag. Someone threw SourPatch candies, his personal favorite. He grabbed for them, another guy got there first. Then something incredible happened.  The other little boy came over and gave the candy to Plum. The next round, Plum grabbed something and handed it to his new friend. Finally the heat and the overflowing bag convinced him he was ready to hit Great Gran’s pool so we walked back early, pulling a red wagon full of sweets.

I asked him later about the bags, about the sharing. He said it is easier to share when your bag is full. I asked him what if his bag only had a little and someone else had none, what might they think of his bag? He immediately understood that his little would be much to someone else. When pressed about whether he would share with them, his response was the stuff to make God sing. “Of course, Gran, I would share my little.”

We are sharing our little right now, our little that seems like so much to those receiving. I worry about money, I worry about how much more we are spending right now with our extra guests. This was not in the so very tight budget. Suddenly with no incomes, isn’t it wiser to hoard our “candy bags,” hide away what little we have, save for our uncertain future?  But our little all came from God, thrown out to us not because we deserved it but just because we were at the right parade at the right time. I am trusting that more candy will come.  While our bags may never be overflowing again I know they don’t need to be. We do have enough to share today. We have always had enough to share.

No pouting, no tears. A glass of water and a tootsie roll as my snack while I remember all the emptier bags. A smaller bag would have filled more quickly, seemed less stark with only a few pieces. I may be forced in the future to downsize, to leave my large home. For now, as long as I am sharing the space with those God brings our way, He will surely provide enough for all of us. It is hard to see the end of the parade from where we are seated, to just know that better things are coming. Fortunately I have the promises of one who has never let me down as reassurance. More candy is coming, be patient.

Communing Sunday

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The Chef, TravelLeave a comment

Our two rather large dogs were terrifying to our little house guest. No amount of reassurance would convince him that he was safe. As they drew near, he screamed. They are so protective of my Plum that the screaming told hem they must comfort this small boy, so they tried to go closer. More screaming. So our beasts were stuck outside, confused and barking. A dance began, moving the dogs either in or out, depending on where our new friends were. My Chef entertained while I sat with the dogs, our home divided. I prayed that I could find some solution, I wondered about the wisdom of opening our home to strangers. Beautiful in theory, complicated in the execution. We seemed to be offering a bit more misery than hospitality. I searched for a solution, wondering if a different home would be a better fit. Fearing permanent traumatization, I knew something had to change.

Chef informed me that he had invited our housemates to church, I was appalled. This act of evangelism felt disrespectful to their pathway to God, I worried they would feel pressured as our guests to go. Given that the beast dance was wearing me down, I had little energy or even time to chastise my husband. I hoped they would assert themselves and politely decline, I worried how I would attend and leave them with the beasts. I worried, got more and more tired. Finally the dogs and I escaped to my bedroom, fatigued ruling wisdom. I gave up. I forget that until I get so tired of trying to steer the ship, I don’t let God take over.

Before the sun even rose on our sabbath morning I asked Chef for the day’s plan. He confirmed our guests were joining for church, I was taking everyone to meet at the late service as he leaves early to teach Sunday school.  While I slept, he  and God had been busy with details I now had to implement. Escaping to my porch sanctuary with beasts, I drank coffee and talked with God. I drank more coffee, tried to listen. God whispered. Realizing I had the perfect interpreter, someone who could communicate to a little boy that these dogs were harmless. I called in my Plum, this almost 6 year old bundle of compassion who wrestles the beasts and spreads joy. While it was mama’s weekend, she graciously allowed us to pick him up to join for church and play time after. Mama understood non-beasts loving people. What ensued was such beauty that only God could have been messing around with this.

We walked into church, my Plum, little Jesus, Mary and Joseph and I. I’m not sure anyone even greeted me. The children were too adorable, the adults immediately welcomed, shepherded to the coffee bar.  My worrying couldn’t find any place to land, pushed aside by joy. “Yes, I am among friends, friends who will carry this yoke with me.” For a time I could just rest in the house of God.  How often I forget that I don’t have to do this, any of this, alone. Coffee, tea, water bottles in hand, we entered the sanctuary, boys racing around as little boys do.  I will only attend a church that allows little boys to race around.

I assumed we would sit in the back, inconspicuous, as much as any one could be dressed in such beautiful scarves as Mary. Chef told them we sit in the front row and guided everyone up there. His boldness is ridiculous sometimes. The children and I sat on the floor, dumping out the baggie of cars I had brought. Plum searched my purse for the snacks he knows Gran always has. Packages of cookies were opened, divided. One for him, one for Jesus, over and over, as they sat on the prayer kneeler in front of the entire congregation.   Communion in the purest sense.  Music began, the boys danced. Jesus danced just as my Plum used to so freely do until he got a bit shy and aware that he was dancing alone. We go to a Methodist church after all.  When the children were dismissed for Sunday School Jesus went also with some coaxing but soon returned. Back to the floor I went, rolling matchbox cars to and fro, until it was time for communion when I retrieved my Plum. He loves communion. He loves the bread the juice the lining up with everyone to participate in something he knows is special. Jesus was ready to partake as well. More worrying, how to stop a child from having “snack” that everyone else gets?  Anxiety spiking, searching for a quick solution, the voice of my pastor broke through.

Pastor Chris reminded the congregation that everyone is invited to the table. He spoke God to the people. The people heard. Joseph rose to join the line, I could barely breathe. Mary sat still in her chair, the boys rushed ahead. As the communion steward tore a piece of bread and handed it to little Jesus, she told him it was love broken for him. Is there anything more pure, more magnificent?  Finally, Mary rose, unsure, haltingly, to join the line. I walked with her although I had already received this sacrament. Arm in arm, we walked to the table of grace.

After church Plum played with the beasts and spoke confidence into little Jesus. By the end of the day we had harmony in our home, no more separation dance. Our guests cooked a meal for us, stepping around beasts in the kitchen. We communed again. I may never write these words again, pay attention. I was wrong, my Chef was right. He sent out an invitation because he was listening to God’s call. I pray that I can be so fearless when given the chance. I pray that I can trust that when God brings us someone to love, he doesn’t leave us to work it out on our own. I pray that I remember communion is little boys dancing to worship music, Muslims taking bread and juice with a group of Christians because we have shown the real face of our One Father. I want to always remember when Pastor Chris said, “Let’s pray,” Jesus stopped playing cars and ran to me, enveloped me in a hug and didn’t let go as we rocked on the floor of the sanctuary. Hearts beating together, wrapped in the arms of Jesus, is there anything more glorious than that?

My soul is overwhelmed, brimming with the love and light God has shown me. This lesson of trusting God is something I relearn everyday,  easier with the example of children.  Bread and juice and cookies become sacred. If I just keep showing up, our One Father will supply the miracles.  The table is set before me, open for all who seek to lead a life of peace and love. I come to it broken, like the bread. I pour out my pain, just as the blood of Jesus was poured for us all. Shared, we become whole.

  • If I am bold enough to issue invitations,
  • if I am silent long enough to listen to the whispers of God,
  • if I am transparent enough to rely on my faith community,
  • if I am honest enough to acknowledge that quite often my Chef is right,

I will find communion. I don’t ever have to wait for Sunday. Grace and light will meet me there. Thanks be to God.

 

Soccer with Jesus

On By LisaIn The Chef, Travel6 Comments

I played soccer with Jesus yesterday while Chef loaded baggage into our car. My 2 1/2 year old opponent spoke little English but his beautiful brown eyes and quick smile stole my heart immediately. Little boys and grandmas need few words when a ball is available. The other adults managed the packing up to move this family who came to America and found there was no room at the inn. I played soccer with Jesus who’s family worships a different path to God. His mama doesn’t call him Jesus but my soul knew.

This couple, highly educated, came to study at Purdue and found themselves the victim of a fraud. Their housing agreement, paid in advance didn’t exist. No room at the inn. God was watching though as He guided them to the doorsteps of a member of our church who has been sheltering them for a week, establishing them at the university and setting up banking. His skills at maneuvering those systems as well as his apartment that was free for a week must be God showing off. Our extra beds close to the school, our habit of taking in strangers, our nest newly emptied, God clearly is guiding this Islamic Mary and Joseph on their journey. We are honored to provide a safe haven for weary travelers in a strange land with the blessings God has given to us. Isn’t this God’s house anyway?

As we navigated food and customs and acclimating a child to our rather large beasts, I heard Jesus call me Auntie. He calls for me, of course I come. So easy to answer any call when the voice is that of a child. God knows how to talk to my soul. We ate pizza, not the best way to welcome them but we were all exhausted. The banana I sliced for him became our game, another way to connect. We adults are finding our voices with each other, Jesus and I are already communicating well. I looked at this family sitting at my table, breaking pizza together, knew it was thanksgiving early. I knew it was grace. How to stop hate in our world? How to stop the polarization, the labeling, the separation into groups based on religion or gender or who one loves? Invite Jesus to play soccer. Then have some pizza. It really doesn’t have to be harder than that.

Soon they will be settled in their campus housing, the 6 months they are here will fly by. I believe they will return and tell stories of Jesus worshipping people who took them in, then sent them to the next family who worships Jesus. They may tell stories of hospitality and grace that will shed light into who we as Christians are, who we are meant to be. Christians who try hard to follow the teachings of Jesus and follow that entertain strangers bit. We will tell stories of God’s glory in guiding Mary and Joseph and little Jesus on a journey. One story at a time, we might just spread love.

Open Nest Openness

On By LisaIn Faith, The ChefLeave a comment

Those baby birds that nested in our garage? All have safely flown away. I miss the insistent chirps echoing in our space. Quiet has descend. Our level of quiet with 2 dogs who find the best time to battle over a stolen sock is when I sit down. But this I have grown accustomed to. God sent the mama to us, to our garage for safekeeping. I fretted over the cats, trying to monitor their location as they run freely and visit only during storms or hunger or the occasional desire for a chin scratching. God wasn’t worried.

Our little huntress was missing for two days, the days the babies took flying lessons. I was able to corral the big beasts and the fat lazy cat but my little girl was AWOL. I called for her every time I passed a door, I checked on the  babies as often. She didn’t show. Finally I checked the shed, the doors were shut after my Chef mowed. Surely she wouldn’t have run in there, the noise would have sent her scurrying away. In her 6 years with us, she has never been locked in there. Out of options, I looked anyway.  She was curled up on the mower seat. She was saved the indignity of walking the property to her food bowl, I deposited my wayward girl into the house for all of nature’s safe keeping. She ate, rehydrated, slept, the babies spread their wings and flew unto branches.

I may not recognize their songs now, the blending of all the morning joy into one. I won’t forget though the opportunity to love who God brings, the awesome responsibility to share our blessings, the joy that comes from opening even the little spaces to those in need. We find ourselves in this home with too many bedrooms, too much quiet, wandering about, rooms not entered for way too many days. Our home is not fit for an HGTV spread, unless it is the “before” picture. It is easy to grow self-conscious about all that is wrong, all that needs updating, painting, renovating. It is easy to avoid opening our doors because we don’t feel our home is good enough. Then we find someone who is in such great need that our place becomes like a castle. We find someone, or God brings someone to us, and realize that the shelter we can provide, the respite from worry and confusion, the peace and grace afforded at our table, these are the gifts of our home. God brings us people and creatures. We keep our doors open to those who need us. Those with more may be shocked that I don’t have a dishwasher. Those in need are amazed that we have so many beds, waiting.

I am realizing more and more that my soul is just as my home. So in need of fixing up. Broken, chipped, scarred, oddly patched but accepting of those who come without judgement. Broken knows broken. Look deeper and you will see a home, a soul, inviting all those who want more. Come and see me, I will share what I have. I will feed you, let you sing to me your song. You can nest here for as long as you need, until your wings are ready.

Growing into Me

On By LisaIn Plum, The Chef, TravelLeave a comment

I didn’t get in for a haircut before I left for my trip, a huge mistake I discovered. My family had worried that my weak neck would suffer under the weight of the helmet but the real issue became the itchiness when I got so hot. I imagined shaving my head bald during those long times between stops when I tried to stick a straw between the padding and my head, trying to scratch where my fingers couldn’t reach. Much like wearing a cast in the blazing sun, I was desperate for relief. As soon as we stopped, the helmet came off and I scratched furiously about my crown. I should have taken the time for a hair cut. I mentioned it at least 1 million times to my Chef in our daily calls. “Yes, my back is fine. My pelvis is still in place. I need a haircut!”  A minor thing became a huge annoyance, the mosquito effect.

The morning after our return I stopped at the first place open, a local men’s shop. I have gone there before since  a now wear my hair short. I am not huge on style anymore and the gal does a good job. I go with my Plum and Chef when they are getting styles, real ones. I skip the hot towel and shave. It has been working for me. Why would I think differently?  I ran in with no Plum or Chef. My gal wasn’t there. A new girl, who wanted to chat and I was still decompressing from the trip. Minimal answers to her questions. I am used to professionals understanding when I say cut the whole thing off knowing that this means they need to take control and just offer me some water. She asked those polite questions about why I had planned, I said I had just gotten back from a two week trip on a Harley and needed to figure out if my cats were still alive. I focused on the Olympics playing on every tv, regardless of how she turned my chair. She asked if I was into those. I said I hadn’t seen any coverage, needed to catch up. I really just wanted a haircut and some peace.

It turns out she just shy of shaved my head. It will be weeks before I can attempt at a style which I now think might be important. It occurred to me later that maybe she made an assumption about me based on the clues given, that maybe I was a lesbian. I certainly look for all outward appearances now as the stereotype. Not a lipstick lesbian.  I appear as if I should know how to use power tools. (This is the place where I say sorry to lesbians for stereotyping YOU!) My Chef who was so happy to have me home was quite taken aback when I got into the car.  “Holy Shit, ” I think was his supportive response. This haircut is not just a bad one, it is a statement. The problem is that for those who go to church with me, it is a statement that brings confusion. Did she mean to do that? Is there trouble in that marriage? What really happened on her trip? You know a haircut is bad when folks comment on your shoes. Shoes you have worn forever.

The deal is, I rushed, I didn’t tell the whole story and I got an identity that doesn’t fit. Someone else took pieces that I had laid out and made a choice of who I was and I have to live with that for a few weeks. Fortunately it’s just hair and it grows. Fortunately I don’t really care what others think of my sexual orientation except that has been a newsmaker in the past. Along about 1994, I stopped displaying any femininity. Baggy dark clothes to hide my body, no jewelry to enhance or draw attention, make up by the wayside, I stopped shouting that I am a woman  and instead whispered please don’t see me. I only recently started merging this other part of me back in, slowly, just a bit at a time. Putting in some earrings, wearing clothes that don’t blend into the woodwork. I am 52 years old and still working out my identity. I am still working out what I tell others affect how they see me. I know that I get to decide who I am but not telling also leaves them with little choice but to fill in the blanks.

I am learning, one bad haircut at a time. I am a Harley riding Grandma who loves cats and her family, not always in that order, who watches sports and sappy movies. I am a woman who is figuring out that earrings go with sweatshirts and mascara is ok. I haven’t worked up to lipgloss. What do you think of my shoes? My hair will grow along with my opportunities to be me.