Category: The Chef

stories of my amazing husband, my favorite teacher ever

Half A Pack of Mourning Daily

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

I started smoking as an adult who knew better, at a time of huge stress, when I was locked away from my children. I continued this habit for a couple of years after we were rejoined, even after my kids complained. I knew better but was hooked. My son put Mr. Yuck stickers on my cigarette packs. They told me I smelled. I did. I tried the medicine touted as the best way to quit, I became a raging lunatic. Finally I just stopped. That was over 17 years ago, maybe longer. It was a good run.

Through all the crises of addiction and unplanned pregnancy, watching your child choose homelessness, fighting for security for the baby who didn’t choose any of it, I still didn’t stop at the gas station and buy a pack. I ate M&M’s, reverted to some horrible eating habits, prayed, cried, drank too much wine, managed. But I didn’t smoke. Then came my daughter’s wedding that I was no longer invited to, a day so crushingly painful I was sure I wouldn’t survive. Chef and I had traveled to the “paper wedding” in front of a judge where I was surprised to be a signing witness. The relationship was already incredibly strained at that point. I didn’t know what was ahead, I didn’t know I was truly losing my daughter, that the visit then would be the last time I would see her. Seven months later when the real celebration rolled around, I was too thin, too broken, every moment without reconciliation bringing me closer to madness. I went with a friend and bought a pack, as a lark, to get through the day, not realizing this crutch was going to get me through all the days. For two years.

I actually love and hate smoking. I hate the smell, hate that it pushes me away from everyone who loves me. No one in my circle smokes.  No one joins me on the porch with a nice glass of wine and has deep conversations with me. I sit alone and rush through the fire tipped reminder of all that is wrong. But there is a part that I love and it isn’t the cigarette. It is the very same aloneness. Sometimes I just need a time out. I need to pull away from the chaos and the chatter and get re-centered. I need to be alone with my memories and mourn for 5 minutes and then go back to being present in my day. I know why I smoke and I know why I shouldn’t. I tell myself with each purchase of a pack that is the last one but then myself laughs mockingly. I don’t believe me. I haven’t yet committed to letting go of my mourning period.

I never imagined I would lose my daughter. I have fought so many times to keep my son alive, the only way being to give him up to other authorities. My girl, though, always my closest person on earth, always the one who could make me really laugh out loud, I never ever imagined her not in my every days. My heart had no room for such a notion. Coping skills completely broke down, nothing worked on this heart ache. While I have tried extensively to bridge this gap, I haven’t tried to stop smoking. I realize I cannot control when she will come back into my life, if ever, but I can control when I will stop mourning with a lighter and an ashtray. That time is coming. My Chef is so stressed right now I worry that he can’t handle the definite crazy moody swings and nastiness that will result in my withdrawal. I worry that I won’t get my time away from everyone, no excuse for them all not to follow me. I worry that I can’t do it, just like I worry that I can’t really go on another day without a phone call, text, email from my Stella. But I do go on. So maybe I really can quit.

This might just be my last pack.

A Scrap of Paper

On By LisaIn Faith, The ChefLeave a comment

Plum asked me if golden is really a color, a question of high importance given this is number two on his favorite hues list. “Of course, sweetie, ” I replied while finishing up dishes. “But why don’t we have any golden in our house then?” I didn’t want to remind him that he had squirreled away in his treasure boxes under his bed all things golden, but instead explained that I prefer silver. This was shocking, who could do such a thing? Thus began my full explanation of my gold allergy, more shocking still. Grandpa had to be brought in for confirmation, still he didn’t believe. Much back and forth revealed the confusion, who could be allergic to a color? Still he decided it was pretty weird to be allergic to golden. Sighing, I shared that the list of weird things about gran is pretty long. “Nah, just a scrap of paper, gran.”

To be seen so honestly and still accepted, that is mercy. What a disappointment that his second favorite color makes me itch, that I avoid it at all costs. Could have been a deal breaker. He could have determined he need only try harder to convince me of the virtues of golden, convince me that itching was worth the joy of golden. Instead, he sadly allowed that I was weird but still ok. Mercy from a 5 year old is pretty great stuff. He knows I’m not perfect, still a scrap of paper worth of issues, but he loves me still.  Is it any wonder Jesus said to bring the children to Him? They are just smarter, kinder, hearts more accepting.

What if we all saw only the scraps of weirdness in each other, ignored the long list of offenses? What if mercy was our response rather than deep divide over such critical issues as color? What if we stopped trying to convince each other that our choice is better and let everyone decorate their homes as they chose? If we have some extra silver or golden, we could even share it. No pressure. It is easy to say a 5 year old hasn’t lived life enough to understand all the nuances but maybe adults spend too much time on those. I think kids get it. They talk it out, resolve it and move on to play cars and dolls and dolls in cars. They include until we teach them not to.

The list of my offenses is long except God and my grandson have already looked past those onto who I am today. I do the same for him. The fit he threw a couple of days ago is gone with our fresh start. We give those in our home. Each day, a new start. Sometimes we have to restart a couple of times, because we are worth it. We are all a little weird but just a scrap of paper weird. Nobody is keeping score around here, especially my Plum. I stopped my dishes, gave him a big hug, reminded him that he is my favorite. “I know gran, you tell me all the time.” What I did’t tell him is that he brings God closer to me every day, that he is my gold and I will never be allergic to him.

God Drives an Old Chevy Truck

On By LisaIn Faith, The ChefLeave a comment

My deodorant decided to fight me yesterday. The spinner mechanism at the bottom came unattached to the stick that pushes up the actual white glob that keeps friends closer. After several attempts at overriding the spinner, pushing the stick, unscrewing, reasserting, my blood pressure rising, I realized I was in a battle. I actually have many battles waging around me, this one I determined to win. I removed the stick altogether and searched for something on the bathroom countertop that was about that size. I tried an emery board  but it wasn’t sturdy enough. I considered chopsticks but they were all they way downstairs and I wasn’t about to leave my enemy unguarded. Ah, my toothbrush. I jammed that right up the hole where the tiny stick used to go and pushed. Pieces of blue plastic flew around the floor. Headway. One more good push and the actual product rose out of its hiding spot, victory was mine. Until it fell on the floor.

These battles I fight often seem to go this way, just one push too far until I think I have won but ultimately have lost. I am much better at conflict resolution than in my younger days when I was definitely always right. Now I’m just mostly always right. I’ve been told countless times by professors and family members that I would have made a great attorney. This is maybe not a compliment. What I see as passion and clarity of an issue can often feel like a semi bearing down on others. This is something I just learned about myself, thanks to my brother and a very late night conversation. I am still hearing the echoes of someone who dared tell me the truth a day, a week later.

My Chef and I talked at length about this, a hard talk. I had to own some junk that would be better left at the side of the road. God enabled me to see both sides of a situation, process it quickly, sum it up and then determinate the best route, all in about 3.2 seconds. Perfect in a crisis but thankfully we don’t stay in crisis mode too much around here. My brain does though maybe, it goes too fast and I leave others in my wake. I am definitely not smarter, I just go faster. Chef said it is like I have a NASA computer while he has one from the 70’s with the old dial up, he is still trying to get his past the blinking light on the monitor and I am done. This is an ugly thing about me, it hurts me to know my family sees me as a steamroller. I am blessed that they still love me.

Going so quickly means I often leave God by the wayside as well. I may think I have included Him but I haven’t consulted Him. Being so sure all the time may mean I have fully considered my position, evaluated all sides, determined the best course of action but where is the praying part? Where is the being still part? I may win but the deodorant is still laying on the floor. God speaking to me comes in those quiet times. I think God drives a really old chevy pick up truck, I like to think it is blue since that is my favorite color. God’s truck has all the windows down, the tailgate flat. God drives slowly through the countryside, waving at friends, giving rides to anyone who ran out of gas. God has room in the front, in the back. God definitely would never drive a steamroller.

I am working on keeping my windows down, waving more, giving some rides, driving slower. The keys to my steamroller have been handed over. I have asked Jesus to give me a swift jab with my toothbrush if I try to reclaim them.This battle is between Jesus and Me. I hope to lose.

My Gift

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, Stella, The Chef1 Comment

I took over 1,000 pictures in the two weeks I was traveling. I didn’t have time to look at them each day, mostly just click and go. I was pretty sure I was a genius though, I was amazed at my newfound gift. I was a photographer. I mean really who wouldn’t be with the scenes before me? The mountains clearly took up many of my shots but I became obsessed with the individual grasses of the prairies in Kansas, the tiny dots of color that made up the wildflower hills in Colorado. Cows have always been a favorite so their glistening skin definitely caught my eye and my viewfinder. Windmills, remnants of old mines, cables abandoned long ago all became art in my eyes and I was sure, in my camera.  I envisioned huge canvas prints of wheat, of cacti, of nature gracing my walls. Glorious.  Only not so much.  I was given amazing views but not amazing gifts as a photographer.

My daughter is an artist. So is Janet. They don’t understand that I am not, maybe that everyone is not. I have watched both take pencils, chalk, paint and turn paper into glory. I turn paper into indecipherable disasters, there is no art from my hands. My brain cannot communicate the beauty it sees to a solid representation. The road is blocked if it was ever built. Just not my gift.

At church there is a young woman who sings like God is pouring out of her soul.  I sing along with her but real quietly. God prefers it that way. So do all those sitting close by.  My desire is strong, my gift is not in singing. My children can attest. I loved when they were little and they knew no better. I sang rather loudly then, a very long time ago.

My chef can run through numbers and talk to anyone about anything. Neither of these are strong places for me. I am okay with math, not scared, actually more afraid of people than fractions.  Clearly my gifts are not found here.

Everyday I tell my Plum he is my favorite. “I know, gran,” comes the exasperated reply. “But how do you know?” I query. “Because you tell me all the time.”  I still figure it is worth repeating because soon enough he will figure out there are many things he is not so great at. He will search for his gifts in a world that pushes for conformity, being quiet, going along. It takes courage to sing loud, to try out and keep trying out, to paint and draw even when your pictures are different from everyone else. My Plum asks what I am good at. This gives me pause. I want to demonstrate for him positive self-esteem but I’m not good at that. I ask what he thinks. “You are good at being smart and being my gran.”Right then I realize I may never take a wall hanging worthy picture, may never doodle an identifiable tree, may always be awkward in social situations, but I have mastered the most important gift God ever gave to me. I rock as a gran. I might even sing a song about it. Quietly.

Keepsakes

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The ChefLeave a comment

I collect words. Old cartoons, quotes written on napkins, bulletins from church with a hastily scribbled phrase from the sermon, these are in my keepsake box. I have a poem shared over 30 years ago from my college friend that I pull out about every 4 or 5 years, as amazed at how it still rings true for me as I am at her so beautiful handwriting, handwriting that just means her to me. Most of my favorite recipes are on the backs of bills or a piece of newspaper, jotted quickly as my mother recited ingredients over the phone, surely indecipherable to anyone else.  I have the page from my Chef’s Daytimer where he wrote his phone number when he first asked me out. Song lyrics that have spoken to the places I try to hide, stories written by my children after vacations (my consistent homework assignment for them), those little cards that come with flowers, long dead. Letters, probably every letter I have ever received, all in my keepsake box. I collect words.

I found a rock in my mailbox. I am accustomed to seeing spiders, bills and Time magazine inside but this was a first. It was holding in place a small slip of paper, a scrap that would otherwise have blown away as I opened the box door.  Both were treasures, one a gift to my Plum, the other an encouragement to me. It was lovely and enchanting, so very sweet that a new friend made that effort. A place of usual dread, especially now that money is scarce, became delightful. This note is a keepsake.

A visit to St. Paul several months ago yielded much for our souls, in fact prepared us for this next step in our journey. There we met a family so welcoming I wanted to move to be neighbors, to worship with them. A great fit for my Chef, this man who reached out, shared, ate lunch with us.  A bond was created, Facebook allows it to continue from afar until we can travel north again. Several weeks ago I received this most achingly uplifting email from this friend, apologizing if it was inappropriate but sharing the hope of God, promises of our Lord, hearing our agony.  I read his email over and over, could not find anything wrong through my teary eyes. What I saw was someone who took the time to reach across several states and a great deal of fear to share his faith and let us own our hurt. This email is a keepsake.

When I returned from my trip to Colorado, I found a three page handwritten letter (who does that anymore?) from a young woman filled with such grace that the pages felt warm, they glowed.  I don’t care if you believe me. She is that authentic, she is so real.  Her letter lifted me to the heavens, threw me below the very soles of my feet. I wanted to write to her all last year and didn’t. I selfishly figured she was doing well at college, what would she gain from a missive from me? Why did I ignore that push from God? How grateful I am that she is braver than I, that she listened. Her letter is a keepsake.

Since I have begun blogging and sharing my broken life, my search for grace and those bits of light in the darkness around, I have been incredibly blessed to be encouraged by old friends and new. My keepsake chest is ever filling.  I have become much more aware also of the power of words, spoken written and withheld. Storing up my own treasure of words is not pleasing to God, brings Him no glory. I apologize now for all the letters I haven’t written, for the times I held back. I didn’t trust me, I should have trusted God. I hope now to be an encourager, to leave a rock or an email or write a letter that becomes a keepsake for another someday. I strive to be authentic, to be honest with my words and let God do the rest.  If my blog means something to you, maybe it will to someone you know. It is personal but not private. Please share on your pages to help me atone for all the times I was silent. I am searching for courage amongst my treasures and what I keep finding is you. All of you who have let God push you into acting. May I become that brave, today, to speak truth and kindness with lasting words, words that feel like keepsakes.

Moments of Magic

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

A goal was set each day, reservations already in place for our hotel, the number of miles we needed to travel predetermined. Sometimes it was 300, often only 200, many times around 500. Each morning as we packed up the bike again my brother outlined for me the places we would discover and the end city.  He joked often that we had a short day of riding which actually never panned out. Each evening after showers, after dinner, a time was agreed upon for kick stands up in the morning. All these agreements were necessary for group travel, no actual leader. Maybe it was because it was vacation, maybe because grace traveled with us, but I discovered more than amazing new vistas. I learned what patience looks like.

At the pretrip meeting when I was told how to pack, that I really needed lip balm with sunscreen, I was also told that my vote counted just as much as the other three travelers. If I wanted/needed to stop I merely had to say so. If I wanted a picture, needed to eat or use the bathroom, was just ready to stretch my legs, all ok.  I heard this but was so overcome with gratitude to be included that I didn’t want to be a burden thus determined not to ask for stops unless absolutely necessary. I think though the whole 2 weeks I only tapped my brother’s shoulder 3 times, my bladder screaming once and my pelvis another. The third time was when he asked if I was okay and I was frozen in my tank top, the temperature drop and pelting rain creating misery that I would have pushed through had he not inquired. Stop we did though, each time, and I rushed through my fixes only to find everyone else gladly taking a break. Coffee was ordered, bandanas re-wetted, tanks filled up again. Phones were checked, calls made to family back home. No one showed the slightest sign of frustration that I was slowing our progress.

We stopped for the others as well, like the time my brother forgot to pay for his gas. The pump didn’t take his credit card so he went inside to give the cashier his card, she chose not to hold it, turned on the pump for him, said, ” I trust you.” As was habit, he filled up, logged it all in his journal, we readjusted helmets and drinks and rode off.  About 15 miles down the road he realized what had happened, pulled over, explained to our companions the situation. We all returned to the station to find the cashier and manager rewinding security cameras, trying to find the biker who rode off without paying.  “You came back,” she screamed when she turned around at the sound of the bell tinkling as we entered. He apologized profusely, gave his card again. Outside, helmets were donned, drinks readjusted, then the cashier came running out.  She hugged him, said no one ever comes back. We all rode away, knowing we were behind schedule but ahead in creating memories.

We stopped because we needed more sunscreen and my bandana had flown away. My trick of eating M&M’s as we rode not so successful. The little bag I carried in my borrowed Harley pouch had long melted. I peeled the paper open and scrapped the contents along my teeth, under my helmet. I was thrilled no one could see me, certain I appeared crazy desperate and chocolate covered. Remembering the still slightly damp bandana around my neck, I carefully removed that as we flew at 60 plus miles and snuck it under my face shield, cleaned myself up. But what to do with the messy bag? I wrapped it up in the bandana and tucked it under my leg until I could clean it all up at our next stop.  Content with my ingenuity and a belly full of sugar, I went back to watching the scenery.  Back to wiggling and rearranging myself, legs up on the pegs, leaning back, forward, to the side.  Away went my forgotten treasure, my mess, my cooling towel. So we stopped at a Walgreens after our lunch, another delay. There we met Rene.

My brother went in and was greeted by this gorgeous African-American women with long braids and a huge smile. She asked if she could help and then did. He got the sunscreen, new bandana and more M&M’s for me. I waited outside in the shade, stretching my legs just a bit more. Out they both come, excited voices as she exalted over his bike. Apparently she had remarked on his attire, asked about his journey. He invited her to see the bike and she jumped at the chance.  The rest was pure magic, pure joy. He told her to jump on, to grab her phone for a picture. Her shock was quickly overcome, she got on, pictures were taken. Then she hugged him, a real hug.  One of those really tight man you are the best kind of hugs. She told me to take care of him, that he got me a surprise. Then I got a hug as well. The same kind.  Rene knows how to hug. I’m really sorry for littering but wouldn’t have wanted to miss out on that stop for anything.

I could go on forever about the people we met at our stops, those are amazing stories to me. But something I have realized is that I am a bad traveler usually. I rush my Chef. I keep a timetable, I am always ready for the next thing. How many Rene’s have I missed?  Every Sunday I holler up the stairs, “are you ready yet?’  knowing he isn’t but giving the signal it is time to go. Maybe it is easier on vacation, maybe it is easier when there are no children anxiously waiting.  My look is composed of a shower, clean mostly matching clothes and some eyeliner. My Chef takes much more time with his appearance, things match, his hair has product, he smells good. Shoes match shorts, shirts are ironed. He just takes longer. So I rush him. I have felt quite righteous in this rushing, until two weeks of travel when I never got rushed. Even when everyone else was ready and my Plum needed to FaceTime. Even when I decided at the last-minute I really did want/didn’t want my hoodie.

Rushing through to the next thing, hollering about time to leave, washing the dishes while some are still eating, never staying until the end, that’s my thing. I’ve always attributed it to my hyperness but honesty now requires a deeper truth. I avoid people. I am not so comfortable in my skin that I stick around long. That whole being in the moment thing, again. Moments can last longer than I like. The example of my traveling companions was so powerful, so telling. Those moments are where the magic happens. Those moments are where you get the hugs. Those moments lead to M&M’s. I am trying to slow down, to offer that grace now that I am back home. I am trying to remember that our end city is set, our reservations for the night made. We get to have an adventure each day if we chose.

My Brother is Grace

On By LisaIn Faith, The Chef, TravelLeave a comment

In high school my little brother saved his money to take us on a skiing trip for my birthday. He and I drove to Michigan, skied for the day and then came out to find we had car trouble and had to stay the night. Our trip was extended, we were elated. Dinner at Denny’s by the hotel, a great night’s sleep and then we hit the road. That was almost 35 years ago. We traveled together several years ago to Florida, just he and I to attend a family funeral. Until this trip though, we haven’t spent so much time together since I left for college. Our original family of five has shrunk to just us, my baby brother who truth be told was always my favorite anyway. During this extended time I got to see the man he has become, not just in snippets over dinners or phone calls. The sweet boy who hollered from his bedroom  every night, “Goodnight, sis, I love you” is now a sweet 50 year old who I wish everyone could know.

He towers over me but never blocks my view. He leads without controlling where I go. He opens doors never assuming I can’t do so myself. He is generous with his heart, his manners, his time and his funds. He talks to strangers, calls them friends. He thanked every worker we saw, the guy cleaning the rooms, the woman working the late night desk. He finds value in everyone he meets then makes them aware of his discovery. It feels good to be around him. He is grace.

He sent me a text a few months ago asking if I would ride on the back of a motorcycle through Colorado if it was free. I said I would definitely ride and would start saving up. The planning began. Texts exchanged about what to wear, special events, maps of the route increased in frequency as the departure date neared. Then he had a routine surgery that wasn’t routine and we lost our income. The trip wasn’t so sure. I wondered at the wisdom of leaving my husband for two weeks at such a delicate time, at spending money we didn’t have. Yet the timing just felt right, necessary. I trusted that God had something to show me, that He had work for my Chef at home. We agreed to go on with the trip. I wasn’t sure if it was a leap of faith or just a selfish act but I felt so pulled to go, a compelling so strong to do this unknown thing with my little brother, I couldn’t stay home.

The night before I left, Chef and I had a big argument about nothing and everything, his anger erupting at me, blindsiding me. I knew it was fear, anxiety at my leaving so I took it for a bit and then decided I wanted no more. I left with a heart full of aching prayers for God to restore to me the Chef I married. I begged for God to help him find his way outside of me, for the rains to dissolve his anger while I was gone. I pleaded with every mile I traveled away from him that God might bring us closer, knowing that could only happen when my Chef found his brothers, those who set examples of grace and humility, who led without controlling, who listened without agenda, who didn’t block his sun.  We couldn’t help each other but God could help us both apart, separately. He listened to my prayers.

Many miles into the trip my hurt and frustration dissolved, clarity returned. I saw the big scenes before me, the smallest details. I saw God in every blink and found the words to show compassion to my Chef, to support his journey also. I found that my trip took days to get where we were going, there was no rushing even through the rain and the cold. We had to endure to hit our destination. I realized I couldn’t rush my Chef either. All around us, we each found grace. My Chef went to lunch, went golfing, made plans for a men’s retreat. He rediscovered the more outside of work I knew waited for him. I watched my brother and his friend Mark practice patience when I needed an unscheduled stop or a waitress took too long to bring our waters. These two men just didn’t get angry. Not once. Not when I broke the cable that connected the trunk lid, not when cars cut us off, not when we had to stop to put on rain suits, again. We each were being loved, healed.

The last night in a hotel, my brother and I stayed up too late talking, remembering our mother together, sharing stories. I learned more about him, perspectives I thought were true maybe not so much.  He told me about myself. He said I am the strongest person he knows. His words still rumble through my mind like the roar of the bike. I trust him but am trying to make sense of that. What I am sure of is that my baby brother is a man of God, a man who rides a Harley and sheds grace on all who are lucky enough to meet him. He gives God the glory for everything, he brings glory to God with his character. I trusted him to drive me to Colorado, a two week trip of letting go and shuffling pieces. God brought us safely home, back to my Chef and my Plum, tired and radiating light and hope. I now have grace to share with my Chef, my soul is restored.

My brother took me on a trip again. A gift greater than two teenagers traveling alone, freedom feeling like the rush of the wind as we flew down the slopes. This trip was to the mountains and the canyons, as 50somethings, who found freedom was trusting our lives to our Creator. My baby brother showed me God again, who looks an awful lot like the guy  driving our bike. Someday I hope to bless him as much.

 

Ready to Go

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The ChefLeave a comment

Sitting on my brother and sister-in-law’s deck, looking at the moon, the heavens for one last morning before we depart for our adventure, I am filled with anticipation. I wonder what the heavens will show me in each state we visit. I am prepared to be amazed at God’s majesty. I need some majesty about now.

I haven’t been blind to the small wonders around me. Life with a 5 year old who shares my love of nature ensures I get hourly doses of God’s creations. “Gran, You are going to delight in this,” is a common phase to pull me from the dishes to see an interesting spider or a newly discovered flower. We take our nature seriously, we inspect our bugs, we hold them,  learn the names of all that we find. We don’t kill things. My Plum looks daily at the plants growing in our little kitchen garden, ones he put in as seeds and knows God really did the work. I see the small miracles everywhere, I still have the eyes of a child to remind me. Yet life as an adult means I have weights and worries that sometimes cloud those eyes. I need some majesty.

I am leaving in just a couple of hours on the back of my brother’s Harley for a two-week trip to Colorado. This leap of faith looks a bit more like chaps and a helmet, sitting for hours, trusting, so much trusting. While my body must stay put, my mind can wander, wonder, absorb. I have much time for thinking, a rarity. I need this time alone to hear my God whisper and roar and show me big stuff. The empty places, carved out with hurt and disappointment, simmering anger and tension, have been cleaned, cauterized, the bleeding has stopped. I am aching now for a new thing. To be filled again with wonder, to feel so close to God nothing can separate us. I need to get to the mountains, to see the stars and the heavens, giving all of me to the One who is waiting.

I know I can find Him here, I am beyond blessed to find Him here. He is present in friends who reach out, in food delivered, walks taken with Janet. I know I carry Him with me because He carries me. Still, this trip is about more than a crazy adventure at age 52. In the going, I am also leaving behind my Chef. This is his time alone, time to find and reflect, to shout out his agony when no one can hear. Time for him to search his soul, find himself amidst the rubble. He is strong but has forgotten that. He is a child of God but is unsure what that means for him. He is worthy but hasn’t absorbed that fully. I will be praying fervently that his time alone sheds light on God’s grace, brings him into a deeper closer relationship as well. He will be responsible for the 5 year old while I am gone. He will have the choice to seek God in the small miracles around Him and delight in those. Sometimes a spider is just a spider, we have a choice. He needs the eyes of a child to begin filling up with the small joys around him while I am ready for majesty.

Please pray for our safety but more importantly, pray that our hearts are open to what God brings to us during this adventure. Flowers or mountains, God will be seen if we choose to look. The road may get rough but surely the view is worth it.

Finding a New Way

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

One of the bridges that connect our two communities was deemed unsafe. I have traveled that bridge for over 30 years, crossing from our side of town to the bigger city section for real shopping, dining, employment and most importantly, usually to collect my Plum. Our side holds the university and ethnic dining, a true bedroom community, relying on the larger city for most of our needs.  Of course the university is one of the major employers in the area so just as many on the other side travel the bridges to come this way. Three bridges unite us, hold us without complaint, as we travel back and forth carrying groceries, families, pets to the vet. Until one was no longer safe.

Our state department of transportation took over the task of fixing this bridge. We learned it had already been fixed before but was sinking into the river, the supports weren’t holding. The bridge was closed, work began. Watching this effort from afar, the slow progress fascinating if not a bit unnerving. I remember stories of bridges that have collapsed, terrible events where lives were lost just in the traveling of a road always trusted. I had always counted on this bridge, the one they were dismantling. The one now left with pieces of concrete, no barriers.  Without thought I drove those I love most daily onto this span, trusting we would never fall, believing that someone who knows more than me would surely keep us safe. I am guessing the good people in Minneapolis believed the same until that horrible day in 2007 when 13 were killed, another 145 injured when their trust collapsed. Work began, our bridge was taken apart, piece by piece. Finally there was little left to do but explode what was left, completely destroy any remnants. We saw footage of this history-making event, I was sickened by the loss even as I knew it was necessary. Clouds of dust filled the air, particles of our past. Clearing out the old was complete, the true rebuilding could begin.

For months traffic has been a nightmare, groaning and anger fill conversations and letters to the editor. Appointments are missed, being late is almost expected. I wonder once the bridge is reopened, how long before it is taken for granted again. How short will our memories of this season of suffering, of inconvenience be? Have we stopped to pray for the men and women creating our new roadway, our new path? Our impatience to get where we want clouds our memories of all who have helped pave our way.

The thing about not using this bridge though is that I have discovered some new routes. I drive alternate roads, trickier less direct streets only to find areas of town I had forgotten existed or never seen. Beautiful neighborhoods, a donut shop, street art. I am seeing the other side of town, forced into a new perspective. Shaken out of my routine, exploring my city with fresh, attentive eyes.

We have had some bridges explode in our life these last couple of years. Bridges that we kept patching and adding supports but really were deemed unsafe. We cannot continue to travel over the same roads, ignoring the realities of addiction, of emotional abuse, of the conflict between faith and work.  We have grown weary with the blasting of our bridges. Even though we knew the dangers, these were our bridges, we kept taking the risks. Explode they have, though, dust clouds of our lives covering us, choking us, until it settles at our feet. Some days we sit in the ashes like Job, as Pastor Chris reminded us, other days I get out the hose and wash it all away. I am most impatient often for the rebuilding, I seek out alternative routes that lead me not to my expected destination but somewhere new. During our rebuilding we are blessed to be discovering some new routes, new communities of friends who are supporting us as surely as the trusses going up across the river. The phone calls, emails, texts build us up each day as we construct our new lives. We stop often and pray for those who are building these bridges for us, bridges that may lead us to different places, with new perspectives. Once a new donut shop is discovered, it really cannot be dismissed just because a faster route is completed, our deepened faith cannot be shrugged off once all the pieces are realigned. We are changed, we understand the risks, the dangers of relying on just one path. We recognize it is foolish to forget the bridge isn’t really what holds us up, ever.

One incredible blessing when we received our great shock two weeks ago (has it been three now?) has been the texts and phone calls from our son. This young man, filled with anger and alcohol, who left our home to establish his own, setting fire to all behind him. The thing about love between mothers and sons is, at least my Arrow and I, when life hits us hard, we come back together. He was horrified at the news, his indignation at the unjustness once again joined with ours rather than against us. Over these weeks he has reached out, shown concern, offered assistance. I volunteered his totes full of household goods, he accepted. We are constructing our bridge, maybe a suspension one, but we are both willing to cross it with hearts ready for gentle steps toward a new relationship. It will never be the old one, that is good. It wasn’t safe for any of us to travel.

I keep waiting for the same reaching out from my daughter, the silence all the more painful in this time of family crisis. I have extended every invitation I know to make that connection again, I can’t find a way to her. My impatience to reach her must sound to the heavens like all the commuters groans during rush hour, for all these months of reconstruction. I have been groaning for too long now. God is in charge of this bridge, like all of them. I am not meant to cross just yet, it is still unsafe.  I imagine He thinks much work remains on my side, even after the explosion. Surely the work on her side is great as well. In the meantime, I mourn the loss of that easy route but celebrate our discoveries.  We are blessed, we found a new donut shop, we have friends to help us cross the waters. We will travel safely, slowly, securely again one day. Today we have some rebuilding to do.

We Made Room For God

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The ChefLeave a comment

I hate clutter. I abhor piles of papers, countertops with anything more than the necessities. I get anxious when beds are unmade, when dishes sit too long in the sink. I control my world by keeping stuff where it goes. I can frequently be heard telling the family, “Trash goes in the trashcan.” I follow the rule of least times touching something, thus it is easier to put it away rather than create another pile. Some in this household may whisper that I can be a little hard to live with, like when I have thrown away wallets and plane tickets, picked up a glass someone was still drinking from. I get that I go overboard some days, days when my world is feeling unsettled and I need to be in charge. At one point when I was particularly stressed, all of my closets were cleaned and the attic held totes with a color coded system. While my inner demons battled, I maintained completed control over my territory.

My Chef has a different system. He drinks from a cup, sets it down, wanders away, the cup is lost to him for days. He is never really finished with the newspaper. Tools and gloves and buckets, parts of projects sit where they were last used, ready for the next time he gets a chance to begin again. It may be months, it may be never. He hasn’t seen the top of his dresser for 15 years. Clearly his system drives me insane.

Thus we began to clean the garage. The dumping ground of all the items that I don’t want in the house. The place where totes for kids go, kids who were moving out and needed dishes and silverware but then left without the positive transition, left without the totes. The garage holds all the items for Goodwill, bags of clothing and outgrown toys. Lamps that don’t work or no long fit the decor, chairs and bar stools that are broken or just ugly. Cords, so many cords, for electronics we surely no longer own. Planters, jugs of weed killer, gallons of paint all found their way onto the garage floor in the haphazard system that worked for no-one, the garage we all avoided except to open the door and add more discarded but not yet trash remnants of our lives. Until yesterday.

We faced the monster, we worked through our different systems. I determined everything was trash, my Chef found actual storage spots for the things he couldn’t part with. In the process though, we took a walk through our shared history. We found old pieces of tile from flooring makeovers, we found mugs from trips long ago. “Where was this door originally?” “Does Plum still fit into this chair?”  Old shirts commemorating high school sports and college associations reminded my Chef of better days. There were treasures to be found in that garage, we just had to dig deeply enough.

As the sun began to sink, our pile of trash grew, out trunks were full for the trip to Goodwill. Our garage was cleaner, organized, emptied of most of the unnecessary. My Chef  was tired, the good kind of tired that comes from work and tough decisions. With each item he placed in the trash bag, he let go of some weight. The burden of stuff, the yoke of clutter destroys his sense of control as well but the voices from childhood telling him to always keep the box, to save the papers get in the way. He is also used to having a staff clean up behind him, he is accustomed to being the leader, the boss, who directs others, not the guy who cleans up at the end.  It has been a really long time since he was that guy. Skills not used get rusty, like the broken hammer head we discovered in a puddle of water. Yesterday he got to be that guy, cleaning up his mess, getting honest about what to keep, what to discard. Maybe it wasn’t just about the garage. Throwing away pieces of the past is a leap of faith, making room for a tomorrow you can’t see yet. Empty boxes hold old promises, the stale air of what once was. Holding on so tightly to broken cords chains us to a place of fear, a state of worry. Letting go of all the stuff was letting God be in control, trusting God with our tomorrows. We made room, we cleaned up our mess, we got ready for our next phase.

We took our trip to Goodwill, came home and made a fire of the old doors and unneeded boxes. We drink wine and beer, celebrated our success and looked to the future. I expect an Olympic medal for our efforts, some sort of trophy or letter from the President.  Our garage can actually hold two cars. More importantly, my Chef is holding his head a little higher. A huge task completed, a job well done. When you have a broken heart, sometimes you just need a disastrous garage to help with the healing.  It was a good day.  If he starts to sink, no worries, I still have the attic. God surely wants some room there as well.