Category: The Chef

stories of my amazing husband, my favorite teacher ever

Break’s Over

On By LisaIn Faith, The ChefLeave a comment

We took a break from the news, from our reality and from talking about hurts yesterday.  My Chef sat in his chair, I laid on the couch for most of the day, rising only for trips to kitchen for food, the back yard to throw the ball a few times for a restless Lab who didn’t quite buy into our lounging day. I need those kinds of days more often in the heat, my neurological issues flare as the temperature rises. Usually I resist by finding chores that need my attention until I begin to drop things more, trip as my left foot drags and I am forced to slow down. I am not a slow down person. I find sitting for more than a few minutes to be a punishment. My Chef though found himself sucked into the chair, a habit from working hard and little time off, watching tv to be one of comfort. Except he has much time off now. The chair was too comfortable. We sat and laid all day. We escaped the world for the day and binged our way into the Bartlett administration, longing for leaders with vision, surrounded by advisors with integrity. We were immobilized while we stared at youthful passion in action. It didn’t inspire us to get going. We knew the world outside of our living room was too different from the one Josh and Toby and Sam were bringing about. We knew Bartlett wouldn’t be on any ballot we could cast. We hit “play next” and wished we were friends with Donna, we mourned the death of Mrs. Landingham again. We didn’t talk about President Bartlett’s MS. For one day we took a break.

We went to bed with unexpended energy, caught in the between worlds after the last glow of the tv fades. Frustration bubbled up at a wasted day, reality returned with force as two pups recognized the cooler night air to be play time. I am more used to those days, frustrating days of little accomplishment when my body calls a halt to activity. I accept more readily that I can stop one day, knowing the next will be better. My passion will match my ability, I will hit my chore list again. My Chef is not there right now, the chair is too comfortable, too inviting. He watches these actors and longs to be back in the game. He isn’t good at being still either. The never-ending work days portrayed by the staffers are his norms, the constant calls, checking emails, looking at numbers. Now he is stuck in the chair, watching others do it. I watch him grieve, turn back to the tv, hit next. We go to bed with nothing in our world resolved neatly in an episode. The good guy doesn’t win in our world, not yet.  Then I realize we are watching seasons. Not just a snippet, not just popping in to see a snapshot from each year of the Bartlett presidency. Seasons.

This is a season for us, for my Chef. We are in different seasons, he and I. I see the possibilities, I feel hope. He is caught in despair, each call from a regular guest resurrecting the loss of relationships, identity, purpose that he is trying to ignore.  This is a hard winter season for my Chef but I know a secret. He will get out of that chair, he will find new passion and purpose. He will get emails and look at numbers again, but with a choice this time. During this hard time, he gets to wrestle with God, he gets to shout out his anger, he gets to find himself and his faith at the very center of his soul. As firmly as we were planted in our respective seats yesterday, we are also planted in the heart of our Father. A Father who is pursuing my Chef tirelessly. Our lab will chase the ball in the extreme heat, tongue swollen, relentlessly.  He just keeps bringing it back, ready for another pitch. His focus and instinct on the task render him incapable of stopping until we hide the ball, all the balls and make him cool down inside. My God is chasing my Chef like that, only there is no way to make him stop. He wants my Chef to work for His kingdom, to rely on His arms and not those of a comfy chair. There is a beauty in the suffering, watching my husband grow into this. He will be chief of staff again one day, he will be Leo, in a different season. I know him, I know my God.

We took a break yesterday.  I didn’t push him out of the chair, I didn’t push me beyond the best for my condition. The sun rose though today, fulfilling the promise. Today I will put away the remotes and we will clean out the garage.  The West Wing will manage without us.

Grandma’s Time Out

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The ChefLeave a comment

When my Plum gets mad at his best friends, the dogs who follow his every step, he strikes out.  They get under foot, they trip him, nibble at his toes or ears, most times he giggles. Sometimes though if they have interrupted his progress, halted his mission, his anger takes over and the fists come out. No matter how many times his little butt has landed in the chair for some quiet reflection, this behavior continues. If I am close by, I step in the middle and he begins laughing as he tries to charge the mutts and I block, a new game begun. His anger evaporates as quickly as it came, my sweet boy back. Try as I might though, I can’t seem to quell that urge of his to do damage in the moment. This peace loving hippie grandma battles with the influence of testosterone, video games, and exuberant pups. After the anger comes the reconciliation, the best part where he kisses his boys, apologizes, invites them to play. The dogs are oblivious to the whole affair, their rough play with each other eliciting more wounds than he could ever. They enjoy his cuddles and make up time, ready for the next round of romping. The lesson is important still, one day he will be big enough to hurt someone in his path, he could do real damage if he strikes out at one who has blocked his way.

We talk about accountability. We wonder if the dogs did it on purpose or was it an accident.  We question what his role in the bang up could have been.  Was he trying to rush past? Had he been playing rough and then changed his mind, how were they to know he was done? He works through his part, his choices for next time. There is always a next time with three rowdy boys. I pray the repetition will take, that my sweet boy will learn to control his impulses and grow in personal accountability.  He is only 5. We have time. But if I am to be fully honest, the last 24 hours have brought my own battle with anger and the yearning to strike out. I have never been one for violence, I experience anger as depression generally, turned inward for my own suffering. Yet discovering the source of betrayal for my Chef has incensed me.  A fire is burning, my fists are clenched. I am ready to punch.

Watching my Chef hurt, seeing the pain, brings out my protectiveness, that mothering need I have.  I always go for the underdog. I believe in justice, still, even after too many times of being treated unfairly. This situation is absolutely wrong, I want to fight back, an eye for an eye. Forward progress has halted. Or has it?  I can’t deny the beauty of friends calling, supporting, reminding him of his worth. He is finding out that he has value not because of what he gave but who he is. What a gift! He could have missed that, never known that. Dark times are ahead yet those are the exact ones that bring us to the light.  The hours he is spending with his Plum, the giggles, the play, these are presents. While we may have been robbed of much, what remains is joy, hope, real community, time for self-discovery.

I have to unclench my fists. I remind myself several times a day, sometimes putting my larger butt in the chair for quiet reflection, that I don’t need to teach everyone about accountability. I don’t need to fight battles that God will oversee. I could do some real damage, create pain that no amount of cuddles would ease. That is not me. Praise God that my better angels are shouting in my ears, reminding me of the glory raining down on us, the true path laid out before us. I am not looking back, at least for the next five minutes. The temptation rises but I am not 5 years old. I have already learned this lesson. I don’t need to protect my Chef. He isn’t the underdog. He is a child of God, one created with purpose.

Today I’ll don some tie-dye, sing Kumbaya, use my fire for s’mores. Today I will remember that anger can hurt when we lash out at others. Today is a fresh chance for me to remember the lessons I teach and praise God for his tireless pursuit of a grandma who sometimes forgets she isn’t in charge everyone.

Donuts and Grace

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The ChefLeave a comment

It all started when I cupped my hand around my Lego creation, denying my Plum access to the choice block he decided he needed. We had been building for at least 45 minutes, competing to see who could create the best flying machine.  Word to the wise, Plum always wins because he poaches the best pieces from his competitors.  As an only child he gets away with this most of the time, especially with his grandma.  Sometimes I push back a little, make him tackle me a bit.  The ensuing tickle fest is just part of the routine. This time though something was different.  When I didn’t let him have access to the wing piece or the special gem, maybe the little piece of dynamite, I really can’t remember, he curled up in a ball and told me he hated me.  Twice.  I’m sure this must have happened with my own two, but not the words I wanted to hear from my grandson. Not after a really hard week. Not before coffee.

I pulled back a bit, told him that is a really big word that we don’t use in our home, that it hurts people. “Fine, I’m sorry.” But he wasn’t, not yet.  I left him to grandpa, went to get some air, distance, and the healer of all things, donuts, at the store close by. I was gone only five minutes, maybe ten. When I returned, thoughts cleared and feelings in check, perspective in place, I found a crumpled little boy destroyed by the idea that he had hurt me. We talked about love instead of hate. We remembered that nothing he could ever do would stop my love, that my love goes with him everywhere. He knew that. We talked about anger, words coming out of our mouth that we don’t mean, our responsibility to fix it. We talked about forgiveness. We hugged much, he cried on my lap. He offered me all of his Lego pieces. We chose to eat donuts instead.

Later as we entered his room, he told me, “This is where I said it.” The scar, the memories were fresh for him. I told him I had already thrown it all away, I didn’t know what he was talking about. The relief on his face as he realized we could do this, I would do this for him,  was surely worth any pain I had felt initially. He decided to throw it away too.  Once later in the day the memories must have snuck up on him as he told me he was still throwing it away, didn’t even remember anymore. I told him I didn’t either.

What if we all gave each other such grace? What if there was so much love and trust, knowing anger was rooted in hunger, tiredness, fear, that we could see beyond hurtful words to the child within? What if we agreed to a fresh start and just ate donuts together? Forgiveness is like that, throwing away what has come before, choosing not to remember the pain, focusing on the joys. This is a tough political season, many angry words are hurled, hate is spewed like it is a patriotic duty. Divisions are created between groups deciding whose lives matter. Violence is erupting with ever frequency throughout the world, close to home. Somehow those messages seeped into the language of a sweet five year old whose empathic nature knows no limits. Maybe it is just age appropriate. Maybe it is just the ugliness of the world around.  But in this home, we will practice grace, one incident at a time. We will forgive and forget, we will hug and eat donuts and share Lego.  Maybe that is enough to change the world, one child at a time. I will start with my Plum, anew each day, and keep the donuts handy.

Shedding the Brand

On By LisaIn Faith, The ChefLeave a comment

When you work somewhere for almost 19 years, you collect a lot of branded items.  Our organization was big on branding. Shirts, sweatshirts, coolers, hats, blankets even. Our home is filled with shirts, logo upper left, right over the heart. Tee shirts with logo and names of places we have been fill our closets. Even a license plate adorned my car, “I love my job” or some such thing. It is gone now, My Chef removed that day one.  I emptied my closet day two, his day three. I stashed it all in the spare room, still unable to completely part with it, unable to accept the “marriage” had dissolved. I keep finding more items, plaques of awards won, pens, posters, pictures. 19 years is so long, too long to be branded, items have appeared in our home and we didn’t even see them anymore.

The initial shock, the pain and fear, have lessened with each new day as activity and planning take over. Grieving is real, mornings are hard. Still finding the something, someone beneath the trademark is becoming the joy in each day. Discovering, like my Plum with a new rock held gently in his palm lifted for all to see and admire, the new us, the real us. I can’t help but think of other branded people: gang members, Holocaust survivors, slaves, prisoners. Theirs were not so easily shed, the horror of their brand denoting an experience we cannot claim. Yet our branding kept us from a full faith life, required an allegiance to a different god. Money, power, prestige were rewards, for sure, yet the struggle was ongoing, how to fit our God into the values of the organization. My Chef lived it out as best he could, he gave and gave, he counseled, he supported. As time progressed, as his faith deepened, the gulf widened though between his work n the smaller group and his faith. Lack of integrity ate at him, partnership suffered. The branding began to feel weighty, too heavy, an unconscious tug that his beliefs were not in line with the shirt he put on each day.

A full week has passed since the brand has been lifted. Our future is uncertain but there is so much more room for God now. Trusting the One who was branded, broken, mocked, pierced for His faith, the One who hung on the cross still believing in His Father, naked but for a loin cloth, judged by those who didn’t understand. We are leaning on this truth: our real brand was established long ago, our true allegiance already established. The sun is going to rise, so will we. There will be darkness as well, this I know. Still, nothing is covering my heart, blocking the path to my God. His claim to us is pure, we are His, first last, always. This is a brand I will always wear.

A Song of Faith

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The ChefLeave a comment

My Plum attended Vacation Bible School for the first time this past week, finally old enough for the age requirement. He rejoiced each day in the activities, the singing, the discoveries. He made new friends, connected with adults in our congregation and grew even more comfortable in the space. On the last evening, all the children performed the songs for families, up on the stage, a most beautiful sight. 100 kids singing dancing making joyful noise to Jesus. My Plum was front and center and giving it all he had. For the first song.  The second song got a little less, the third saw his face close to crumpling into tears.  I approached a leader, asked them to maybe pull him back a bit, they did, he asked to come to my lap. His joyful noise was done.

We thought he was tired. We thought the long week of late nights had caught up with him. Later he told his mama that someone in the audience was looking at him weirdly, made him think they were laughing at him.  He lost his nerve. He forgot he was singing for Jesus and became self-conscious, remembered just that he was singing. He sought out the security of grandma’s lap, a place where he always knows exactly who he is.

On Sunday all the children gave a repeat performance and Plum said, “For the seventeenth time, no, I am not going up there.” Instead, he wanted to go up to the front, on the floor, again on my lap, to watch his friends. He wanted to be as close as he could without risking actually touching the stage, supporting his friends without giving up his security. We sat on the floor, his purple blankie on his lap, and rocked to the music. It was enough.

I am convinced that whoever was looking at him that evening, whoever he locked eyes with, meant no harm.  I feel sure there was no judgment. How could there be at this amazing child glorifying God? Yet his feelings, his perception say otherwise and were enough to shut him down. As we struggle through some hard times ahead and I look back at other challenging times, I empathize with his feelings of being judged. Feeling vulnerable, exposed, convinced strangers are thinking the worst. How many times was I wrong, how many times did I unnecessarily retreat? I didn’t trust God enough to stand up, sing my song. Finally, I have and it has changed my world. I found my voice and sing a new song each day, no longer repeating old verses, afraid of the light landing on me.

We are facing a crisis, a shifting foundation, a forced look at identity. My Chef feels truly  exposed, vulnerable. Yet we have responsibilities to our church family, tasks and committees that require our presence. God is so smart, to be sure we have to get back up on the stage still. This one though comes with that supportive lap, those loving arms that provide the security we desperately seek to keep singing.  Our voices mingle with friends who will carry ours as it gets weak, when we lose the words, forget the moves. We are so blessed to know we are covered in grace, we are loved, we are included and valued for who we are and not just what we do.  Even if we chose to sit out a song or two, I feel confident we will be sitting with friends. That is just who this church is. Plum will grow to know that in his years ahead of Vacation Bible School. He still sings the songs for us, the message is the same. He knows he wants to follow Jesus.  He knows Jesus gives him power, light in the darkness, hope, courage. I am content to have him on my lap, singing to me songs of faith. He tells me Jesus gives us direction. He is a very smart little 5 year old and I am choosing to believe him. We will not retreat this time, we will keep singing.

Blessed, Still

On By LisaIn Faith, The ChefLeave a comment

Our church held vacation bible school this past week, a huge production five evenings that included a meal beforehand for all families with children attending and the volunteers. Somehow I found myself on the committee to plan and prepare the food. This prompt came from Janet, I believe, can’t be certain. I was also her assistant, the first she has had in 10 years, in the supplies department. It all sounded rather fishy to me but I agreed with reservations. The scars of a long ago VBS were flaring, pulsing.

Many years ago, at a different church, I was asked to help direct the VBS. I agreed, found volunteers to run everything, kept my involvement completely administrative. The excitement and joy built as we headed to the beginning, only for my phone to ring early one morning, the pastor on the line, saying VBS had been cancelled for the year. Someone had complained the I, with my past, with my label, was involved.  The solution of the pastor, who knew my history, knew me, was to give in. Allow the other voices to win out, to say the reputation of the church was more important than continuing VBS as planned.  With no discussion, nothing. Done.  Humiliation, betrayal, abandonment by the very place one seeks acceptance.  The hurt pushed me away from the church, away away away.

As this new season of VBS was approaching, supplies purchased and organized, the meal planning underway, my thoughts kept straying to that other church. My heart grew heavy, knowing I couldn’t, absolutely couldn’t lose this church. I had to find a way out and every day I got pulled in deeper. The meals were simple but my partner didn’t seem to understand I wasn’t planning to be there for the execution.  Finally, the pressure was too much and I sought out the director of children’s ministries and the pastor. He was gone, she was there. I told her my plan to be gone by 5 each day, that I wasn’t trying to get by with anything, that I needed her to know I didn’t want to put the church in a bad position. She let me talk and then said, I already know. Our church is one of inclusion, of second chances. I know what your role is, I am comfortable with this.  But what if someone complains, I asked.  I can’t lose this.  I can’t lose this family.  Her assurance that she was able to support me as well as the church, that I was worthy of inclusion, healed my old hurts. She agreed to talk with the pastor to be sure he felt the same, to understand the risks. A later email told me he did.

During this week of VBS, our family suffered a major blow, a loss so unexpected that we still haven’t fully taken it in. We have much grieving ahead. Yet every night we had to show up, make food, eat amongst friends. We listened to children singing songs of faith, dancing up joy to God. Their sweet voices ministered with clarity, simple words that spoke messages we were meant to hear. “I have decided to follow Jesus.”  “He is the light that breaks through the darkness, follow Him, follow Him, Light it up”

Our church held VBS this week. A huge production that included me. Old wounds healed, new erupted.  Life happens and it hurts sometimes, to the core. I am so very blessed though to have it happening in my church, surrounded by believers who practice grace. They remind me there is a way out of the darkness, to keep coming back. There is room for us here. In the midst of shock and pain, God planted our feet firmly in the ground of his loving church. We are blessed, still.

Home with My Chef

On By LisaIn The ChefLeave a comment

My Chef goes back to work tomorrow, back to 12 hour days, to numbers, budgets, staff, to guests who are happy and those who aren’t. He will return with energy that will quickly be eaten, like the rolls fresh out of the oven no guest can refuse.  We get the left overs, packed up in the box with every intention of the next day’s enjoyment. Only our next day means he starts all over again. By the time he has a day off, exhaustion supersedes any projects planned. That time is needed to recharge for the upcoming days at work again.  This is the life of a restauranteur. This is the life of family of one.

I don’t begrudge the restaurant.  I used to see it as his mistress, taking him away from us, calls at all hours, never-ending needs. After 18 years, it is more of a family member, that parent with an inheritance who demands constant attention in exchange for payment for college, braces, a new car. Everything we have, we owe to this member of our family, every single thing. The balance of power is daunting. I don’t get to complain. Yet, after a week with my Chef home, all to myself, I so envy those with more normal schedules. What would it be like if he only worked 8 hours, what if he was home for dinner every night? What if weekends were Saturday and Sunday and not Tuesday and Thursday?  I know my fantasy is just that, probably not many really only work so few hours anymore. I have friends whose husbands work out of town all week, whose husbands have more traditional jobs and still carry great stress and laptops full of work home. Maybe I am longing for a time far gone, a middle class that died, where family trumped work. Where 8 hours five days a week was enough to sustain a family and save a little too, dinner on the table at 6. Yards were mowed on Saturdays, couples met to play cards. Who can meet with us on a Tuesday night?

My Chef returns to work tomorrow.  We didn’t go anywhere for his vacation and it was bliss. I enjoyed a full helping of his time and energy. I loved early morning coffee on the porch, slow conversations, walking around the house and finding him here. I will work hard as well to be grateful for all this needy family member provides, knowing others would change places with me in an instant. I will be grateful my Chef is willing, is able to work each day.  I will remember we are blessed beyond measure.  If I am totally honest, though, I will peek at the schedule to see when his next vacation is and begin my countdown. I love my Chef.

I Remember

On By LisaIn The ChefLeave a comment

This is what I remember: she accepted me from the beginning, treated me like her own daughter. She came down for every surgery, nursed me, nurtured me. I remember we went to the store one time and I couldn’t walk, she drove me around in one of those wheel chair carts. She laughed and laughed as she piled things on top of me.  She knew I needed out of the house. She knew I needed a mother.

This is what I remember: she baked and cooked with joy, she has a recipe for everything. Whatever I made, she wanted the recipe. She called to tell me what she ate at her most recent sorority meeting, wondering if I had ever made it, did I want the recipe. We shared a  love of cooking, something her other “daughters” avoided. I always took the recipe, always gave her mine.

This is what I remember: bustling, always moving, a constant rush of activity. She drove herself here, an hour and a half away, regularly. She attended more events in her community in a month that I do in a year. She knew everyone in town, gave me updates on friends I would never meet. At first it drove me a bit crazy but as time passed, I found myself asking after her friends as well. Praying for this one now in the hospital, excited that one is one a family trip.

This is what I remember: plenty of times she has driven me crazy, too nosy, bossy, demanding of her son’s time. At first we struggled with some boundaries, some letting go, both of us. Eventually we figured out how to share the man we both love. I remember staying at her home after her husband died, after everyone went to bed, she came crying, sobbing and climbed into bed with us. The ultimate act of vulnerability, unable to lay alone yet, finding warmth and love with us. The night before I married her son, her house overflowing with family and friends, every bedroom and couch spoken for, I slept with her.    She lost her husband, I was gaining one, another vulnerable time. Boundaries we both grew to accept, ones others might find a bit awkward.

My mind is overcome with memories because hers is not. She doesn’t remember that my son is out of jail, worries about him all the time. She doesn’t remember what she just ordered, doesn’t even know the conversation we had 5 minutes before. She makes phone calls and then repeats them again minutes later.  She doesn’t laugh very much, she is quiet and just watches. She bustles less, she went inactive in her service sorority. She doesn’t know how to clean her pool, the one she has had for 20 years. She doesn’t cook or bake, she let me bring everything for the party. She didn’t ask for any recipes. Not one.

We are losing her, bit by bit. She still remembers all of us, but for how long? Her sons have some very hard decisions to make in the coming months, a consensus between three brothers who rarely agree. Facing her rapid dementia in their own ways, at their own paces, when their father is already gone, is a luxury I am not sure we have. I prod, I nudge, I push my husband, the first born son, to lead. I want to care for her like she has for us so many times. My vote is a silent one though, so for now I will just keep remembering. I roll around in memories, holding tight to who she was, who she has been to me. I know one day soon she may need to sleep in my bed, scared and vulnerable. There is room for her, there is always room.

Happy Everyday

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The ChefLeave a comment

“Happy Anniversary” he said to me when he got up, coffee in hand, joining Plum and I on the porch. My reply got lost in the dog’s delighted greeting of their master, as though they hadn’t slept by his side all night. Plum had the keys to Chef’s new car, ready to explore and take a ride. Our day began, as usual, with our relationship, 16 years of marriage, 4 years together before that, struggling to find a moment alone.

A quick kiss, a hug, then I headed to the shower, to get ready for work, finishing payroll then off to a meeting at church. I made it home in time for my Chef to race out the door for his day at work.  Another quick kiss, a hug, amidst the dogs and boy who clamored for my attention this time.

While Chef was working, in between snacks, water and mud play, spilled milk in the refrigerator, swinging my Plum up to the moon on his new playset, building ultimate Lego blaster machines, washing dogs and the boy, I worked on my gift to Chef.  Several months ago, when we had a rough talk, he mentioned that there were no pictures of us anymore around the house. Pictures of our adventures, pictures celebrating our times together. Among all the other things I took away that day, this comment really hit me. When had I removed all those? Why? Certainly I had pictures of our Plum up, and I knew I had removed pictures of our Stella, finally just unable to see her smiling face daily and still look forward.  Somewhere along the way, I had stopped rejoicing in us, in our shared history, our relationship.  Those pictures are reminders of how far we have come, of better days, of who we are. My gift to Chef for our anniversary was fixing this, amidst the chaos of our home.

I had great plans originally, Pinterest lured me in, plastering one whole wall with photos.  It looks amazing on my boards, I have saved several images.  I contacted Janet just to check some execution issues, given my history with Pinterest. She said no. There were longer pauses, some evaluative questions, a bit of thoughtful wondering. Really she was saying, you are crazy, get rid of Pinterest, you know this will end in disaster. Her gentle prodding in another direction led to my new plan, one way better suited to my talents and household. I dream big, she keeps my feet a bit closer to the ground, yet helps me reach out. The reworked idea turned out awesome.

After much battling with iPhoto, a trip to the Mac helper guys, I was able to access old pics, so many memories. I sent pictures off to be printed, worried I wouldn’t have enough to fill the huge poster frames I had purchased. So many times together, stored away, forgotten.  I could have filled an entire wall. My Chef was so right. As I tried to pare down what to include, I relived those times, my joy meter rising amidst the third change of clothes, the muddy tracks through my kitchen.

I am usually asleep when Chef gets home, this night I willed myself to stay up, in spite of disrupted sleep the night before with Plum who needed milk and comforting and wanted to chat at midnight. I met him at the door, got my greeting in after the pups and then led him through the gallery of our happy days.  He drank in each picture, he laughed, he delighted.  It was good.

Our hard talk brought me to a new place, a trusting place of listening to my Chef, to what he needs.  On this day of our anniversary, we looked back together.  We lived out our crazy schedule together.  Fortunately we had a weekend away just a few days ago and another coming up.  This day, the actual day, didn’t need to have a special dinner out.  It was filled with our real life, in pictures and hurried kisses.  Thank you Chef for reminding me to look at where we have been, who we are together. Happy Everyday Together, here’s to so many more.

 

Communion in St. Paul

On By LisaIn Faith, The Chef2 Comments

My friend Janet whispers the Holy Spirit to me, sometimes she texts it, sometimes gets kind of pushy with her comments. She nudges me out of complacency. She speaks, though, from an honest place with grace, no judgment, allowing room for my soul to catch up, my ears to hear. I have trusted this relationship, trusted that God was leading me, us, to a new place. That journey began with coffee in her living room, gained incredible momentum as we led several members of our church in studying “Beginnings” by Steve Wiens, and has kept us searching as we discover what it means to be authentically creating with the gifts God has shared with us.  This pilgrimage, begun over a year ago, took Chef and I to St. Paul Minnesota for a two day trip to listen to Seth Haines, author of “Coming Clean” and Steve in an event called Sobriety and the Spirit.  I wanted to go to hear what Seth would have to offer to Chef and I, believers and parents of an addict.  I wanted to meet Steve in person after a digital friendship has taken root.  I wanted to experience worship at Genesis Covenant Church where podcasts each week leave me hungry for more.  Those were my plans, God plans were much bigger.

To say that Seth spoke with honesty is like saying the sky is blue, chocolate is delicious, puppies are cute.  True statements but without seeing the shades of color reflected in a stormy sky, without smelling the richness of a fine German piece of candy, without ruffling the ears of a 10 week old Golden Retriever, some of the depth is lost.  Seth was brutally honest with his story. It hurt to listen to, it hurt to know it isn’t unique.  He didn’t stop, though, in just telling.  He asked us to find our pain and to find the thing we do to keep that pain at bay, which separates us from God.  (Buy his book, it is good.)  So in the quiet moments he gave us, I listened for my own whispers but my head was still talking, my ears not tuned in to the Spirit.

Matt Moberg came up to the stage with his guitar and tore away whatever mask I had left.  His voice is still echoing around my heart. I was entranced, I was spellbound. God held me in His hands while Matt preached His words through song.  Find him on ITunes.  Whispers, flutters in my soul. The music ended and we were back to discussions, back to my head space time. I needn’t have worried,  God was preparing me.

The next day we entered the community center where this church plant is held, immediately embraced, welcomed, remembered as those people who came from afar.  Friends from the day before greeted us, we played with children, drank coffee. Then music began, music that is truly straight from the angels, music that is so pleasing to God, my heart broke open.  I watched as this young woman sang, her voice piercing my soul, her faith laid out, shared, broken for all to take.  The young man next to her lifted his voice, perfect harmony, perfect call to worship. In that darkened auditorium, I heard their call, my walls fell away, I met them in community, in communion, to seek Our God, to worship Him.

Seth spoke again, delivered the sermon, I wondered what we would gain from a second listen. The ways in which I don’t see God at work amaze me. I just didn’t see it coming.  When Seth again asked the community to close their eyes and identify the pain, before my eyes shut, my word came to me in a shout. It was bold, it was direct, it was not to be ignored.  My ears could hear the whispers of the Spirit and the Spirit, as excited as me, finally making that connection, shouted! It wasn’t the word I had imagined the day before, I am still wrestling with this word. But wow does it make sense. My ears have heard.

Maybe one day I will be so practiced at listening that the Spirit can whisper, maybe one day I will be without walls around my heart. On this day, on this journey, I am one step closer to my own up close, fully trusting relationship with my God. It takes a village, it takes a community to raise a believer.  It takes music written and sung by the pianist that feels like it is your own song.  It takes authentic believers, without masks, admitting we are just all in this together, loving the One who created us. It takes testimony of our sins met with “I know sister, me too” instead of judgement.  It is grace.  It is light.  We found this village in St. Paul, one step further on our journey.  Praise be to God.