Category: The Chef

stories of my amazing husband, my favorite teacher ever

Why I am Afraid to Say No

On By LisaIn Faith, Stella, The ChefLeave a comment

A friend told me the other day that I need to learn to say no. On the face of it, great advice for any of us but I resisted. My gentle reply that I am in a season of “yes” after a long one of “no” was understood. I have fully swung from a time of deep depression and inactivity to such busyness that I search for that free moment on the calendar to just rest,  seeing that it might be days or even weeks out. Yet as a woman who has struggled to be heard most of her life, his admonishment still echoes. When I agree to any request, do I give it full consideration or just jump in, eager to please? What are my motivations, what am I hoping for? Such simple words, yes and no, but carrying power and repercussions and implications.

Matthew 5:37 tells me: Let your yes be yes and your no be no. While the passage is speaking to integrity, not relying on an added oath to reinforce your word, I understand also that it is encouraging me to look at the decisions I make. If I say yes to anything and everything, I have abandoned discernment, no longer hearing the calls to do what GOD is asking but rather what EVERYONE is asking, exactly how we find ourselves on every committee, making cookies for every bake sale, driving all the carpools and then over  extended, snapping at the kids and our spouses, eating too much fast-food and searching for joy. What are we missing when we forget to say no, forget to pause and listen to the inner voice that says maybe not this request? I know the adage of asking the busiest person when you need something done, they are the one who will make it happen. Yet who are is being robbed of the chance to serve as well? I certainly know of the years I hung back in the shadows at our church, waiting for my chance. Longing to be asked, looking for a role in the ministries. The earth shifted, things changed, new ideas and avenues emerged, now I find my gifts are valued and sought. Suddenly, my season of “yes” is upon me.

Yet, the advice echoes and I wonder. Who is quietly waiting in the back row, feeling not quite good enough to volunteer, praying to be found worthy of an invitation to serve?  As a new leader my role is not merely to lead but to replace myself and move along, not hoard all the positions like new treasures that reflect my value. My first thought whenever a request comes in, “I am honored to be asked.” Excluded, walking in the desert for too many years as I wondered how God could use me and what purpose I really had, I now feel a glow, the redemption, the joy of worth that comes from external acknowledgment of my very existence. Who is suffering that same lonely wandering while I am too busy to notice, to caught up in meetings and meals and ministries? Who else listens as the pastor preaches week after week that we all have a purpose yet aches as no one sees them? My friend’s words opened my eyes, convicted my heart. It is time to begin recruiting others to join the work I am doing and see what else God has for me, a matter of trust between God and I.

Having wandered and wondered all those years, if I say no do I jeopardize my own visibility, my sense of worth?  What are the risks involved in truly allowing discernment to guide my decisions, to allow time for the whisper of God to lead me rather than  my need to have gifts and talents be recognized by others? More scripture comes to mind, one that often is so convicting I try to ignore it unless things are going beautifully in my world. Paul told us he learned to “be content in all circumstances.” (Phil 4:11) I am excellent at being content when all my chicks are around, when my Plum is playing happily in the back yard, when Chef is cooking on the grill on the back porch, when my identity as mother and nurturer of all is being validated. During this season of estrangement, and I am willfully trusting it is merely a season, am I seeking that validation elsewhere? My contentment coming from activities, a chase that may provide some balm but will never heal the hurt, rather than leaning into my relationship with God, the words of my friend carry truth. The truth is my soul is filled with discontent and  my calendar is full, no time for reflection penciled in.

Saying no might mean I have time to say yes to God, making space for some uncomfortable conversations and deeper prayer time that I have been avoiding. I love when God says YES to me, I don’t want to hear his NO. Skipping out on discernment time, filling my schedule with good works, all with an eye on the calendar as I await the big reveal of my hopes and dreams, I see now I have been bargaining with a God who doesn’t trade. None of my efforts will bring my daughter home, not letters or emails or Amazon packages, or yeses to good works. Listening, rather than merely talking might bring answers I don’t want, a fear that propels me into activity. I charge forward, a bustling, hurtling pursuit that steals blessings from others and separates me from God.

I may have been in a season of yes, but seasons change. As much as I try to block out my friend’s words, I suspect he may have been whispering a bit of holiness to me.  If only I had time to consider them, if only I were that brave. Still, I promise to notice those around who are waiting for an invitation. Whether I trust myself enough to listen to God, I can’t say yes to that yet.

Cleaning Out Soul Space

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, Stella, The Chef, Travel2 Comments

When I had nothing, my very survival depended on my relationship with Jesus. In prison, surrounded by strangers who neither cared about my brokenness or my sanity, separated from my babies in the most cruel of all punishments, I could only breathe and walk and put food into my body because I trusted God with my life and the lives of those I loved. It became simple, minimalistic, when all my possessions fit into a tiny foot locker and my material wealth consisted of Little Debbie snacks and Ramen noodles. Powerless in every aspect of my life, clothing, visits, schedules, I could only control whether to believe or not. I relied with the full force of my body and soul on Paul’s words to the Philippians,”I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” Phil 4:13. Not just those words, though, I read the bible completely over and over, I underlined and made notes, I consumed it. God’s Word saved me, when I could not save me. I promised myself I would not let go of that dependence when freedom came again, when the gates opened. Twenty-five years later, I realize I have broken my promise.

These days and weeks and now years of estrangement from my daughter have become a new prison, gates invisible, guards non-existent but a prison no less. I am locked away from her again, the excruciating pain of old resurrected as I watch the clock and long for a visit. The intervening years of memories accrued are meaningless as she evaluates my worth and determines my sentence, will I ever be granted release? Yet, more than adding a home and furnishing and clothing and trips to schools and a prom and even around the world, I have added material goods and a self-reliance that separate me from my promise, from my utter dependence on He who gives my breath, gives me life, gives me hope and the grace of forgiveness that is so absent with my daughter. How could I have added so much and left what was crucial behind?

I sat on the steps in the jail pod after realizing I would have no visits with my children until transferred to the larger prison, a promise from my lawyer, the reality of my situation fully settling on my soul. I wanted to die, I begged to die, I would have died had the means been available. Instead I had to pray that my Creator take me. A desperate prayer to end unspeakable horror, a pain that I knew I could not bear, that would drive me to insanity. Jesus met me there on those steps and lifted me up, brought the “Footsteps” poem to me with a promise to carry me through what was ahead. A year later when my sentence modification was denied, another promise my lawyer had given but couldn’t keep, I gave up again. I laid on the prison bunk and refused to move for meals or activities, risking further punishments. I no longer cared. An angel in the guise of a correctional officer visited and spoke words I no longer remember but pulled me out of my depression and gave me the strength to keep going. I do remember she spoke gently of Jesus and light and a world outside of my current existence. She told me to get up and I did.

When my pain overwhelmed me, Jesus  brought relief. When I couldn’t breathe, wouldn’t breathe, Jesus brought me air. When I had nothing, Jesus was enough. Now, I have more. A husband, a home, pets, cars, fully stocked pantry and I no longer call on Jesus with desperation. Maybe I never did really but I made room for Him. Now I allow a corner, a smidge, a bit but rely too heavily on myself, on my own ability to affect change and the stir the universe to my liking. Having lost it all and found Jesus, must I really find myself there again to discover what is truly at the heart of my existence? Noticing my own prison gates again, I see that only God can bring me through this estrangement, only God can rebuild the bridges I want to erect today. Scripture floods my mind this morning as I find comfort in words of hope and past longing, as I remember that I have survived events I will never share and I will survive this as well.

I grow impatient, I teeter on bitterness, anger erupts. I am too fully me and not enough Jesus. Today I am opening the gates of my soul once again to the One who saved me, time and again, saved me for more than a life of hurt and struggle and time behind bars. Just as we celebrated my release with joy and thanksgiving long ago, one day we will again. Until then, I am cleaning out my soul space, removing extra furnishings of self-dependence and importance. Truly, today I remember He is the air I breathe. Freedom has come.

 

How God handled My Rage

On By LisaIn Faith, Stella, The ChefLeave a comment

Many of this year’s slogans have become my inner voice, whispering chants that empower me and push me to be braver. I hear reminders to speak up for those who often aren’t heard, to show up for those who often aren’t seen. “Speak truth to power” is one of my favorites, encouraging honesty and integrity in all situations. I discovered yesterday that I had been holding back, though, on my truthfulness to my ultimate Power, in the most important relationship I have. Exhaustion combined with life events disabled my defense system until I no longer hid behind proper attitudes of patience and reverence. I spoke truth to God. What happened next was a discovery of God’s truth to me.

Something was different even as I woke, my emotions were too close to the surface, not how I normally walk through my day. Keeping feelings at bay, I survive, I carry on and no one is the wiser that my heart is in tatters. All looks good. My friend shared that when her house wasn’t as clean as she wanted it to be and company was on the way, she would put a bit of Pinesol in all the toilets and do a quick swipe at the sinks. The smell of the pine created that sense of just freshly cleaned, like the maid was only moments out the door. The problem she said, “It was all fake.” I have been “pouring Pinesol” on my wrists like an expensive perfume, distracting myself and everyone from the dirty truth, I simply ache at the estrangement with my daughter. I miss her with every breath, how can I keep breathing like this? Helpless to effect change, unable to build any bridges or reconnect with her, I am forced to wait on God to do the work that I want to do. I have to trust God to repair what is broken and bring reconciliation, in His time. Dab, dab, more Pinesol, see how strong my faith is? Watch me place my trust in the most Powerful, the Almighty…until this day when I snapped and talked to God before I could get cleaned up and hide behind propriety. Honesty happened.

The truth? I am angry at waiting a moment longer. My heart is so broken I can’t imagine how it still pushes blood through my body. I don’t understand what He wants from me, what I am supposed to do. Why isn’t He doing something about this, I have been faithful, right? I sat at the dining room table where she never sits anymore and raged with the ferocity of a dragon at God. First I raged at Chef who was opening cereal bags too loudly, building up my anger, practicing the release that would bring tears for the entirety of the day. I gave God my truest pain, my deepest doubts, my open wounds, and asked for something NOW. What did I receive? No lightening bolts, no texts from my daughter, my table remained devoid of her presence. Still, I cried all day. The tears would not stop. Water rolled down my face as memories long tucked away ran through my mind. After hours of crying at home, at church where I laid it out while asking for prayers, then again back at home, finally God showed me that a different bridge to my daughter was being reconstructed, showed me that He hasn’t forgotten me and is always working on my behalf. I wish I could say I saw this for the gift it was but my initial reaction was jealousy and more anger. Too fully into my humanity, I missed the God moment. Blessedly, today the tears have gone and I can see how He showed up in the most show- offy way, words that would only make sense to me but create connections undeniable to my daughter. I can only wonder at how often I am begging for SOME SIGN and miss it completely, reminiscent of the Bruce Almighty scene, where evidence of God’s presence is all around me yet my stubbornness and frustration refuse to see it.

My soul got a deep cleaning, no need for fake dabs and drips and dots of pine-scented cleaner to pretend I am fine. Refreshed with the salty waters of my own pain, I can face a new day knowing God met me in my anger and didn’t blink, didn’t shrink, didn’t abandon me. The God who wants my truth and doesn’t strike me dead for questioning His plan or ability to get things done remains with me today.  I sit with certainty at the same dining room table and can say I spoke truth to power, and power spoke the same to me. “I am with you child, my dirty messy aching child.” A promise given, a promise heard.  Truth spoken to the powerless. God accepted my rage and handed me back love and peace and grace, a new day with a fresh start. The pine cleaner will stay in the cabinet today, the truth is, I am messy and hurting and God knows it. Together we are working on truly cleaning me up.

One Bowl of Jesus at a Time

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The ChefLeave a comment

“If you girls are staying for dinner, you need to go ask,” I called as I do seemingly whenever Plum is here. His little friends join us almost nightly, certainly everyday for lunch and all the snacks in between. Partly because Plum barely stops playing to eat but also because the girls are hungry. They are always hungry. Without a clear picture of their family situation, I am left with only the result: when food is offered they eat. Last night I learned a bit more though, as I readied three plates to take to the patio only to discover that their dad had come to collect the girls, after permission had been “granted.” I think I may have been deceived all these nights. Little girls may not have ventured the entire distance to their home to do the asking, rather, just out of my sight, returning with the yes they wanted. Plum saw the irritation on my face as I scraped the extra plates and we sat down inside to eat. “Are they in trouble? Are you going to tell their parents?”

Chef and I locked eyes over our full plates of food in our mostly secure home, where we have never felt hungry, never worried about how to obtain our next meal or feed the kids. No, Plum, they are not in trouble.”But what about next time?”  I owned that I was frustrated because I set up extra plates but really it wasn’t too much extra work and next time if they were hungry we would give them food. He was puzzled, seeing in black and white that children had lied to adults. Skimming over that part, his friends deserve dignity instead I asked if we ever have run out of food or not had enough to share. His focus came back to the God who provides, not people who decide the rules. Indeed the details of who sits at the table and how often and why is not really our business.

Every morning while drinking my first cup of coffee, before I begin sudoko to waken my brain, I eat up Twitter.  Always a news junkie, going back probably to my high school days of journalism classes and my volunteer shifts in the school library where I put out the new magazines every week, these days I am voracious.  The events of September 11 kept me glued to the tv for hours, as is true of most Americans. I crave current events, not the celebrity variety but real stories from around the world. I love to know how we are connected, who has achieved some greatness against long odds, learn of new discoveries by scientists in far off labs. My morning coffee ritual lately though just brings pain and anxiety as I wonder how so much hate is running amok, how the name of my loving Jesus can be used to marginalize more and more people. My coffee grows cold as I retweet, retweet, fire off my own. I long for a point of entry, a place to stop the madness and show just who Jesus is. I worry about this child asleep upstairs coming of age in a world that mocks disabilities and encourages others to shout slogans that denigrate women and people with cancer and those who love differently. In a country where the focus is ever more becoming about MINE, I fear we have forgotten what it means to share. Soon enough though, two little girls come knocking on the door, asking Plum to play, snacks are prepared, communion happens.

As we read our books before bed, I randomly picked one we hadn’t touched for quite some time. Little did I know God was working to bring our blessings message home to this child. “Last Stop on Market Street” is a beautiful telling of a child and his gran who take the bus to a soup kitchen where they serve. Along the way the boy interacts with many people who might be on the fringes, yet he is being taught to see their worth. As we finished the story, Plum pointed to the illustration of the main characters serving up the food as others stood in line. “That’s kinda what we do, right gran?” Yes, child, we dish up bowls of our blessings and share them with whoever comes. That is how we are healing our little piece of the world. We are going to love our neighbors at meal times and snack times without questions that may cause distress. Communion means not checking to determine worth but instead serving up some Jesus when dinner time rolls around. Maybe I don’t need to worry about him so much after all. Maybe the point of entry is my kitchen, one plate at a time.

Hidden

LGBTQ, Jesus and Purple Blankets

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The ChefLeave a comment

With curiosity, with anxiety, I read John Pavlovitz’s piece about Christians Making Atheists only to find much truth and plenty to convict my Christian faith in his words. Jesus is my truest best love, the one I know at my core and brings me to every relationship, how could I not want others to experience that grace? I know full well the power of forgiveness, what happens when a church decides to allow a sinner to participate and to serve, the healing that begins when the refreshing waters of new life discussed in sermons are truly shared with those who thirst for a second chance. I am that person who has come alive which has allowed me to make space for others to do so as well, I say yes when asked, grateful to be included and able to use gifts long laying dormant, waiting for my church home to recognize that my offerings, like the widow’s, may be scant but came from the deepest of my soul and could be used for great good. My church I think is open to sinners and saints alike, I am proof. Yet even with the labels I do carry, there are many that find headlines currently that I don’t wear, that maybe make it somewhat easier to accept this sinner.

As a United Methodist congregation, we are facing the challenge of taking a stance regarding LGBTQ as described here.  Our pastor has asked our members to prayerfully begin considering how we are to act on this new information, the opportunity to stand up for our brothers and sisters who love who they love without our censorship. This is a no-brainer for me, I want to open our hearts and minds and doors to those who deserve the level of acceptance and grace that I have experienced. I want everyone to taste and see the deliciousness that I find every time I walk through the doors, the coming home where my brokenness is not hidden but celebrated. How could I keep this only to myself, how could I ever feel better than, above, superior to anyone, that my sin is not as bad? Regardless of where one falls on the “homosexuality is a sin” continuum, it is clear that by sitting on the throne of judgement, we are practicing exclusion and not practicing a walk with Jesus.

My Plum was gone for 2 1/2 weeks, a planned vacation that I raised up as a concern and a joy to my friends and fellow worshipors one Sunday. I asked that they surround his family as they travel and also Chef and I as we were left without the joy-bringer, the giggler who delights and enlivens us. Finally yesterday my little shadow was home and ready to accompany me on errands, a trip to church for several quick meetings and the gathering of extra food in the kitchen to deliver to local non-profits who could use the donations. After a full day of traveling and a late night, he came to me in the now famous picachu pajamas, a bit grubby and carrying his much loved wad of a blanket. As we walked from the car to the church doors, he began to question not his attire, he stands by that choice, but the security blanket he was clutching. I reminded him that our church cares more about our insides than our outsides, that they love us for who we are and not what we look like. I told him friends inside might ask about Purple Blankie but would never mock him. He was immediately at peace, he told me other people outside of church might make fun of him but not our friends at church. Two steps inside, we both met Jesus.

The office staff have a practice of gathering each morning at a set time to share their own joys and concerns and circling up for a moment of prayer. We arrived just at this time, just as all were visible through the big office window as we entered the building. What happened next was so sacred, was so beautiful, so holy that I want to gush with joy at my church. All my family spontaneously raised hands to wave at my boy, tears of celebration of his return met mine through the glass, they welcomed him like the prodigal son. He stood taller, he swaggered a bit, he answered quick questions, he felt loved. My dirty little boy in pajamas entered church and found acceptance and cheers and grace. I could barely speak, how does one talk when Jesus is walking among you?

I want John Pavlovitz to know that my little church out in the cornfield in Indiana is working hard to get it right. I want everyone to know we are so incrediably full of grace that a child who began life such as my Plum did, who has experienced hardship and trauma is being taught that he matters and he is taking that teaching with him everyday. We may have a more difficult challenge reaching some of our older folks who learned that the bible says no more often than yes, but we are striving everyday to undo some harm and find space for sinners and saints and lovers and grumpy people and for those who wear their pj’s during the day. We are all little children inside, carrying a security blanket or teddy bear, wondering if we will be met with love or judgement. Let us remember to cheer the return of all who enter, surely Jesus is waiting to join in the celebration.

 

 

How We Survived A Devastating Year

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

After an intense week with little sleep or real time to think, the quiet now has descended and my thoughts are swirling, invading, pushing through weakened defenses. Memories of last year and the shock, the pain, the anger are resurrected, knowledge of what we have survived, what little we knew we were to face, I find the wounds have yet to fully heal. Last year this week Chef was quite unceremoniously, entirely unexpectedly cut off from everything he was for 18 1/2 years, we were left with no income and so began a period of mourning and self-discovery marred by the fear of homelessness. Broken promises, lost routine, expectations of the future all paled as we wondered how to pay the mortgage, soon how to even get out of bed in the morning. As the days became weeks and then months, the answers we sought, that everyone seeks during sudden loss, were elusive. Ultimately, all we truly had, all we ever can depend on, was our faith.

During this season I have watched a man with great confidence be knocked to his knees, a place God met him and lifted him again. I have watched him bravely begin anew, when he many days wanted to never try or trust again. I waited for our children who most deeply knew of his sacrifices, having lived and benefited most from his excessive work and dedication, to lay aside their own needs and reach out to him, to support him during this devastating loss, only to find this an added disappointment heaped onto a horrific year. Yet we never were left waiting for support from others as countless friends and guests that he cared for all throughout the years rushed to his side, brought him muffins and pies, sent him texts and emails, called him over and over, reminded him that he is loved and that he is not alone. These people are burden carriers, those who have walked hard times themselves and know that words will never fix anything but words are offered anyway, food will never make it all go away, but food is delivered anyway. The collective carrying of the weight of the loss, one tiny bit by many, gave us respite, encouraged us to keeping breathing.

This is the day the Lord has made, let us together rejoice in all of it, the horrible, the hurt, the lovely, the terrifying, the silly, the joyful. This is the day, a new day. We begin anew, because of all of you. This is what faith looks like, faith in action. When ours was whittled down to mere words we could recite, when it was mere hunger pangs that grew louder yet we were too depressed to even feed ourselves, you spoke Jesus in hugs and banana bread. When we had little faith beyond spelling the word you reminded us time and again that surviving within a community of faith means that others carry you until you can walk and speak and preach again. God rose our community up, near and far, always at critical junctures, to bring healing words and slices of hope and encouraging directives and sobering pushes, that pulled us from despair pits back into the faith world that understood brokenness and grace and loved us even when we had nothing to offer.

We are now on the other side of the first anniversary, the true beginning of newness. Today as I clean my home, sweeping behind the couch and under all the hard to get areas, I am mentally ridding my heart of the first year hurts, those memories of that time one year ago that our world crashed. No one is here to witness the force with which I bang the broom or slam the bucket, a release of the last dredges of anger, I hope. What we lost will become memory, what has been gained will grow. Building a more solid foundation on true friends, frugality, and most importantly shared faith will lead us into this uncertain future. Fear has been introduced into his eyes, something one wishes never to see in someone they love. Still I watch as God transforms that fright into renewed compassion, a deeper humility, a broader awareness of social justice.  What the next anniversary will bring, we are never sure, yet I trust that God is does know and our wounds are indeed healing. Our purpose is being made clear, Chef is finding his way. The tears may flow today, laughter will follow just as surely in the morning.

To all who have surrounded us this year, the many of you who have lifted us in prayer and listened to us cry and wail, offered their couches for wise counseling sessions, brought meals and taken us to lunch, found tasks to keep us busy and ministries to give us something for our calendars and to take us outside of ourselves, for all the long walks and short drives, for you all, my gratitude is as deep as the ocean and as vast as the heavens. You are wound healers, burden carriers, joy bringers, angels. I love and thank you all. I pray that you never need me to offer such gifts to you yet if you do, I pray equally that I seek out your pain in such beautiful meaningful ways, that I don’t run away from your fearful eyes, but that I too have learned to lift up my bit of your wounds, to offer you respite. Thank you for being in my community, for believing in our healing God who is bigger than any one of us. Together we survived this year. Now on to our future, the beginning. I hope you will join us as we celebrate learning to walk again.

 
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Marriage Indeed Takes Three

On By LisaIn Faith, The Chef3 Comments

The memes showing aged lovers, those who have survived marriage into their 80’s and can’t bear to be parted or die holding hands inspire us all. We know it isn’t easy but they look sweet gentle companionable, as if they never bickered over leaving the dishes dirty on the counter or forgetting to make the car payment. These couples give us hope and inspiration but little in the way of practical advice on getting through the really tough patches except just stick with it. Is that enough, staying together in this time of easy outs? When more memes exist of what we are owed and how we deserve happiness and fulfillment and we should take our moment in the sun? Surely those couples who have lasted so long never faced the pressures on marriage that happen everyday now, life was clearly easier for them. What did they survive? Only wars, the Great Depression, the entry of women into the workforce and the polling place, the addition of drugs into their children hands, loss of respect for authority, the changing role of the church in the home.  Maybe they are survivors after all. Maybe lasting through all that marriage brings causes one to look sweet and gentle, smoothing away all the rough edges until nothing is left but our core, out soul.

Usually on this day, I write something sweet and gentle and loving about my marriage. Our anniversary is an opportunity to gaze at our history, look to the future. This year is too fragile though to look too far back, too far ahead. Year 17 will be lodged in our memories as the one that almost did us in. Surely those who have made it to year 50 experienced at least one of those. We spent the better part of the year not even liking each other, barely in touch with what we loved in each other. Anger, frustration, disappointment piled on and obscured any sweetness, kindness, gentleness until silence or the rapid-fire volley of hurtful words were exchanged and both us ended up wounded. No year 17 is not one to celebrate except that we survived it.

Two days before our anniversary, a fall caused a concussion, knocking my brain a bit loose. Coincidence? Quite possibly divine intervention to soften my responses, slow my words, quiet my soul as the big day approached. Sleeping at least 20 hours each day, I had little time to reflect on the year, to catalog the wrongs and instead was dependent on him bringing another glass of water, chilling the cloth for my forehead, delivering more medicine as I lay in bed and floated away again. Those first moments after the fall, I didn’t call a friend or even an ambulance, I called him and asked him to come home. That is 17 years, somewhere in there, where everything really hurts and the call you make is to the one you trust to save you.

Year 17 found us without income, without identity, without focus. While I was growing into my own, he was left to rediscover himself. Different seasons or maybe a long-distance relationship, we were trying to stay married while living in opposite experiences. He was depressed, I was excited. My life was full, his was empty. He needed me, I needed space. So how did we make it through? Whether by design or happenstance, not having enough money to run off to a lawyer certainly helped. The very strain for him kept me in place. Considering the ease with which one can file for divorce, is it any wonder it happens so frequently? So we sat in our misery and let it brew and fester until even our close friends noticed and began to intervene. Year 17 is where I found out that those who stood up with us as we took our vows were not those who would stand up for us when we needed reminding about the better while in the worse. But those promises were to God as well as each other and even though friends moved on and away, God has remained. God brought others into our lives to remind us that while year 17 really was awful, we could look at year 16 with joy, who would year 18 bring?

Marriage is hard, I tell Mama when she calls to talk about what happens in her home. She is only months into the partnership and jokes that she liked it better when they were dating, wonders what changed. To her we are those old people holding hands, she knows much of what we have survived, she wants advice. Not being able to afford divorce is often the best blessing I tell her. Having friends who tell you the truth, who seek out your hurts and want to know more, that is the wedding cake icing that will bring you back together. One close friend listened and offered space for hope. Another asked a question that blew the whole of my hurts wide open. Between the two, I began to see my husband again through the fog of disillusionment and disappointment that had clouded my response to him for over a year. He could hear me finally, a path emerged that could lead us to year 18.

I think about those old couples on the couch and wonder about how many socks she darned. They lived through a time when items were purchased once, for a lifetime. Can’t you see her with the sewing basket, angry at him as she stitches long into the evening, with each yank of the thread releasing her frustration? The intimacy of nurturing him, loving him by ensuring his feet were warm as he left in the morning, her anger gone, I can see that they had their rough years. He came home from work to find an appliance no longer working, something needed fixed again. Disappointment, fears, melt away as he pounds a hammer, yanks a wrench just a bit too roughly. Soon the washer is going again and he kisses his wife. Intimacy of coming back together and an outlet for those very real emotions, a means to release and then nurture each other, that is what we are missing in the disposable society of today. Hole in his socks, buy new ones. Newer, faster, bigger, better, buy the next version. We are not practicing staying and caring for what we have, each other.

We quietly celebrated year 17. He had to work, I had to sleep. Together though we know we have survived and are on our way to becoming those sweet gentle old people who hold hands and look like they have it all figured out. We delicately care for our marriage now, treating it with tenderness. It is fragile, maybe it always was. We have learned that allowing anyone to enter who does not support us together can have long lasting damaging results. We have learned that some infections take time to appear but by then may have impaired critical organs. We are learning that we are strong individuals who often live in different seasons but enjoy the company of the other at the end of the day.  We are learning that a marriage cannot be taken for granted nor carry the weight of too many expectations or unspoken words. A marriage is a living breathing union between growing changing people who must nurture and care for it. Most importantly, we have learned that God truly was present and listened as we said those words so long ago. He is holding us to it and guiding us when we wander, lost lonely and afraid. Marriage indeed takes three.

Pluck
 

How I ended up in the ER

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The Chef3 Comments

When things go wrong, horribly terribly awry, I can’t stop looking back at the steps that preceded the blow up. I seek the place where I should have gone left instead of right, where just one move could have changed the outcome. So it is that the last few days I have, when awake or as I have drifted off to sleep yet again, wondered how it is that I ended up in the ER so badly banged up.

The quick answer is that I should have said no to the purchase of these huge beasts. The decision almost 2 years ago has led to many queries like this but the joy Plum feels when he lays with his best buddy generally overrides any real desire to rid my home of these creatures. The better intervention would have been actual training for them, something neither Chef nor I have put much effort into, being more free-range parents when it comes to pets. That worked for smaller ones, gentler ones, beasts that didn’t weigh almost as much as me. They grew big too quickly for us to learn we had to adjust our parenting style, become more disciplined and even establish stricter boundaries. Thus we are left with exuberant beasts when anyone appears at our door, especially when Plum is dropped up.  We are trained instead, dogs go outside, Plum comes in and runs to the highest point in the kitchen, climbs up and awaits the delighted excited insane greeting of the beasts.  The barking and jumping only last a couple of minutes and then we all go back to our normal life.  On this fateful day we managed this step just fine.

Maybe I shouldn’t have stayed outside and talked with Mama for so long, extending the time between when the bests spotted the boy and when they actually got to sniff and lick and be petted by him. Apparently it was torture and their desire to see him amped up the adrenaline to levels I hadn’t anticipated. Beasts with super powers are dangerous. I know this now.  Maybe I should have had their treats in my hands, the ones I give to distract from the boy but maybe also to reward their settling behavior. Then I wouldn’t have needed to walk across the room in socks, along the concrete slab floor, to reach the box holding the next phase in the greeting process. Too much excitement, no traction in socks, yes, that could have been handled differently.

Still, I think it all comes down to Picachu pajamas and a bad case of flatulence. My plum held a movie night with his friends at Mama’s house and proudly wanted to tell me the story of clearing the room with his explosive little tush. He was still wearing the one piece zip up pj’s with the hood up, thick winter socks and batman slippers as he recounted the tale. He made sure Mama told it as well.  So we lingered out front as the dogs barked and waited and I wondered how a child could celebrate not that his mother had organized a group event, not the movie he watched, not the popcorn they shared, but what came out of his ass. How is it that this sweet child thinks this is the take-away?

After the dog knocked my legs completely out from under me, after I hit my elbow and tailbone straight onto the concrete floor and then whiplashed my head back as well with a crunch I cannot stop hearing, we ended up in the ER. I know the problem step was those pajamas and his gas attack because he told every nurse and attendant who came through the doors about what happened. Not that I got hurt but that he cleared his friends out of his toy room with his farts. He kept track of the compliments he received on his pajamas versus the ones on his slippers, 4-2, and felt no shame. Nothing. I couldn’t stay awake long enough to address his inappropriate sharing, first from the night before and now with God and everyone. Yes, even God or His representative. Because when our pastor showed up he got the story too.

I have shared before that I have some bodily function hang ups, that I have never felt comfortable using the word fart. My Plum doesn’t feel confined in this way. As I lay on the gurney and hurt like hell everywhere, drifting in and out of sleep, I heard my Pastor come in and ask about what happened. Plum told the most important steps in the chain and I suddenly burst out laughing, clear evidence of traumatic brain injury. My sweet pastor held a conversation with my 6 year old grandson in a triage room about his toots and how proud he was of running his friends out. Right then is when I should have said yes instead of no to the narcotics offered. Another wrong step, clearly.

Nothing is broken, a concussion that will surely heal in time and pajamas that have been removed from the child… yet I am left with the reality that vulnerability just happens. I cannot control all the moving parts and keep up appearances, keep my feet firmly on the ground and always censor the child. If there is ever a time to accept all those prayers coming my way it is now. Prayers for healing yes, but prayers also to be able to face all those who have heard about Picachu pajamas and the commotion that came out of my little Plum.

When my head stops hurting and he returns from his vacation with Mama, I plan to have a serious talk about bodily functions and appropriate venues for discussion. As he loves to tell his favorite beast, “C’mon, now, we are better than that.”  I think I can intervene right there, break the chain of wrong moves. I may not prevent another disaster but at least I can save you all from Plum proudly recounting his story. One step at a time.

Snack

My Cats are Preaching the Gospel

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

Even as I reached for paper towel to pick up the carcass, I knew I should first take a picture. The need to document this death and share with others my horror was great yet the need to remove it all was greater. My phone stayed in my pocket, the crime scene clean up began. First I had to remove the very large robin, I didn’t realize they are so big but holding one up close, in my hands, I was alarmed at the size. The balcony off of my bedroom where I sneak away for a few moments of secluded time, the place my beasts cannot access and my Plum forgets often to look and Chef rarely goes, has one of those cat doors for our two felines who only come home in summer to eat and hide from a storm. And apparently to bring the trophy in from a battle.

I have read that cats bring their kills to owners as a present and also to alert them that the food is not as plentiful as the cat would wish. Knowing I keep food available at all times, I am assuming these dead things keep appearing as gifts to me, ghastly horrible tokens of my furry pet’s affections. As I mop up blood and pull feathers from the cracks of the wood flooring, it does no good to wish they didn’t love me this much or in this way. We are loved how we are loved. Even more than that, I know I have given such terrible gifts to those I love.  Never having delivered a dead rodent or bird or frog, still I know my love is not always translated well, the message I am sending is often not the one received. Many times, I have made a mess of things, leaving the feathers of hope and the blood of trust for someone else to clean up as I sauntered away, sure that love is secure, only to find later that they grabbed their own roll of paper towel and began removing my love from their lives. How can we learn to see the gift given and not the chore it entails? How can we see the joy in the offering and not respond with horror at the sacrifice at our feet? We are loved how we are loved.

The robin made it to the trash bins without the larger beasts intervening, the floor was scrubbed of all the evidence and no feathers could be found. Still, the image of the gift lasts. A bird died for me yesterday, gave up its life so that I might have joy and feel loved. I think I know another story like that. As gruesome as it sounds, I might just have little disciple cats who are teaching me the Gospel again and again, reminding me that there is One who already died for me and has forgiven me. The trick to saving all the birds around my yard may just be for me to deeply accept that message, to understand the full bounty of grace awaiting me. I may never be forgiven by everyone but I am forgiven by the One. I will never be loved by everyone but I am loved by the One. Accepting the hope that comes with each new day may just be life saving for the critters in my yard.

As disgruntled and disgusted as I am by the death and clean up of the bird, I know it was a gift meant for me. I wonder who else offers their best for me and I miss it, the package not quite to my liking. Plum used to pick the flowers I had planted to adorn our yard and in sweaty dirty toddler hands, offer them up to me as a token of his love. So proudly he lifted his gift of bent and broken stems, petals missing, death now imminent for the life I had created. I was in love. I saw beyond the gift into his heart. That one is easy but what about the cranky older man at church who offers a bit of advice on keeping a child quiet during a service? The woman who always washes the dishes after an event but rarely interacts with anyone? What of the congregant who talks too much, forgets to listen, the one you often begin to back away from as you see her approaching? The quiet child who doesn’t pick flowers or act up in church, but reads silently in the corner and begs to be invisible, what is this child offering to us? How do we find the gifts and the love being offered in the midst of the blood and ick and feathers and smelliness and complexity of receiving more than we want or ever asked for? That is where the love really is, in the mess. In the offering of our truest dirtiest selves, when we give what we have, whether it be our skill at capturing a bird or speaking truths or drying the plates.

Friends, I am on the look out for love today. I am on a mission to see the ugly terrible gifts that others are trying to give me, reminders that not everything comes wrapped in bows or shiny paper. Love is hard to see, true sacrifice looks like taking time to hear beyond the words, into the message. The fact is our Savior died, an excruciating horrible death and I am still learning to accept that gift. Like any new skill, it takes practice, repetition, conscious effort. Before I can fully accept His love and grace, I must first begin to accept that very same offering of those around me. I wonder if you have room in your heart today for the terrible gifts that I bring as well? Our loves and graces just might save  the world. Please God let me learn this before my disciple cats feel the need for another sermon.

July 4th Deals

Blessings Faith and Responsibility

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

Carrying the remains of the popcorn, two drinks, the blanket we rightly thought was necessary given air conditioning that is always a bit too high when wearing shorts, and holding my Plum’s hand as we crossed the street away from the movie theater and the matinee we watched during a rainy morning, I distractedly dug into my purse for the car keys. Years ago my daughter attached a lanyard so that wherever I reached within the dark confines of the big bags I prefer I would be sure to snag a bit of the keys. But this time, digging, searching, reaching, I was coming up empty. That sick feeling of knowing I had locked the keys in the car was just beginning as we reached it, I hadn’t even looked inside the windows where I usually (yes, I have done this often) find the keys on the seat mocking me. Instead, I found my keys waiting on the ground, right next to the car. In the parking lot of the movie theater. Where many people pass. My car with my laptop sitting on the front seat. Is there a more inviting scene for a thief? Yet two hours after I dropped them, my car and laptop and keys waited safely for our return. Plum stated quite matter of factly as he climbed into his car seat, “Well Gran, you worship God so He protects You.”

The excuses of stowing the blanket, arranging the drinks, securing the bucket of popcorn gave me time to consider my answer. The easy one is yes, yes aren’t we blessed. Maybe even a reminder that angels watch out for fools like me. Still I know that had I come back and the car had been gone through my own negligence, my God would not have failed to protect me. Is Plum too young to begin understanding that the God we are teaching him to trust and love doesn’t prevent bad things from happening? He believes in Santa Claus and we are awaiting the first visit from the Tooth Fairy even as we read about the magical exploits of another little boy and his friends. His pure and innocent and immediate trust, his FAITH, felt too sacred to destroy in that moment and yet gave me pause. How do we teach free will and personal responsibility that intersects with knowing a God from whom all good things come? My quick answer was yes we are blessed and gran wasn’t careful and also grandpa is going to kill me. All quite true but not enough. Something was calling me to dig deeper.

His friend arrived on my porch without him, announcing she was his slave and needed to retrieve something for him, take some toy back to the play site down the street. I wanted to race upstairs and grab one of my t-shirts from the Women’s March and throw it over her head, pull it onto her body before sending her on her way but instead just sent her back with the admonishment that she is no slave for any man. I may have frightened her with my ardor, she clearly preferred her master to the one who was freeing her. Later as they played together at our house, the slave play began again as my sweet kind wonderful little grandson ordered her to come here, go there, get this and she complied. Child’s play maybe but as damaging in my mind as if he were hitting her, as if she were calling him stupid or breaking his toys. I again said no slave play but I couldn’t figure out how to put it in terms that 6 and 7 year olds would care about, would understand.

What I am sure of is that we are entering the years where concepts matter, where teaching the “whys” is now our job. All of the easy stuff is done, he can walk and talk and cut his own food. More and more he is interacting with others who will help shape his future, the days of establishing his foundation are running out. Getting it right the first time because often the second time only comes up years later or so subtly with a tween or teenager that we miss the real opportunity. Right now things are still clear, the questions he asks are to me, the play still happens in front of me, he still listens for my answers and expects his friends to as well. This is the time for impact, even as I thought we were entering a freer time, I realize now our job went from physical demands to the truly tougher mental game.

During bath, when he is trapped and most receptive, I talked to him about boys and power and the almost first female president and the slaves in the bible. I reminded him of all the women in his life who love and nurture him and work twice as hard to have any real power. We talked about blessings and protection and our job to be blessings to others and how bad things happen because we aren’t careful, like when we get so distracted racing in to the movie on time that we drop our keys. Is God still God on a bad day? Is God still God to the slaves or only the free?

My charming little blue-eyed boy at first tried to hedge and say they took turns being slaves but then admitted he had never been anything but the master. He knows this little girl will do anything he asks and he is learning about his charisma. His father has that strong streak as well and hasn’t always used it for the Kingdom. I think I just thought he would, I don’t remember telling him outright how he could hurt women if he didn’t.  Our God of second chances who does send angels to guard car keys left on the pavement also gives us an opportunity to get it right sometimes. Plum and I are learning about faith and personal responsibility together. Only time will tell how right we get it, but God will still be God and with each sunrise we get another chance to get it right.

As he drifted off to sleep, he asked me why girls only have boy’s last names. Why can’t boys take girl’s names too. Yes, my sweet, I said, that is an excellent question. Let’s talk about that tomorrow. With that his breathing became regular and I knew I had laid another brick in his foundation. God is still God and sends the angels to protect and guide us as we take responsibility for our choices. I will be calling on those angels when  I have to admit to Chef that I almost allowed the car to be stolen.