Category: The Chef

stories of my amazing husband, my favorite teacher ever

Bubbles

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, The ChefLeave a comment

My Plum and I love to play with bubbles, we make huge ones that float around us, giant rainbow colored orbs that shine with drippy soap as they are carried away on the breeze. Plum chases them, delights in bursting them with his stick or sword or ninja kick. Maybe he is on to something that I have forgotten: bubbles are beautiful but must be broken. I always secretly root for them to escape his reach, bypass the branches, I want them to pass freely into the sky. Sometimes bubbles enclose us, surround us in bands of bright colors reflecting the light, hiding the darkness all around.

The Sunday night book group at church is breaking my heart. I knew going into it that I would be vulnerable, that my heart would be on the line. The seriousness of the topic, how closely it fit my own reality, I knew it was dangerous. Still, I felt called, pushed, to sign my name on the clipboard, I felt prodded to buy the book and say I would join. “The New Jim Crow”  by Michelle Alexander is risky stuff, threatening our happy bubbles, perilous to our long-held beliefs. For those of us well acquainted with the criminal justice system, it is even more painful.

I finished grad school about 25 years ago, I haven’t read serious works since, not full books on social justice by intelligent authors. I read snippets, I follow news. I live life and experience events but have not stayed up on scholarly readings. This is my confessional, where I come clean about my own intelligent ignorance. Much like when my son showed signs of substance abuse but I knew that I had already covered all of those bases, I was too smart to let that happen in my own family, I missed what was in front of me. My knowledge was not sufficient to understand the greater issue, my response was not great enough to halt the problem. My bubble kept me from seeing what was really happening to/with my son, until it all burst, our life snagged on the jagged edges of addiction, destroyed by the criminal justice system once again.

Getting comfortable in our own bubbles is dangerous, as the current national situation can attest. The seriousness of the racial divide is irrefutable, once the bubble of denial is popped, the soul cleansing can begin. I don’t want to know what I am reading, I don’t want to be aware that politicians I have loved are complicit in this current divide. How much soap will it take to clean us all? Will we ever be washed free of this ugliness? I don’t have the answers to fix such a horrific systemic problem but I know the first step is breaking those bubbles, those beautiful alluring floating orbs that can calm my mind and distract me from what is true and what is real. Indeed, blisters are bubbles as well, patches of skin rubbed until the skin reacts angrily. A burn that shows the damage has occurred, attention is required. Bubbles, blisters, mass incarceration, racial caste.  My soul is aching and my memories are fresh. The first step in healing.

Seriousness

Delightful Roar

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

Two nights in a row Plum went to bed quite unhappy with me. Highly unusual, this is our snuggle time, the precious moments when his last wonderings of the day spur questions that fascinate me, when he wants to be a bit closer, when he reverts to being just a tiny bit smaller. I love bedtime, when our guards fall down under the nightlight glow and we can be our truest selves. Not so on these last couple of nights though. The first was after being at church too late, bedtime pushed far enough back that self-control was lost. Somewhere between the church front doors and ours, he morphed from my sweet boy into a horrid monster who found no delight in my presence. I was good with that, not the morphing really, but I didn’t take it personally, it had nothing to do with me and everything to do with tiredness and my role as the enforcer of pajamas and brushed teeth and butt into bed.  He very nicely in his horrible monster voice told me he only wanted grandpa and that I could not snuggle with him. His precious sing-song voice roared that he wanted to put a sign on the door saying no grandmas allowed. Delightful child. I accepted the rules of engagement, sent in Chef and told them both to hush and go to sleep. The miracle of the sunrise brought my sweet boy back to me. Until bedtime the following night.

I have read that it only takes one time of doing something to create a habit with a cat, maybe Stella taught me this. I think Plum thought he was on to something, was in touch with his feline side. I declined his offer of exile and chose instead to pick up one of our love books and begin reading over the growls and hisses next to me. A weird thing happened though. He stopped. He settled in. He forgot that he was mad at me while listening to me tell him all the ways that I love him.

I get it, he is growing older. He wants his grandpa more. Trust me, I know, everyone wants grandpa more. Still, I want those precious moments as long as I can have them, those still quiet minutes before he drifts off.  Those are the times I remind him that my love will follow him anywhere. Right now he thinks those books are about him and I which is true. My love will follow him even when he turns into a horrid monster and turns me away.  But one day it will occur to him that I was whispering to him each night as he slide into slumber about God’s love. That a greater love than mine follows him. That a deeper love than mine forgives his monster morphing and knows the Sonrise will always lead him back. I am sure of this because sometimes I morph also, too tired to resist the bait, fall into temptation of anger and strong words, morphing into my own worst self. Then I rely on the love of God to bring me back, I listen for His loving words to invite me back into fellowship and grace.

Fortunately our morphings are pretty rare, we mostly delight in nighttime book reading and quiet questions. Maybe a new habit has begun though, one in which I am banished from his room and Chef is the hero. A new stage in our journey, perhaps. Like sneaky cats that seek out a new solution to any problem, I just have to find new ways to show him God’s love endures. Awareness of our changing relationship requires that I give him the space to push me away and know that I will never go too far. I can morph into that.

Aware

Wanna Race?

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The Chef6 Comments

Plum’s shoes had grown holes in the toes, a bit of a slash in the tread. Back to school shoes that survived into second semester were now screaming to retire. I picked up a new shiny pair while out running errands, hoping the amount of green on them would be acceptable. There always has to be green. I left them in Chef’s car while I went on to church to begin the Wednesday evening meal. Then it began to snow, a really good snow that quickly covered the sidewalks and silenced my worries as the world grew quiet. I prepped and cooked in peace until a little boy crashed into my kitchen cocoon carrying his new box of shoes. Hat, mittens, coat and boots went flying as he rushed to open the box, a new pair of shoes!  I tried to slow the process, remind him to hang up what he had tossed but new shoes awaited. Scissors were located, tags and that elastic string cut. Tissue paper form holders removed, the shoes made contact with his feet.  The magic happened.

Children with new shoes know, just know that they are suddenly faster. They have amazing abilities that either come with the clean tread or are enhanced by the fresh fit. They can jump higher, are able to win all the races, have limitless potential. Favorite color only seems to enhance their magic. The laces were barely tied and he was off. The still vacant hallways provided the needed outlet, he challenged Chef to a race. Laughter and taunts mixed with the aromas of dinner almost ready. New shoes, new perspective.

That night, he dreamt about those shoes, about racing with his friend from church. He and J share dinner each week under the supervision of J’s mom, I can’t watch over Plum while managing the food line. This week they decided they were grown enough to sit all by themselves, sent adults to the adjoining table. I love this friendship, I love that as soon as they see each other, they hug. I am not surprised that Plum spent his sleeping time with both his good friend and his new shoes, following the directive I give him each night as I kiss his forehead, “Have sweet sweet sugar boy dreams.”  He dreamt that he had green shoes and J had blue shoes and they raced around the church hallways, each winning some of the races. He laughed again in the retelling of his dream, the joy of the race as real as If it were true. He delighted in his time with J, with his new shoes, they BOTH had new shoes.

It is not lost on me that in Plum’s dream, he substituted in his best buddy for his grandpa. Interchangable. What a testimony to the love they share, the connection that has never been broken, the trust established. Chef is the fun grandparent and also the one who gets those extra snuggles when things are rocky. Chef has taught this child how to have friends, how to be a friend. He is teaching him how to be a man. One day Plum will buy new shoes for a child and accept the challenge of a race. I know he will remember all the times his grandpa paid for his shoes and then lost out to him at the finish line, with a good natured high five and a request for another chance. I know he will look back and rejoice in his grandpa who has been with him from the beginning and lets him sometimes lose because that makes him stronger, gives him character. Plum knows I am the disciplinarian but still an easy mark. I  more often than not let him win, haunted by all that he has already lost. One day Plum will buy his own shoes and begin of running fast, I pray towards his goals and all that God has planned for him.

On days that are hard, I want to remember that feeling, that new shoe freedom and confidence that I can run faster, climb higher, go the distance. God gives me that, everyday. Sometimes all I can see are scuffed up broken down holey old sneakers, my life in tatters and my self-esteem shot. New shoes, just out-of-the-box super powers are awaiting in the form of prayer and devotion. Favorite psalms and lines of scripture to speed my pace and reset my perspective, prophets to remind me of what can be, what is. Centering myself in my faith is where the “magic” happens. My wakeful dreams are of a world where I have that feeling to spur me on but also, my friends and my not-yet friends have it as well, we all have “new shoes.”    Let’s pretend just for today the magic has happened, the box is waiting for us to open. What would you achieve ? How high could you climb? Let’s open our faith box and find our new shoes. Mine will of course be blue or maybe teal. What color will yours be? Wanna race?

 

Pursuing the Lost

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

The commons area outside of the sanctuary was overflowing as the second service released, all those in Sunday school classrooms joined in search of coffee and conversation, the 3rd service attendees entered the building. A normal 11:00 site except that I was missing Plum, a miscommunication between Chef and the teachers in Plum’s crowded classroom area allowed him to be released into the larger church area without Chef really knowing. Plum tried to follow Chef but lost sight of him so he took his handful of newly crafted tissue paper flowers and colored bible verses into the sanctuary to lay on the seats we always choose. Seeing the chance to escape, he took the opportunity to hit the senior high room where video games awaited. Meanwhile, Chef sat chatting with coffee in hand, wondering when Plum would be released. Chef never picks him up, his class usually runs longer and chatting happens in the hallway after. I am the one who picks up, I linger in the commons during the second service and chat and tend to ministries and wait for them both to be done with classes.  I know eye contact with the teacher above the many rushing children and seeking parents means “I am here, I will take my grandson now.” The number of children, the crowded space by the door require that some of us stand further back. I look, she looks, I wait. That is our signal. We haven’t discussed this, it is honed from weeks and weeks of crowd control and successful connections. I haven’t discussed our method with Chef. One of the many conversations that don’t take place, considered unnecessary as we all play our parts, cogs in the machine. One added move, a change in the order, though, and we have a grandma frantically searching the crowded narthex for a little boy, a frenzied search that grows ever more so with each passing second.

Suddenly the sea of people who were mostly all friends became barriers, they were hindering me, I needed them all to MOVE OUT OF MY WAY.  Friends turned into strangers who I feared, I wanted to scream above the din. Cursing the circular design of the church as I wondered if Plum was going left while I went right. I stationed someone at the doors, hollered over the masses to Chef that our Plum was missing, gave the one sentence to Janet as I passed her in a hallway that every mother understands, “I can’t find Plum.” Trusted community mobilized, panic spiraling into terror with each passing second, spying Janet through windows as she searched left, right.  Rounding the hallways, afraid to move too far from the front doors, right, left, back into the sanctuary, around the commons, repeat. I could barely breathe. In my fear, it didn’t occur to me to check the one room that holds the most appeal: the video game and couch luring Plum into Chef’s Sunday school room. Another sweep through the halls and I heard voices first, “Found Him!” I arrived to see Chef, Janet and Chef’s co-leader all converged on this room, around a Plum who was slightly frustrated that he couldn’t keep up with his grandpa, a Plum who knew he would be found, didn’t even know he was lost.   Mustering the tiny bit of self-control I had left, I sank into a nearby chair and allowed them all to handle the first line of questions. I really wanted to push through even these most trusted friends and grab this child, hold on until my breathing was restored. When I summoned him to me, a necessary act that meant I didn’t doing any grabbing, I tried to find the balance between expressing how important it is to stay with trusted adults and not scaring him. Time will tell if I achieved that, I think a second conversation may be necessary. I want him to feel safe at church, safe with all of those adults, in the hallways, away from my eyesight. I want to feel safe with him more than a step away from me as well.

I tell Plum all the time he is my favorite. As of this writing, he is the only male grandchild so I am safe in this designator. This child has seen some horror in his life already, is feeling the pain of two critical but disconnected relationships, still is mostly well adjusted. He is my treasure. I reflected all day on Jesus’s parable of the lost sheep, leaving the 99 to search for that one who left the fold. I can only imagine the panic in God’s heart as He watches us wander off, as He sends out the search party to bring us back to the sanctuary. Oh my God, I am so sorry for those times I have wandered beyond the hallways that circle your altar, the times I ignored the calls of those trying to find me. That I have caused that terror in His heart while I played games, I could just cry again. Still, how comforting to know that just as I would never stop searching for my Plum, my God will pursue me, will stay after my soul. I am his treasure. So are you. Can you hear His frantic calls for us to return? Is He asking you to join a search party for a lost sheep?

My heart still quickens at possibilities yesterday. When I told mama what happened, admitting up front that we had a “bit of an issue,” her response was calming. “Pretty safe place to get lost, at church.”  I too get lost there almost every time I visit, lost in His mercy, lost in His grace. I am keeping my eye out for others who feel frantic, who feel lost or that something is missing. As God’s favorite, I need to be ready to join the search party. Today though, I mostly need to remember what was found and let go of the panic that still threatens to paralyze me. Plum was safe all along and he knew it.  So am I. God is always pursuing us, even more than a crazed gran after her favorite.

Mental Health March

On By LisaIn Faith, The Chef, TravelLeave a comment

Chef describes depression as bean bag chairs that rest on him, laying on his shoulders and covering his head. A bit comfy at first, molding to his body, providing shelter, blocking the harsh light from his eyes. (Well, he said the bean bag part.) The longer the bean bags, light as they are, stay in place, though, they become heavy, too awkward to carry around. Easier to sit still and not explain to onlookers why you are carrying beanbag chairs on your shoulder, simpler to not move and mess with the weight of them, jostling the little beans inside until they push even further onto your body, obstructing more of your view. Shoulders become weary, begin to sag. Neck muscles grow exhausted, head begins to droop. A slow gentle process of depression,  sinking under the bean bag chairs until you are covered and can no longer see, no longer lift them alone. I think fear is the same, worry is the same, anxiety, the same. All begin with just little bean bag on our shoulder, one becomes two, more sneak on top until we are stuck in the darkness. Or maybe like tiny seeds that get watered and nurtured and tended until they grow so great around our souls we are imprisoned in a garden of our making. We lose sight of the fact that we CAN lift those damn bean bags, we CAN chop down the weeds of worry. Getting up, moving into the light of community, we can find our way out of the darkness.

I have spent most of every day since election night consumed with worry and fear and disbelief that our country really wanted someone so filled with hate speech, so blatantly dangerous to women,  to lead us, to be the person our children learn about in school. To be honest, there was a time I was completely behind Hillary but that wasn’t this election until it was him or her. I know the weaknesses of choosing her, I knew better the danger of choosing him. So I too have felt the garden of fear growing around me, requiring every bit of my attention to chop down new growth and avoid fertilizing existing sprouts. When I realized the march was happening, I saw a chance to wack the entire greedy garden away. I invited the one person I wanted to march with, my niece who is a young woman on the cusp of political awareness, waking up to her voice, finding her beliefs. I knew her passion would provide some strength to do necessary gardening.

We planned the trip on the cheap. We drove ourselves overnight,  a cooler filled with sandwiches and snacks, scheduled naps in hotel parking lots. We listened to political podcasts to stay awake, drank too much coffee and consumed the miles separating us from Washington D.C. as if our lives depended on it. Because sort of, they did. We had to go and be in the crowd of others who were vanquishing fear and worry and depression, a mass of people who were together clearing away whatever weight or weeds were holding them down or back. Our family at home were concerned about safety, Chef had serious reservations about my health. We arrived to find the largest crowd of protesters ever recorded and experienced not a single moment of concern. Women are just intrinsically nurturing beings, we want to foster each other and the earth and our children, put 500,000 of us together and we still say please and thank you, we still smile and make space for one more. Yes, we were angry, but we were not hateful. Yes, we were motivated but not destructive. Yes, we were loud but we listened also. We found power in the collective by making space for many concerns without the requirement to signoff on every concern. Fear and worry and depression turned away, hope and passion lifted us all.

I heard it described as a group of whiners, a bunch of women who needed the therapy of being together to recover from Hillary losing. As if therapy is a bad thing, a shameful thing. It WAS therapeutic, it did restore my mental health. I was able to sit on the “couch” of D.C. and pour out my emotions and let the crowd counselor make sense of them, tell me I am not alone, wash them away. But more than that, I was given an action plan, a call to keep moving once I returned home and the weeds looked scraggly and exhaustion set in. Once my body began to truly ache and my feet were on fire, I could choose to descend back into hopelessness but make no mistake, that would be my choice now. I have tools, I have a community, I have work that needs to be done. So, yes, excellent therapy, money well spent. No shaming me or my movement for this label. We already know the benefit of mental health services, the stigma won’t stick.

For those who have yet to embrace the causes of the march, for those who think it doesn’t reflect their interests, no worries. We will march and act and get louder for you. When we are growing weary, we will need your backup for the next wave. By then, I am confident you will see yourself in the faces of women and men and children who just want to be respected and heard by our leader. To all who marched in D.C. and around the world, thanks for clearing away the weight of depression’s bean bags, thanks for chopping out the weeds of worry in my soul garden. President Obama told us, “Yes, we can.”  I say, “Yes, we will.” We have already begun, together. For today, I will be propping my feet up on the bean bags, enjoying the flowers that are blooming in my soul.

Jolted

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

Having spent the better part of a month watching Grey’s Anatomy (very late to this party, yeah yeah) I am convinced of two things: 1) I am pretty much qualified to perform cardio-thoracic surgery and 2) shocking a person with major jolts of electricity is sometimes necessary to save them. Surely my pastor would rather I found my life lessons in his sermons, inspiration in my small groups, greater understanding of my world through bible study. Still trashy tv sometimes settles my tired mind into a place that can absorb all those things, allows the thoughts that swirl too quickly throughout the day to find a resting place as I snuggle in and just stop thinking. Who knew I would see the hope and plan of God in the antics of raunchy surgeons?

Certainly attending a funeral just days before my birthday ratchets up the mortality swirls and twists of my pondering. Considering who would come, what would they say, what would be my legacy, maybe enough to jump start my life. A God jolt asking if I feel done, do I want more. How many times do I need my heart restarted before I get up and accept the recovery and take the healing offered? Choices that land one in the place of requiring that shock of paddles onto chest, the bad food or extra stress, all amount to poisoning the temple where God resides. Would I really sully the sanctuary with bitterness and alcohol, with anger and inertia? Why allow those toxins into my life? Yes God can handle my very real feelings, but I have to be willing to give them up, not share them with Him and then take them back, gathered like precious jewels, family heirlooms, keepsakes.  Crying out to my Father with my aching heart is modeled for me throughout the ages, filling my heart back up with my moanings is not. An offering of my pain, not the pure goat or pristine lamb, but the bloated crippled hobbled creature I have nurtured for too long, that needs to be sacrificed at the altar. Laid bare and left behind. Carrying around a damaged heart without accepting the healing offered, so readily available, sullies my temple body and slowly squelches the life right out of me. Then the God jolt comes, the chance for a new life, a fresh start.

I listened during this funeral service as family and friends spoke of a life lived to the fullest, a life now mourned because her passing left a hole too big for anyone to imagine filling. I felt hit with the paddles, an invitation to leave such a mark, not out of pride but to have served God so fully that when I move on, someone might be inspired to carry on good stuff in my name. She was quite different from me, those words shared about her were uniquely hers. My purpose is mine, my legacy will be different. The chairs filled, the stories told, every one of us has our own chance to start today with that jolt to wake up and live towards our purpose or continue to carry our bloated disillusionment and pain. Which is worse, to admit to watching trashy tv or acknowledge that I felt my mourning during a an incredibly moving funeral service mix with an energizing force? I was electrocuted with hope for a new day, the possibility of a life lived with meaning.

I also learned from my time with the medical show that most patients didn’t expect to be on the table with the wires strapped to their chests, they didn’t know that was their day. I learned about the “surge” that comes with knowing death is near, the need to draw family close and right all the wrongs. What if instead of waiting for the surge, we pretended we were on the table, offering up our lives to God and letting him control the paddles? Jolt of new life, a restart today, an invitation to sacrifice our grudges and toxic unforgiveness and accept the grace of a new breath, fresh holy air into our lives.

Birthdays invite us to pause and reflect, to take note of progress and purpose and paths not taken. Funerals ask us to if we have made those birthdays meaningful, not just a count of the candles on our cake but an assessment of each day in between the year markings. God jolted my heart again this week, reminded me I still have more life to live, another chance to right some wrongs, to offer hope to others who see only darkness, a bit more love to share. My heart is electrified, my soul is opening to this new year. My legacy may be that I just keep trying, a broken woman who won’t stay down. What will you do with your surge? Today is our day, all of us. Wake up, let’s make it count.

Invitation

Open For Visitors

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

I swear it was not planned, at least not by me. I just wrote about my new office, described my sanctuary. I didn’t get into the nitty-gritty of each item that made the cut, the thoughtful decisions of final resting places either on my window sill, the bookcase or a shelf, the absolute tyranny I wield over this space because I arranged it and it is filled with my stuff and it is mine! The less attractive details that give a peek into my ache for some bit of determination into just a bit of something, a tiny piece of control over where I at least put my own basket or cup of pencils. I have been working on letting go of what is not mine, the “give it all to God” plan that I battle with so often. That work doesn’t include my office.  The pottery that sits on my desk, I want that just off to the right where my eye catches it every time I reach for my coffee. It reminds me of Janet who brings honesty and grace into my life, sees my brokenness and has never shied away. The picture of my brother and I when we reached Colorado, I want to see it each morning and remember I can do hard and uncomfortable things and be rewarded with amazing insights into God’s creation. The pieces of twine, fraying snips of string, those are my reminders of connections to friends from back home, back when, who stand with me and for me with love, women far away  but who can be reached with just a tug. Another picture is off to the left, where my politics and a deep friendship from college have settled, a drawing from an art fair that captures my faith and this friendship. It reminds me the artist knew my daughter, back when. No random objects here, nothing buried under a hoarding mess. My office is an exquiste time capsule, not fancy surely, but all a reflection of me and my life travels.

Then Plum came to visit. He didn’t know he was intruding, he didn’t know he was supposed to stay out or knock first on the slightly opened door, he didn’t know that the books were arranged on shelves by topic and size. He only knew this room was most recently his play area and his gran was now in it and his gran delights in all that he does and … can you see that it really wasn’t his fault? Yet I grew tense, I suggested we play out in the living room, I offered that maybe Grandpa wanted to play a game with him. Even more appalling, he brought a laundry basket overflowing with several of his closest stuffed friends, dumped them out on my floor then proceeded to develop an elaborate storyline of how each one was finding this space welcoming. Certainly not the vibe I was putting out. Introductions were made at his insistence then animals read books, colored pictures, climbed the ladder in the corner, scoured the globe, two rather shy ones joined up for a game of hide and seek on the shelves. I am ashamed to admit that at first I was quite twitchy, I only noticed that MY stuff was invaded and jostled and messed up. I left for a minute, screamed in a whisper to Chef, returned with a resigned attitude, ready to ride it out while I tried not to keep checking the time. I sat on my hands while I plastered a smile on to avoid grabbing each toy and throwing them back into the basket and right out the door. How long before I could shut this playdate down?

I almost missed it. So very close to clenching my teeth right over the joy of this child sharing his stories in my writing room, realizing that he was arranging his specials as he created his words as well. Oh dear God help me break out of my rigidity!  This world belongs to our Father first, we claim it as our own with lines drawn on paper, we erect our shelves, arrange our specials and create our stories in the space God created, as if we really did something, forgetting just like Plum in my office space, He was here first. I almost missed that my Plum was copying me, he was setting up a space to then share his words. How could I hold so tightly to my room that I didn’t want to nurture his storytelling?

Thankfully I got the nudge that comes with being open to God first thing in the morning, He reminded me that this room is not really mine, that these objects are memories of my own nurturance and empowerment. He reminded me that the most importance room in my world is the one in my heart for this child. I took some deep breaths, I allowed an elephant to tromp across my desk and a rabbit to frolic on my shelves. A giraffe read a book, a frog climbed the ladder while a dog and a bear shyly found each other and played hide and seek. The moose gardened and the panda explored the globe. Soon they all packed up and left, except the shy friends. Plum decided they were most comfortable now with me and were choosing to stay. He said they enjoyed how I shared with them and felt more at home here rather than up with all the other animals.

I have two new objects in my office, hints to be softer, more inviting, ready to cuddle when the rare chance comes. Two blue scuffed up toys that remind me I wasn’t here first no matter how much I try to claim this space. I am a visitor also, I have to knock first too. God opened the door for me to see His world, the real perfect garden He created in my soul. All of this belongs to God, all of me is His. Will I shut the door, arrange my stuff and sit quietly to reminisce or open myself up to new stories and visitors and the charming sounds of a six year old who teaches me about flexibility and finding new friends?

I like my stuff just how it is, I bet God arranged His garden just as He wanted as well. We are all guilty of making a mess of it,  yet He keeps the door open for us, allows us to enter freely and with forgiveness, we get to bring our scruffy friends and tell our stories and rearrange His people and move His creatures. It seems the further I run into my own space, the more I realize the journey is where I see God, not in the destination of my own little territory. Surely I can follow His example and open my heart room for a few more visitors. Some may even choose to stay.

Exquisite
Marathon

Treasure of the Broken

On By LisaIn Faith, The Chef10 Comments

Sparkling glittering shining objects gather dust under Plum’s bed, old jewelry boxes and  wooden drawers become secret compartments for his treasures. Chains from dogs who have passed away, slivers of ribbon, an earring I left on my dresser, a burnout lightbulb, anything that glimmers is stowed away amongst the stray bits of beast hair and cracker crumbs, the sweeper unable to manage the maze of riches. He sleeps, dreams above his stores, his slumber content that his wealth safe. He protects prizes that are castoffs, items no longer wanted by anyone else, he sees glory in the imperfections, maybe doesn’t notice the missing parts, uneven edges. The lock that doesn’t have a key, the scrap of paper from an old valentine with a trail of peeling glue where specks of glitter once were. He knows wealth is truly understood only in our hearts.

I too like broken things, the bits of imperfection speak to my soul. I find comfort in artistry with flaws, incomplete sets of dishes, mismatched furniture. Stories live there, both in what has survived and what is missing. When pressed to display Christmas dishes given to me many years ago when the donor was due for a visit, panic set in. Too many pieces, every imaginable plate or bowl, glasses, cups, a gravy boat and salt and pepper shakers, overwhelming in the utter completeness of it all. Too perfect. Too much pressure. No story in these dishes, nothing to imagine or dream about, every detail filled in, there is no room for me here. I collect broken things, stray cats, real people with scrapes and scars, a bit disheveled by life.

Being vulnerable enough to show our own wounds allows the air to reach them, starts the healing process. Injuries hidden away grow infected, abscess, destroy the whole body. The mask of perfection appears shiny, glittering, but will never be treasured in any soul box under God’s bed. Those masks keep us apart, distanced, hide our tears, the real shine of honesty unseen. I can’t find anything in the bible about Jesus wearing fancy robes or stylish sandals but I do remember the verse that says He wept. I imagine his brown skin gleaming with the mix of water and salt as those tears glistened in His eyes, ran down his cheeks. The ultimate in vulnerability, shininess of broken made whole only in Him. I see that same sweet truth when my pastor gets real on the raised bias as he teaches us weekly or as I pour out my broken fearful heart to him and he hears me, really helps carry my pain. His eyes sometimes leak out realness. I see a man who understands broken things and collects us all into his congregation, stores us up, asks us to go find more beaten and battered people to bring in to God’s love. Being broken doesn’t mean we need fixed, it means we are healing, we are allowing the air of hope and truth to reach our wounds. Allowing others to know we have pain alerts the whole body of Christ to our sorrows, allows them to share our burdens, encourages them to lower their masks and display their own mismatched pieces. What if we all got so real that we wept at church and cried out to God together to heal us, heal our world? What if we stopped saying “I’m fine” and truly answered each other? What if we listened and watched and valued the glistening of tears as the treasure of a soul being bared?

I know that God collects the broken, the weak, the poor, the needy. The perfect have no need for Him. They are already complete, like my Christmas dishes. Have you any room in your treasure box for another broken soul? Can you see the shine of bits and bobs, the cast offs? I encourage you to lower your mask, remove the obstruction from your eyes, uncover your ears, listen with your heart. Broken treasures surround us all.

Shine

Uneven

Gliding into Gratitude

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

Tissues piled on the table, a glass of orange juice and a cup of hot tea, trashy tv that requires no mental faculties, a warm blanket, all indicators that a virus has hit. I lay on the couch searching for self-pity but none comes. It is just a cold, just a dumb sinus thing and how blessed am I that it waited until after the new baby, after school started, after Christmas and all the celebrations? So I snuggle under the blankets and Chef brings more tea and I doze, floating along in a daze, remembering that rest is healing.

When my children were little, I told them the fighter guys inside of them worked while they slept, that is when they got better. I explained those guys were too busy during the day dealing with all the stuff of just making their bodies work, so at night while they slept, or during the nap I was trying to convince them to take, that is when those guys could work on just the sickness. Medicine was extra fighter guys, sometimes we needed back up. I tell the same thing to Plum, he is more skeptical than my Stella and Arrow were. I often have to get more realistic with him, remind him the doctor always says rest and fluids, get some back up of my own. They slept, he sleeps, I slide into unconsciousness on the couch to the sound of trashy tv and dream of fighter guys healing me, a days gone by when I nursed my children.

The hot tea I drink, a new addition to my fluid choices. After at least a year of me saying I don’t like tea as we met weekly, Janet offered up a cup of the one I thought smelled so good. I curled my lip, I wrinkled my nose, I prepared to waste the cup she brought to me. I already knew the aroma was enticing, still I hated the flavor. I was sure. Yet I sipped, just one tiny taste so as not to be ruder than I already was and then discovered like many times at Janet’s house I had to deliver my “I was wrong” speech. She most often already knows and patiently smiles without telling me so. Like the silent fighter guys, there is healing in trying new things and especially in admitting our own mistakes. The tea I drink now replenishes the fluids I lose when I blow my nose every 10 minutes, warming my hands as I clutch the mug, reminding me of soul healing on better days. The blessing of friendship hovering like the steam that wafts with each new portion.

Chef attends to me, so much sweeter than I when he is sick. I am an impatient nurse to him, physical needs met and then out the door. Maybe more like an orderly, just dropping off food, cleaning up the tissue pile, next dose of meds administered, on to the next patient. I am blessed that my Chef is willing to bring more orange juice even when it isn’t time for rounds, that he will watch dumb tv with me and get up 100 times to deal with the beasts. He offers food multiple times and makes sure I have taken meds. He lets me rest, allows my fighter guys do their thing. He doesn’t add the emotional toll of making me feel like a burden, something I need to work on. Especially because I heard him sneezing yesterday. More tissues, more tea. More rest. As I heal, I must remember that sometimes sickness looks different, sometimes fighter guys need  back up doing waking hours. My Chef deserves a more attentive nurse, more than tea refills.

This forced slowdown is a chance to focus, to zoom in on either myself and my misery or on just how very blessed I am. As the tissue pile grows higher I can’t help but choose to list   all that is right in my world. Maybe I have a fever, maybe I have completely lost it, but laying on the couch with a warm blanket covering me, surrounded by evidence of love and the healing nature of my God, I can barely utter a worthwhile moan. Maybe it is appropriate to begin the new year resting up and drinking more tea, with fighter guys working extra hard. With no crystal ball to see what is ahead, never guessing all that 2016 would have brought, I consider my choices. Sink or Swim? I hope to share more healing this year, less germs and viruses. I hope to remember how it feels to be cared for when I am weak, how freeing it is to admit when I am wrong, how to generously accept others admissions. I hope to swim in a pool of gratitude, never sinking into despair or self-righteousness, ugly viruses that spread more readily than the flu.

May your year find less piles of tissues, extra fighter guys while you rest and many ways to nurture those around you. Warm mugs of tea, trashy tv and cozy blankets during the cold days ahead, shall we count our blessings with each other?

Float

Joy Got on the Bus

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The ChefLeave a comment

The bus just took my Plum off to start the 2nd semester, the beginning of the end of kindergarten. I was tempted to pretend I didn’t know the date, forgot that school started again today. Our home is too quiet without the giggles of this little boy, the crashing about as he searches in his toy rom for just the right weapon, the shouts for me as he wakes. He exhausts me, uses up every ounce of energy, I long for my bed mid afternoon most days when he is here. Snacks that seem to come just after dishes are done from the last meal, crayons scattered about the dining room rather than his art table, couch cushions endlessly needing adjusting, I can never rest. As soon as the beasts finally lay down, he erupts in laughter or a race around the room, they come alive again and begin battling, chaos ensues. I should welcome the bus, delight in the sight of that orange vehicle stopping at the end of our driveway. Yet I am tempted to wave the driver on, keep our little noisemaker for another day.

Plum discovered a really annoying game that he and Chef play on the tv, something that is ridiculous with music that makes my head hurt. I sit in the other room while they goad each other and trash talk, cackles and shouts of triumph filling the air. My little boy who used to delight in gran time, baking and cleaning, now drives monster vehicles up hills and crashes to get more points than his grandfather. I try to tempt him into mopping the floor, dusting the furniture, instead he slides around the wet tile and practices his cool falls. He is turning into a boy, full of testosterone. He doesn’t want to be hugged at the bus stop, he rebuffs my attempts to cuddle when he bumps his knee. No longer little, he is growing and every attempt to push him back into my little boy is thwarted. He loves all the time with grandpa now, they talk about farting and butts and think they are hilarious. I stay in the other room. Still, when I snuck away to my bed for a nap, he lined the hallway from his room to mine with candy canes and set up a complex trap for me to find in his room with various figurines, marbles, bionicles, and blocks. Then he woke me to play, unable to wait for me to discover his evil plan. He wanted some gran time after all.

The music of his tinkling giggles, this child’s delight lures me closer, like bells at Christmas or the ice cream truck melody. You just know that this sound holds joy. My mood, my energy is always lightened, I want more. His chatters, his songs, talking to no-one and anyone, I want to hear every word, I am his willing audience to it all. Encore please, chatter some more. Stay home with gran, I will listen to it all. Yet the bus comes and he gets on, his teacher will hear his chatter. Our home is quiet.

I wonder as the bus pulls away if the driver realizes how precious he is, if his teacher knows she has an amazing child in her midst. Can anyone see this boy and not feel awe? The driver has many children, just as the teacher does. Maybe his giggles aren’t music to them,  lost in the cacophony of so many. So we wait for his return. We clean up crayons, return weapons to the toy room and rest up. He will bring his music back, each time with added vocabulary and greater math skills. His voice will grow deeper, he will grow taller. Yet his gran and gramps will always be here, his oh so willing audience, listening for the sound of our joy returning.
Tempted