Category: The Chef

stories of my amazing husband, my favorite teacher ever

My Own Rosary

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

I have a tattoo. It adorns my wrist, a charm bracelet that never dangles or is removed because it clashes with my outfit. I have to be honest to say that I chose to walk into the tattoo parlor not in my twenties or during a bachelorette party but when I was 50, fully aware of the life choice I was making. Because this marking falls on my wrist and onto my hand, if I am not wearing mittens, it shows. Exactly what I wanted. I get asked about it all the time, compliments from young people and musings about the point of it from those closer to my age. What I tell people is this: it is kinda like my own rosary beads. I grew up in the Catholic church, we were taught to pray a specific prayer for each bead on the necklace. This charm bracelet is my prayer minder, my constant companion, my own list of joys and concerns.

One charm is of a knife, fork and spoon set, it signifies my husband. It takes the place of honor closest to my heart, where my pulse can be felt. Another charm is an arrow, the symbol for my son, who has always been protective and has a choice of which direction his life will go. The elephant charm is an ode to the trip I took with my daughter, a fiercely independent and loyal child. Next comes the tiara for my grandaughter, my little princess and then the globe, for my grandson, my whole world. Finally, a tree, to show my family, friends and faith. They keep my rooted and reaching for more. With two more grandchildren on the way and a bonus granddaughter here, I have been considering additional charms. My bracelet, just as my heart, holds the capacity for more.

My tattoo is not a piece of artwork, it isn’t the most intricate and holds no colors. Yet for me, the beauty of each glance at my wrist, each reminder to lift someone up in prayer, is that I know my church family is joining me. I can look at the arrow and see years of prayer, faithful friends and strangers alike who have lifted this child and now man up through many life struggles. I am reminded I am not alone. I glance at the elephant and I see friends who know my daughter, really know her. People who prayed for our safety throughout our South East Asia backpacking trip and celebrated her successes as a young woman traveling  on her own, who have wrapped her in love and prayer when she was pregnant with our princess who now receives her own prayers from the same long-distance friends and family, those she has yet to meet. I pray for my daughter and granddaughter but know I am not alone in those prayers.  The globe, these same people have been praying for this child almost from the moment of conception. He is one of our church’s own, a boy so wrapped in the love of God and the faithful acts of His people, I know I am never alone as I lift him up to God.

As I look at the tree, my family and friends, I am reminded to be thankful, to not just ask but to praise God for His blessings of those who are joined with us, chained with our little family into the larger family of God. Those branches give us shelter, encourage us to climb higher. We stay rooted in His Word by their example and know we are bound together. Maybe a simple cross necklace provides this comfort for others, I needed my own rosary, specific beads to define my prayers. A Catholic ritual brought into our Methodist traditions. Joys and concerns shared not just on Sundays but with every glance at my wrist.

I have a tattoo that reminds me I am never alone in my worries, fears, joys and celebrations. May you be filled with such a reminder every moment as well, may you know that even in the darkness when trees seem to obstruct the light, you are rooted in the family of God. May you find comfort in knowing your joys and concerns are shared by all those encircled by the faith.

The Temptation of More

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

As we made the hour trip to visit family my Plum had questions about houses. He wanted to know what was the very first house ever made. I described the abode Adam and Eve must have created as they left the ultimate shelter. He wanted to see it, wondered why it wouldn’t still be around. As we passed houses we considered how many people lived in each, how many and what kind of pets they might have. Room for beasts like us, cats or maybe a bowl of goldfish? He asked about the smallest house ever and then of course the largest. He was into extremes, sometimes that is how we start, working our way from outer edges back to us. We talked about his old apartment, perfect for just him and Mama but as his family grew they needed more. This apartment has enough space for a stepdad and a new baby sister. We showed him images of the Biltmore Mansion in North Carolina, a reminder of a trip Chef and I took many years ago. Shocked at learning such places existed, imagining getting lost inside, he asked if we would ever have a mansion. I told him we did. We described out home, too much space now for just us but perfect many times throughout the years for all who have needed a dwelling place. We talked about having too much, losing each other in all that house, and about those who have so little that our home is a mansion to them.

We focus often on what we don’t have, the missing pieces, the broken parts or compare to others who have newer bigger shinier versions. With one conversation with my Plum, I gained perspective again, remembering that first home that was filled with everything, all needs met. Still wasn’t enough, temptation to have more, the extra that was out of the budget, the lure of that comes with taking our eyes off of the beauty surrounding us. That is when we lose it all. Lose all perspective and are cast out of goodness and understanding that God is providing. What we have is our enough. Regardless of the beauty of someone else’s enough, regardless of the size of their garden, our enough is from God. We are not called to seek more, we are called to SHARE more. What if Eve had invited that serpent in to share in her garden, to find peace and sanctuary in there? Maybe she had many times, maybe she was broken down by the temptation. Imagining what could possibly have not been enough for her, that she wanted more, with no job loss, with no aging parents, without addiction, with estrangement, without any other worries, what in God’s name could have been so bad that she just had to want more? But that is just it, my list is no one else’s, the things that tempt my sinful nature. Hers were different and show that regardless of how easy life is, still we are broken, we are human. So we compare what we have with others and think we should have bigger, better, newer.

When I traveled to South East Asia, my heart was changed forever. I cannot look at our home with all of its needs and not see how rich we are. I cannot un-know the poverty I witnessed. I am not a saint, I still want to buy way too many Lego sets, especially the new Batman mini figs coming out. It may kill me not to be able to collect those with my Plum. We have reached the place in our financial state where I dare not buy even one packet, I must resist the temptation. Yet every trip down the hallway I pass a toy room filled with Lego, I know he has enough. I find pieces in my purse, on my desk, on the dining room table. Scattered bits of toys that would be precious to those who have not even one. We have enough, our enough is plenty.

The new year brings many ads to organize all the stuff that came in for Christmas, ways to stow away and sort all the things we accumulate. Buying more to clean up what we just bought. The temptations are endless, the lure to forget that what we have is enough beyond the belief to so many. Considering that Jesus carried nothing with him, amassed no wealth, built no homes with attached garages and extra sheds to store his extra robes, how can I as a follower think I need more? If I truly believe that every single thing in my home is gifted from God, how can I question if it is enough, can I really go to Him and say I need more?

Houses are structures. Temporary dwellings that can be filled with people, creatures, love, turned into gardens of Eden. Used to satisfy the needs of all who wander, all who need shelter, places for us to rest as we do the work of God. Conversely they can be the casting out places without us even realizing it, brimming with evidence of temptation engaged, apples bitten. May your home reflect your love of God, may it feel like enough. May your home be a refuge for the lost, may you find peace in your dwelling place.  I live in a mansion built by God. May I look around and see not all that is broken, not what is missing, but see just how very blessed I am. And then share it. This mansion has plenty of room for those in need.

<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/gone/”>Gone</a&gt;

 

No Trespassing

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

A truth-teller has a critical role in the family, the historian of events, the keeper of stories. Reminding others of the progression of actions which led up to the big celebration or catastrophe is a big job, but of equal importance is the role of the listener. Without the ones who hear, the truth wanders out and about, wasted maybe, wisps of smoke floating away. Truth-tellers depend on listeners to accept their offerings, to soak in the stories and become their own truth-tellers. What happens when listeners are robbed of the chance to hear? What becomes of the village when raided by false story tellers who spread lies like wild fires, burning not only bridges but charring all the inhabitants? What turns listeners away from the truth, what encourages them to follow a false prophet? Discounting hard evidence to believe a lie takes effort, requires a conscious turning. But why? I learned long ago to ask what is to be gained to find my answers to any set of behaviors.

If I am an addict and I need you to believe that my use is behind me, I can follow the charted course of those who live that life. I can practice honesty, humility, follow the tried and true steps of atoning and staying abstinent. What I cannot do is use a different substance and call myself clean, I cannot behave as if I am owed everything while giving nothing. Typical using behaviors that aren’t ignored by truth-tellers. But what if I want you to believe my version of the truth? What will it cost? Do I have to accept the lies you also tell? Stories of happiness that hide dangerous secrets, stories of bliss that cover mental illness? The lies that bind that village will ultimately burn it down, pillaged by the very distrust inherent in the creation. The Bible talks about building houses that way:

24 “Everyone then who hears these words of mine and does them will be like a wise man who built his house on the rock. 25 And the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat on that house, but it did not fall, because it had been founded on the rock. 26 And everyone who hears these words of mine and does not do them will be like a foolish man who built his house on the sand.27 And the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat against that house, and it fell, and great was the fall of it.” Matthew 7:24-27

I built my house on truth and it is costly. I was never promised an easy life, surely haven’t experienced it. Yet I know my little village is safe from marauders who seek to destroy it. No longer enslaved by shame, no longer at the mercy of false story tellers, I shout my truth and count on the listeners to hear. Or not. Because it is always a choice. We each get to build our house, invite in who we want. This is my house. My story.  Pillagers are not welcome here. My home is protected, my heart is safe from those who would ransack,  those who would spread shame, crashing into my home, uninvited invading intruding What’s that other verse?

“Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” John 8:32

Ah, yes, that one. The one that sheds light in the darkness, that restores the broken, that destroys the power of evil. Grace abounds in my village of brokenness, where light finds the truth and we are free. Glory be to God.

 Pillage

Family Fusion

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, Stella, The Chef7 Comments

The room was too tiny for all of us, squished together in the apartment living room and kitchen combination. Toys and gifts littered the floor, boxes of new cologne sets and bath products lined the steps up to the bedrooms. The countertops held vegetable trays and dips, desserts and bits of Legos, snowman napkins and plastic silverware. The kind of disaster that normally sends me into evacuation mode. A cluttering of all things holiday complete with grandparents, two uncles, the favorite grandchild, the Mama and the step-father. The assortment of people couldn’t have been more odd, as if they each were dressed for Independence Day or Halloween. But it was Christmas as a very blended family and it worked. A holiday with those who put aside bloodlines and chose each other.

Seven years ago my son was deep into his drug use, his girlfriend was riding along with him. They were never together sober. When they discovered she was pregnant, she moved in with us, we really didn’t know her but she had no other options. Thus began a long and often tortuous relationship with Mama. We have loved, battled, rescued, stepped away and jumped back in so many times that others question our sanity. It took a serious court proceeding over Plum’s custody for her to determine she was all in with her son, she has never looked back. What should have broken us completely was actually the ultimate glue, the deepest honesty brought us all together. No longer being careful to not hurt feelings or being afraid of the consequences, we had to act and tell the truth. She was forced to hear it and choose. She is a wonderful Mama to her son now, we are grandparents along side her. The process of letting go of our Plum, little by little and supporting her as his mother has been healthy for all of us, she leans on us more, rather than him doing the leaning.  Today she will deliver her second child, my bonus grandchild (thanks LuAnn for the terminology!), a child not in any way blood related and yet still somehow we will be gran and gramps. This is blending, we are choosing to stay in.

Mama married a young man who has taken in not only her but her child, my Plum. Plum celebrated the union, asked if he could then call him “Dad.” While my heart broke just a little, I knew this man would not abandon Plum, he would be present daily to play games and nightly to see him off to bed. He would make sure money was in the lunch account, that rough play on the floor occurred. He would make fart jokes and tell Plum to respect his mother. We have embraced this young man, he comes to our house and reaches right into the candy bowl, walks freely upstairs to Plum’s room to play Lego. They join us for dinner, he texts me with questions about the pregnancy. He is my bonus son. More than that, his parents have taken in my Plum, they treat him as one of their own grandchildren.  Special nights out, amazing gifts, time to play, complete grandma duties. I love that they love him. They have chosen to blend, to combine and accept the wholeness of who to love with all of their love. I was honored to help plan the wedding with Plum’s new grandma, to coordinate decorations and food, the glueing of the new us. We found there was space for all of us to be, an expansion of family, no bloodlines needed. Fully blending.

This child needs all the love that can be poured into him. His father has checked out, his aunt disappeared. His paternal grandfather is just as he was with his own children, absent.   Yet a new family has assembled who will worry less about roles and bloodlines and past hurts to create new memories, to allow room for all who want to love on Plum and  celebrate this new baby. So we found space in the tiny apartment for all of us to sit and eat and play and chatter, a regular holiday scene with unusual players. We have labored hard to get to this point, the ability to rejoice without worry, nurture without scorekeeping, clean up without judgment. We found harmony.

While my heart was saddened that Arrow could not choose to see his son yesterday, not even on a special day, I knew it was for the best. Plum didn’t seem to notice his absence, even sadder still. Addiction does that to families, teaches you not to count on the one using. Without sobriety, my son is unable to see truth, accept humility, be the man I know he can be. The monster is raging within him, taken over again. Soon he will have a second child, just a matter of months, God only knows if he will be able to care for that one, create a family. Just as we could never have predicted the blending that has resulted in the beautiful holiday we just celebrated and the wonderful everyday we live out now with Mama, we have no idea what 2017 holds. I pray that next year more of our bloodline is present in whatever space we all occupy, more combining of love and trust and noise to round out our family scene. Maybe Arrow will be swept up in another grouping, a different merging of those who are unanchored and now finding connection. If so, I pray they share as much joy as we did last night.

Addiction has ravaged our family, caused my Arrow to retreat again from his son. The ugly truth is also the blessed honesty, Plum doesn’t notice. He is surrounded by a mixture of people who embrace him, his normal is somewhat crazy maybe to anyone who would ask to chart the family tree. Just as in a tiny stable so long ago, crowded and messy and noisy, we all came together to be with this child on Christmas. Those who missed it may still be traveling, searching for the star to guide their way. May they all find it, may it lead them to the Christ child who will surely lead them home, back to the tiny places that hold what is most dear.
Retreat

Fevered

On By LisaIn Faith, The Chef6 Comments

Let me first just say I am not proud of my behavior. I didn’t even really try to be better. I was distant, angry, bitter, keeping score. Graciousness would not be a word used to describe me, I barely spoke once they appeared. Certainly before that, we laughed, we played, we all prepped the meal together with enthusiasm. Yet as soon as the brother and wife entered the scene, I became the keeper of all the family troubles, the years of unspoken wounds, the recent outbursts of listing injuries and irritations. I held it all, they were free to loosen the grip long held so tightly, they ate together and behaved pleasantly for a meal with their mother. As if coming down with the flu, I became sicker with each passing moment, the symptoms of each persons negativity resting within me, festering within me, infecting my ability to smile, charm, care. I was ill so they could be well, for one evening.

On the drive home, Chef was pleased, he was surprised, he felt the grace that comes from giving with no strings. He listed all the ways everyone joined. I was seething, my tongue tasting of vinegar and acid rather than the incredible pizzas and cake Chef had prepared. Normally we spend the drive rehashing the visit, me talking Chef down, finding light, spotting hope. This time, I passionately spewed out words that felt foreign, I wondered about them as they left my lips. I didn’t have sentences, I had no point. I only had the family disease of negative feelings bursting open, I couldn’t contain it any longer. Those emotions aren’t me, hours of sickness came to end. My Chef fed me grace, I vomited darkness. Like any bout of nausea though, once the stored up virus of emotions was ejected, I felt better. My poor Chef was surely bewildered that his cheerleader was not cheering, instead frenzily jeering. The gift I gave them all had run its course, I now contaminated my Chef. I sneezed fury, I didn’t control the pathogens. He changed course, he began his own list of wrongs. I discovered my stomach still hurt, the momentary relief was gone. Too ill to nurse him back to grace, I sought bedrest as soon as we arrived home.

I am not a score-keeper, I can’t exist in an environment that tracks wrongs and highlights injustices. I need light, I seek grace. I just cannot survive where truth doesn’t matter, arguments carry on for years. I breathe in reconciliation, my soul wants healing. I believe in apologies, I believe in forgiveness. Yesterday we gave my Mother-In-Law a birthday party with all of her sons and the local grandkids town, possibly the last party she will experience in her own home. I gave her a party with no animosity, with joy and light. Everyone allowed me to hold their grudges for safe keeping, my fever increasing with each hand-off. Somehow, it was okay. I know the way back to grace. Maybe, just maybe, they won’t collect all that they gave me. Maybe watching my disease progress will be a warning, an encouragement to wash their hands more often, to change their diets from anger to joy.    Surely their souls aren’t beyond healing. I have hope, again. I have found my healing this morning. Still, I must ensure My Chef is not fully infected with the germs of my discontent. Lysol wipes and hot tea, hugs and love, I am eager to help him find his cure as well. Our faith heals us, we pursue a closer relationship with God with ardor. Like the flu vaccine, we may still get sick but our chances are better of making it through the long winter.

I sacrificed my wellness for one night. I am not proud of my behavior, it wasn’t pretty. The night though wasn’t about me. I would do it again, I hope I don’t have to. No one likes to be sick.
Enthusiasm

Stepping In It

On By LisaIn Faith, The ChefLeave a comment

What began as a gift to my friend Janet, an evening out with her husband while I watched her children, ended with unexpected yuck, gross, mess. Janet said this was a life lesson. I would have preferred that the lesson was one in which friends do nice things for each other, end of story.

The children and Plum made hanging birdseed ornaments to adorn a local assisted living home. We made a huge mess, laughed while seeds scattered and hands became sticky. When all of the birdseed had found a cookie cutter, each child washed hands, scrubbing away remnants of gelatin and sunflower seeds. As we ate dinner, the children delighted in silliness that comes on Friday evenings when tiredness hits and they are feeling free. I delighted that my friends were having a rare child-free few hours to reconnect. It all started out so good. The middle was great. Then Janet came to retrieve the children and as we chatted at the door her kids left to get in the car. Squish, ick, smash. Child stepped into a pile of beast leftovers in the yard. In his tennis shoes. That he wears all the time. They don’t have dogs, it didn’t occur to child to stay on sidewalk and driveway. Life lesson Janet said. Horror I said.

I wonder what he learned though? Watch where you step, especially in the dark? Feeling free doesn’t mean you are free? All good things end in shit? I can’t let go of this messy evening, stuck in my mind like the dried feces in the grooves in his shoes. Flecks that send out that distinct odor when the moisture of snow is added, thoughts of the ending overtake any other memories of the night. I wanted to give back a small portion of what she gives to me, I gave her shit covered shoes. My life lesson, some gifts are like this. We try to do good, sometimes it ends up with more work, more energy than maybe the gift was worth. Trying to avoid all of the landmines that come with dog ownership or families may mean carrying a flashlight, taking extra precautions. Some may choose just not to step anywhere close again. Deciding if the gift is worth the risk of a potential malodorous encounter is maybe the lesson for all of us.

We had planned for some time to accompany Chef’s mom to her doctor’s appointment, to have time to talk with him regarding diagnosis, prognosis, medication. We discussed the travel arrangements daily, sometimes several times a day with Mom who no longer remembers so much. When we arrived at her home though, we stepped into a pile of family dung 40 years deep. What began as a gift to all of us, to determine the true nature of her health care status, morphed into tears loud voices accusations. Phones ringing with sudden blasts and then the quick click to signal the call was over, we had stepped into feces and no one knew how to start cleaning. Further, the ugly horrid smell surrounding us all grew as each layer was exposed to air but not addressed, reconciled and cleaned. Old piles left in the yard decompose, but if the hard outer crust is disturbed, the smell permeates the air again, the process must start over. I know this from years of having beasts and Chef missing days of poop patrol. So putridness got exposed and we are all sitting in the stench.

Janet was right though. Life lesson indeed. Grab a toothbrush, start cleaning. Get all the tread, sorry it smells but it has to be done. It must be thoroughly cleaned or the bits will haunt you forever. We may not be able to clean up this mess with the brothers, yet we do have an opportunity to choose how to respond. We don’t have to accept all the poo that is directed at us, we can offer grace back. If we understand that the smell is coming from places of hurt and a lack of faith, we can show up with our Jesus face on. While dealing with old family hurts requires more grace than we often feel we have, we no longer have the freedom to avoid the interactions. The pile of feces we call family may stink, but with a bit of cleaning and nurturing, it can be fertilizer as well. A chance to grow something beautiful out of the filth. Today we will return to celebrate Mom’s birthday, it might get really smelly. I think I’ll take an extra pair of shoes, knowing we may get covered in excrement. I’m praying we find a way to clear the air.

 

 

Back into Place

On By LisaIn Faith, The ChefLeave a comment

He said to just relax. An impossible request with the pain clouding all thoughts as I lay prone on the floor, hoping the beasts wouldn’t take this as an invitation to play. My pelvis had popped out of place again, several days of excruciating pain with any movement, inability to stand without a groan escaping meant I couldn’t hide my condition. With enough physical therapy sessions under my belt and a long car trip looming, I decided it was time to teach my Chef to do a correction on my tail bone. First I showed him, then I lay down. Relax, he said. But I never relaxed when the professional was working on my twisted body, how could I under these circumstances. And then he touched my tailbone and gasped. Yep, he felt that it was not where it should be, he felt that it was sticking way out.  He pushed like I taught him, he maintained the study pressure, it slide enough that I can walk again. Now I can relax.

I realized as I let the steam from the shower calm the muscles that had tightened and the tendons that were pulled the wrong ways, that I was actually relieved that he had felt the protruding bone. I was vindicated. The culture in my family of origin is one of distrust when I am ill. I didn’t put it all together until recently, how much the family needed to invalidate my truth. Our very existence together required that I not be believed. This story has carried on though into adulthood in ways that are harmful, a story that the family hasn’t considered whether is true, fits, works. It is supported by subtle comments and jokes. Thus my tailbone sticking out and someone in the family touching it instead of a paid healthcare worker pleased me in a sick way.

In the summer before high school, I contracted Stevens Johnson Syndrome, a rare compilation of symptoms that attacked my mouth, throat, and then my insides with blisters and sores. Rushed to the hospital as they fought to diagnose and then find a treatment, my mother was told I might not live through the night. They were preparing to do a trach, I was struggling to breathe. Something worked, some swelling reduced, I began to fight the infections. I was left though with vocal cords that respond to colds with laryngitis almost every time. I was left with kidney issues that have plagued me well beyond pregnancy. I was left with crazy symptoms that have been discounted almost as soon as I left the wheelchair and enter the car to go home. My family made fun of me for losing my voice, it became a thing in our family. The culture of distrusting what I said was so deep that even with this serious event, they all needed to fall back into the habit of invalidating my voice, or lack of one.

For almost 12 years I have been under medical care for an autoimmune disease that seems to be running along the lines of MS. This leaves me unable sometimes to join in, sometimes so exhausted to go to events, often without words by the end of the day. Seasons come where I lose the ability to walk, where I have tremors so badly that I can’t hold a cup. Still, this condition is not believed in my family of origin because that is our culture. Relax, stay stress free, sleep when you need, this is the advice of my neurologist. I have to take care of me. No longer worrying about whether I am believed, whether I am heard, I just carry on. Until today when Chef pushed on that bone.

Much has been written about life in families where alcoholism and sexual abuse occur, the need for secret keeping and the roles each member plays. My honesty was sacrificed every bit as much as my body, my voice had to be silenced. Discrediting me was our glue, an agreement unconsciously made to keep each of us together. With each joke, each jab at me, the whole of the family could relax while I tensed. Knowing now why they couldn’t believe me, that it wasn’t about me but about what else I might say, I can relax. And just like that, everything slides back into place.
Relax

Icing on Our Home

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The Chef2 Comments

We are iced in, an unusual December storm sealing our home into forced togetherness. A week before Christmas when the usual activities mean we have more of drive-by relationships, rushing through lists and completing projects and shopping. My Chef has always worked long hours, I helped out selling gift cards. While we were in the same building we rarely had more than 10 minutes to talk, maybe a shared plate of chicken and mashed potatoes hurriedly consumed. The holiday was measured in gift card numbers which equate to January and February sales first, the birth of Jesus in the back of our minds until confronted with truth on the 24th. We spent many years growing the business, years without the funds to purchase presents ahead, relying on that bonus check to finally come through to go shopping. Later years meant we were able to have some security, some savings, but still minimal time together. The restaurant ate up our relationship space, spit back money.

This year, we have time together and no money. Savings gone after 6 months of unemployment, dipping into stocks and no idea about our future, the adage of time or money never truer. With so much uncertainty hovering, tainting our days, still we are together this season. We are in the same room, in the same car, eating the same food at the table like normal families or what I have imagined all these years. I need no other gifts, I am working on learning to talk to my Chef again, recapturing the intimacy that drew us together initially. Like the dishes that are served in a professional kitchen and have to be delivered to the table immediately before they lose their heat, mine has cooled while we both were too busy working to notice. I got old, broken down, the deliciousness gone. I pray I am not thrown out like the stuff left in the fridge too long.

We are together, Chef has discovered Pinterest. The power saws I purchased last year are in full use, the garage now a worksite instead of a dumping ground. Besides helping my brother finish his basement, gifts are coming from Chef’s own workshop. While I snuggle on the couch reading, the sounds of hammering buzzing creating filter in to remind me I am not alone. A comfort, what I always imagined other families experienced, together time, even if they weren’t in the same room. My Chef has taken a huge hit to his confidence, to his sense of self during these last months, but also he is finding the him I have always loved. No concerns about being thrown back, I see the reason we were attracted to each other in the first place.

We are iced in and our Plum is here bringing another chance to feel like a family during the holidays, a Christmas card vignette actually in our home. Chef and Plum made gingerbread cookies, we played endless rounds of Uno, watched The Little Drummer Boy and read Christmas books. We never got dressed and we drank hot cocoa throughout the day. A beautiful golden retriever and a yellow lab lounging next to the reading child completed the Folger’s ad picture. Christmas carols played through Pandora, I found myself humming until Chef delightedly taught Plum to sing “Grandma Got Rung Over By a Reindeer.” Laughter and trash talk and gingerbread and shouts of Uno look like Christmas here. Pans of fudge and cookie cutters filled with bird seed hide kitchen counters. This may be the best year ever.

Every Christmas past has found Chef and I moody, frustrated, exhausted and distant. Gifts for the kids were always a shock to each of us, not a joint venture. How our marriage survived an industry that chews up most is a testament to God, not us. This year we are given the chance to thank Him, to put Him first and find our family again. Forced into togetherness that normally doesn’t happen until late January or February, I am not missing the message. I am fully aware of the gifts we are receiving, not to be squandered but cherished like that babe in the manger. We are iced in together, our own gingerbread home. Life is good.

Moody

Fishing

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Stella, The Chef3 Comments

The Holy Trinity, the three wise men, faith hope and love, important trios that underscore my life. Bad news also comes in 3’s, celebrity deaths see to happen in 3’s, the Stooges numbered the same. Like a triangle that closes all the gaps, maybe one side longer but still all is contained within, I notice threes. When only two bits of news arrive, I grow anxious for the next hit. Even understanding disagreements which include not two sides, but yours, mine and the truth, I see threes. There is a symmetry in this number, welcome or not, throughout my life. I know that really I just stop counting at three, start over, but this is my own construct, my reality. So when I got some upsetting information two weeks ago, I new more was coming. I was right. Two more nuggets hit that have rocked my sanity, wormed into my world and just keep ricocheting with no safe place to land.

I have searched for evidence of my daughter online, blocked from her on Facebook and phone calls. I seek out any possible user names on reddit and twitter, looking for boards on Pinterest, trying out Instagram. A desperate fishing expedition that yields nothing, she is determined to hide. A skilled hacker could surely find her, just as a real fisherman knows the right bait, the best waters. But I am not trying to lure her home, that is beyond my current dreams, more like a tracker, who can sense where she is hiding, where she has been, where she is going. She doesn’t want to be found, I cannot get to her. Still, we maintain a connection that has not been severed despite all efforts. I knew, before I was told, her news. A mother knows. I told myself it was fine, I was okay, I already knew. Yet I am left with more emptiness that actually feels so much like horrible pain I might need a trip to the ER.

I also learned information that rocked my perceptions about my entire life, changed what I know to be true and shifted anger and frustration all around again. News that woke up old hurts and anger with absolutely no outlet, no resolution to be had. I remember one vacation as a child when my older brother was fishing off of a pier in Florida and somehow caught an eel. It snaked up the line and was coming towards him, he was screaming. This bad news is like that, I just want to scream and run and get away. Someone quickly cut the line, sent the eel back into the water. I can’t snip this line and send the monster back. I can’t figure out how to be free of this squirming ugly sliminess coursing through my soul.

Finally, I learned recently that bridges are sometimes rebuilt because pain just cannot be borne alone.  Fear like planks laid down one after another, reaching out towards the other side where hope and support will meet. The very act of joining means we carry some of that pain, hold up some of the worry and share our hope and faith. We built a bridge and now I have news that is scary and painful and out of my control. Like the time I caught a catfish, glorious on the hook but whiskers that pierced when touched, I got near and now I bleed from the encounter.

The three’s in my life are bringing worry and pain and fear. I thought I was managing this latest batch but have to admit I am floundering. I am twitching, I am teary, I am that fish on the bottom of the boat, gasping for breath. I have been caught, I need release. First step is recognizing the problem, then remembering that first trio, the Holy Trinity. Back to my ultimate 3. More healing than the ER, more accurate than hiring a hacker, the transcendent bridge builder. I cannot manage these new hurts alone, they are too big and too scary and bring more than I can bear alone. Father, Son, Holy Spirit, the 3 I am seeking today.
Fishing

New Coffeemaker, New Start

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The ChefLeave a comment

It was the kind of day I hate. I need plans, order, schedules. Control, you might say. From the moment I opened my eyes, reached for my phone to check the time and found a text requesting my assistance in just an hour, my day was a mess. I didn’t have time to ease into my morning, no hot coffee and quiet reflection. Rush, run, squeeze. It didn’t help that venturing downstairs led to the indications of very sick dogs all over my floors. What little time I had before heading over to Mama’s to get my Plum ready for school and on the bus was spent scrubbing, moping, awakening to the knowledge we had entered into the vet zone, a costly area I didn’t want to visit a week before Christmas or really ever when it wasn’t for well checks. No time for coffee, I got into my frozen car and set out to meet my pajama clad Plum. A very pregnant Mama had a list for me: shower the boy, take the dog out, drop medicine off at school. Nothing too taxing except I still had no coffee and I wanted a restart on my day. I wanted to offer services not be told. Cranky. Not very giving. Ugly a.m. attitude, worse than morning breath. I pushed through and every task was crossed off my list only to return home to find more mopping was necessary.  Vet appointment made. On to my small group with faith filled women who listen.

We talked, I tried to complete some tasks but was drawn into the rhythms of the voices, I let go into the moment. The “moment” only lasted for the hour and a half we met, back to reality. I called Chef who was out of town, I wanted him to come rescue my day, save me from the anxiety of too much. I kept that to myself, I rarely tell him when my heart is longing for his presence. I know I can’t have him near just because I cannot face what is looking back at me, I dig deeper and find my own strength. More coffee, on to the vet. I complain loudly about my beasts but felt maybe history was repeating, maybe I was losing one or both just like New Year’s Day just a few years ago when my black lab suddenly got sick and then was gone. This vet understood my anxiety and assured me some medication and a bland diet for 3 days would turn these guys around, she was confident we weren’t dealing with cancer and didn’t see the need for extra tests to confirm her diagnosis. They helped me load the boys back into the car, I didn’t fall on any ice trying to corral 200 lbs of beast. My heart felt lighter even if my wallet was crying.

Back home I tried to start my day again, get my home in order for a boy getting off the bus in just an hour. I needed more emotional time but that was no where on the agenda. I made cookies instead because coming to gran’s house requires the smell of baking and something warm from the oven. This I could control. My boy rushed in to tell me the biggest event of his day, not that the teacher had given him a gift, still wrapped in his backpack. He told of a child in his class who ran into a pole and got a nose bleed. My Plum said he began to pray. He climbed under a desk and talked to God.

Boom. There was the fix I had been seeking all day. If I had just paused before I had even reached for my phone and given the day to God, if I had reacted to the first text with a plea to guide my day, if I had searched for God in the moment instead of my own comfort, what would it have felt like? What would I have felt? My Plum said after he prayed he stood up and asked his classmates if anyone else was praying.  Three other children raised their hands. This child is absolutely bold. When faced with a scary situation, one he couldn’t control and his teachers couldn’t either, He sought God. He trusted that his Heavenly Father would sort it all out. He didn’t ask if it was okay to pray in school, he didn’t ask if the child wanted prayers. He reacted based on his soul, he listened to the nudge from the Holy Spirit and followed what he knew to be true: when in need, pray.

As we finished setting up our plates for dinner, he asked if we might say another prayer for his friend. He began. His words could heal the world, not just a bloody nose. They heal a gran. Praying can be a habit, as critical to my day as that first cup of coffee or the satisfaction of compiling my list. I need those actions to get me centered otherwise I am off, I get anxious and cranky and unpleasant to be around. I pray at night before falling asleep, I pray in times of trouble or when friends are experiencing distress. I seek God when an email comes across regarding a specific need or my newsfeed alerts me to a global catastrophe. My praying habits are well established just as my morning rituals are ingrained. I wonder if I could somehow make my phone send me a message each morning to remind me to begin my day seeking out God before I search for the coffee beans. I know without an intentional break in my pattern, I will keep forgetting to give God that territory first thing, just as I forget to take vitamins. I know it is in my best interest, I just haven’t added this into my coveted predawn turf. My Plum has me thinking though. How different could my life as a Christian be if I started out with Christ, dropped to my knees regardless of my surroundings or asked others to join me when I was afraid?

I have learned I need coffee as soon as I get up. I have learned I need to make a list for my day, create order. I am learning I could probably do away with all of the ways I try to establish control if I just gave up some soul time with the One who woke and handed me the day. Maddening how much I have to learn still, how much I fight to be in charge. Ridiculous that instead of leaning on God when I know my Chef can’t be near, I double down and congratulate myself on my own power. Like the coffee that I warm and warm again, never as satisfying as the first sip, without changing my prayer habits I am never going to find my day fulfilling. Thank God I have a six year old teacher to give me lessons so often. It is up to me pay attention and make adjustments. I hope there is an app for that. What if my coffeemaker came with a prayer reminder: please insert beans, add water, push grind, now pray. Absurd maybe, but I need help changing my ways.
Maddening