Financial Advice from Plum

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The ChefLeave a comment

Plum wanted to download a new game on my iPad, I said no. He said please, I said no. I  explained that he already has many games to play, they cost money which is in short supply right now, I saw no reason to add one. His pleas continued as he touted the supreme advantages of this one, the ultimate game. He offered to delete other ones. Finally I told him that if he wanted to spend his money on it that would be fine. I was not spending any more of mine on games. That usually settles the discussion. He never wants to spend his money, his piggy bank only accepts deposits. In fact a spare coin laying around the house doesn’t lay neglected long if Plum is here. Birthday money goes in, chore money, all pushed through the little slot.

I have used a fining system to curb some behavior, charging a nickel for each time he hollered, “FINE” at me. I don’t enjoy being yelled at, espousing the philosophy that the only time you should holler in your home is if there is a fire.  Once I added a financial value to his sassy mouth, it ended.  I value respect, he values his nickels. The little business man in him decided to charge me for inappropriate behavior, 3 nickels since I am an adult and should know better. I have to be careful what I teach this child. Fortunately I have only had to pay up once.

I thought asking him to dig into his riches would be enough to stop the conversation, instead he asked me to look to see how much the game costs. $4.99, a fortune for a child who doesn’t want to give up $.05. Aha, I won, I reveled in my wisdom, my amazing handling of this situation. Those rare moments of getting it right with a child, the orchestra strikes up, standing on the stage of the 1,000 seat theater, all the lights trained on me as I accept the award for Outstanding Parent. Oh it felt great. The sound of little feet  racing up the stairs broke through my dreaming. He was already gone and back, waving a fiver at me, before I could catch my breath. Nothing left to do but download the game as the band slunk away, the lights snapped off, the award ripped from my grasp.

Later during bath time, some of our best chatting time, I asked if he thought the game was a good investment. He stood by his purchase. He said he saves his money for things he really wants, not all the things that tug at his brain.  He ignores those. He is a wise child. I could hear the band playing, this boy gets the award for financial responsibility at almost 6, one he could teach many adults. The game is a battling one, it insults my peace seeking soul. As he regaled me in tales of all his exploits, I inquired whether he wouldn’t be more successful if he just made friends with all the villagers, the creatures? Shaking his head, with the voice of an old soul, he chuckled and replied “Oh gran, why do you have such a sweet heart?”

We learn from each other, this child and I. The lessons I think I am teaching bear fruit later, rarely in the moment. I am smart enough to grab the nuggets of his knowledge as they appear. He is the ultimate award, his sweet voice the only music I ever need. He brings light, he brings joy, he sneaks coins. This round goes to Plum, thank goodness we don’t keep score. As a grandma I have to restrain myself from sneaking the fiver back into his bank. As his most trusted adult, I know I can’t. Anyway, his birthday is just around the corner. Grandmas always give birthday cards containing a five dollar bill, right?

Waiting by the Water

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

The only thing tougher than sitting in my own wasteland is watching someone I love sit in theirs. I have wandered the deserts, been stuck in the sand, covered in grit, thirsting for water that was just out of reach. Paralyzed, lost, no longer trusting my instincts, the oasis ahead could be just another mirage. Staying in the desert is sure death, I have been close before. Sweaty, exhausted, unable to wander another step, I stopped, just stopped. This is when the river appeared, the goodness of cool refreshing water washing over me, the force of the stream removing grains of sand from my eyes, from my ears. Carried along by the current, I could rest. Glorious blue water, life sustaining moisture, now I could see life again, feel hope as I bobbed along. Croaking frogs, skittering insects, luscious green grass, surrounded by living, I was no longer searching for my own life. Out of the wasteland, found, rescued, washed free, renewed, I vow to never go again towards those sandy places. Still, I sometimes find myself a bit too far from the river, I can hear the wind howling as it blows the dunes. I know to turn around, danger lurks there. What to do then when my loved ones can’t find their way out?

I hate seeing my family struggle when I can so clearly see the way out. I see the water, call to them from the riverbank. My guidance ignored, unheard, sand is consuming them. Left watching from the shore, a witness to their struggle, I cannot share my water until they reach for it. Frustration mounts, it is so easy, just turn this way, hear me, stop choosing the desert, come to the water. I forget though exactly how hard it is to ignore my own will to wander, to ruminate, to wallow in my nothingness, searching for answers in all the wrong places. I walk until exhaustion forces me to kneel. Why do would it be easier for my family? They can’t learn from my journey any more than I have learned from the 40 years my ancestors spent wandering. How painful it must have been for my Father to watch.

Time in the desert hurts. I don’t want my family to hurt, I want them to feel refreshed, to play in the cool water, listen to giggles as they splashing about. I want to rush ahead to joy, they are still in sorrow, aching in the emptiness of the after, not believing it is really a time of before. Hurry, hurry, over here to the river, I find myself shouting encouragingly. I think it sounds more like impatience, criticism that they can no longer find their own way, to their granule encrusted ears. I kick my feet in the water, splashes demonstrating how rejuvenating it is over here on the river edge. They hear me mocking them, judging their struggle. The desert changes my words, distorts my message. I long for them to come and play, to drink deeply, to know the water is so close. They have to discover for themselves.

Watching, waiting, lonely without them to frolic in the spray, I can’t save them, I also have to be careful not to get too close, pulled back into the desert myself. The distance between us feels likes forever, how long before the crescendo  f waterfalls guides them to me? I yearn for shared joy, laughter filling the air, delight as the sun warms us but doesn’t burn.

Unable to speed the wanderings, the seeking, of those I love, my soul waits, begs the One who guided me home to show the way. “Now, quickly, please, I miss them so, ” I plead. “Look around child, you don’t swim alone. The river is brimming with others.”  Yes, now I see friends also in the river, some seeming to have just arrived, particles of sand still  evident as they emerge from the first immersion, dunking under again, again, drinking in the glory. Others have been here longer, contentedly floating along. I notice also that wives are here without husbands, children are playing without parents. I don’t see whole families playing, parents keep looking over their shoulders, just as I do. I see now we are all waiting for someone to join us.

Water poured out in the heat of the desert quickly evaporates. I realize the truth, each has to accept the offer, has to stop to drink slowly, carefully, give in to the Guide who holds the canteen.  I will  play in the river today, celebrate joys, laugh with the family around me. One day soon we will splash together.

Forced Shutdown

On By LisaIn FaithLeave a comment

Sometimes my screen gets stuck, my hard drive seems frozen. Having learned that by just pushing command +R my window will refresh, clear whatever was bogging down my progress, I am mostly only a click away from a fresh start. If things have really gone badly, I may have to do a full shutdown. I can never remember the commands to force my laptop to close out everything and take a few minutes to rest. Silently cursing myself for not writing the steps down, knowing that when I need them most I am unable to research them, I have to pull out a different device. Searching for directions, simple steps to take that will restore communication with my computer, why can’t I just remember those? Why don’t I have those on a sticky note above my desk, why do I make it unnecessarily hard on myself in times of real trouble? Thank God my phone only requires a couple of clicks to show me the answers I need, still these are extra clicks.

I trick myself with crazy scenarios. What if I got in the “Cash Cab” and had to answer the question, “How do you restore a frozen Mac?” Bah!  Done for, kicked out at the next light.  What if all I had to do was answer that question and I the genie would give me 3 wishes?  Poof, goodbye genie. What if my life depended on my ability to correctly supply the answer?  Poof, goodbye Lisa. Damn, why didn’t I decide this was valuable information, treat it with reverence, know big things could come if only I would pay attention to the commands that lead to correction when things go awry.  Alas, I don’t see many cabs around town, Uber has taken over. While I collect bottles, the only thing that ever emerges is a stray moth when I dust.  My life does though depend on remembering the steps towards restoration, not with my Mac but with my Maker.

The inevitability of finding myself stuck, frozen, not communing well with God,  while part of the human condition, is not something I am proud of at my age. I would like that to be something I lost in upgrading to my new model, not included in this year’s features. When I start freezing, sometimes a simple refresh will do: time with my faith community, a walk with Janet, some creating time with my small group. Whew, up and running again. Restored. Other times I have failed to do the back-ups needed, taken the precautions that might stave off the stuckness. Without daily communication with God,  without dedication to preserving our rightness together, I risk my heartdrive.

I truly wish I had the discipline to start each day clarifying the state of my soul, getting tune-up by and with God. Instead I crash into my day, until my day crashes on me. Or freezes me, sticks me alone in a chair wondering why I didn’t anticipate the cold?  Wishing for the sticky note with the quick clicks to get me back on track, the shortcuts to restoration, I am left with the actual work of talking to God, listening to Him, emptying my soul. Restoring is more intensive than maintenance, requires greater accountability, a deeper analysis of the system, finding all the bugs, exploring old files that can be purged. Lord knows I am not tech savvy, I am not a very methodical Methodist, this is work for me.

Yet maybe this is just how I work best with God, a complete shutdown followed by a glorious restart. I move faster, my colors are more vivid, I stop running through every old memory at each startup. Those other devices that I turn to when I am shut out? Sometimes that is a glass of wine, reruns of 30 Rock or the West Wing, sometimes it is angry imaginings not fit for publication. Sometimes devices just become vices.  More and more often though I turn to my faith community. I don’t find the shortcuts I want but wisdom love grace warmth help me defrost. A renewal begins, a page refresh. I don’t know if God its frustrated with me, wishes I did more regular maintenance but I trust He delights in our shutdown time together. I trust that He created me, He knows how I am wired. I am the 64 model, with dings and dents, a slow old hard drive, a scratched screen. His grace makes me new, He installs the updates, He is my domain master. That really is all I need,  forever on the sticky note of my soul. Shift+J+E+S+U+S.

Coffee With Mercy

On By LisaIn Faith, The ChefLeave a comment

I spend a great deal of time thinking about grace. I never consider mercy. Chef has been bringing this word into our home more and more lately, I quickly shut the door on it, do not extend the welcome mat. Somehow this word, used so often in conjunction with grace, makes me uncomfortable. It seems to ask more of me, lets me know I am holding out. This little word seems to hang around, just outside, uninvited, carrying big connotations. Grace feels like a soft blanket on a cold day, mercy reminds me why I am cold in the first place. I’m not sure why these concepts are so divided for me, where in the storytelling and early learning about God I missed some important message. Maybe I really know and am choosing my guest list carefully. Today while no one is looking, I start the coffee and hesitantly crack open the door, I issue my own invitation to Mercy.

I get settled on the comfy couch under my softest blanket, a large cup of coffee for courage  and my faithful beast cuddled next to me,  I notice Mercy drift in. I ignore Her and do some research. Gotquestions.org explains the difference this way: mercy is God not punishing us as our sins deserve, and grace is God blessing us despite the fact that we do not deserve it. Mercy is deliverance from judgment. Grace is extending kindness to the unworthy.  No wonder I prefer the sweetness of grace, I like kindness, I like blessings. I have a sign by the front door that says, “Be Nice or Leave.” (I may have mentioned before this is how we keep the bears away, as I have explained to Plum, who is afraid of big hairy creatures with sharp claws, not including our beasts.) I get grace, literally, thank you God.  I understand and see grace in my everyday. I write almost daily about meeting up with grace, friends and creatures alike who show me the kindness of God, show me the love I yearn for. I count those blessings, having been on the short side too many times, I take nothing for granted. Grace has a standing invitation, the door is always open. Mercy has been knocking, I have pretended to be asleep.

Yes, I went back to Grace where the warm blanket is. I see that. Why would I want to venture into the cold, though?  “Mercy, sit down, stop hovering, you make me nervous. Please, sit over there, on the other couch. I let you in, let’s not rush this.” My beast takes no notice of this intruder, begins to snore. I feel betrayed, try to focus on his lack of protection but Mercy draws my attention back, a rather demanding guest. Where is Grace? I need more coffee, I don’t really want to visit with Mercy.

Judgement, sins, these are not feel-good words. I am honest enough to share my sins, to expose my brokenness. but am I working on the big one that God really wants me to attack? Avoiding Mercy is my way of not acknowledging what has been given to me so that I can stay under my blanket, do my counts and not be forced to let go of some judging. I have forgiving to do and I don’t want to. “There Mercy, I said it, are You content? ” Mercy smiles but not in the way I expected when I finally dared raise my eyes to Her. I didn’t see the condemnation I was expecting, the ‘Uh huh, I knew it! smirk”. Hmm, maybe this isn’t so bad.

I have hurts, scabs I keep picking at to ensure the wounds don’t heal. I secretly want gum to stick to the bottom of a couple folk’s shoes, I want their toilets to get stopped up, I want their favorite shirt to get stained. I’m afraid to look over at Mercy, expecting to see Her getting up from my couch right now, heading towards the door, disgusted with me. A weird thing has happened though, a bit of peace has descended, I feel less judged in holding in the secret of my judging. I think Mercy already knew. “Tell me more child,” whispers Mercy.

In the silence of my living room, I explain that these people really hurt me. I don’t wish big hurts on them, I just can’t find forgiveness. I talk about my pesky pastor who keeps preaching about forgiveness and how when I hear him I say ,”La la la la” in my head as I look attentively at him from the front row. Mercy keeps listening. I offer some of my blanket, we get closer. This is a mistake as I begin to think of all the people I have hurt. I deserve huge wads of gum on all of my favorite Tom’s, I really should carry a travel sized plunger with me at all times. I want Mercy to go sit on the other couch but it is too late. I want to hold on to my hurt but it rose like the steam from my coffee, cooled now. I can’t get back that “first cup in the morning” heat. Damn Mercy is good.

I can’t say I have fully forgiven, I think Mercy and I will need a full pot of coffee, a few more mornings together. I have more to share, Mercy said She will listen. She likes my blanket, prefers to sit with me, snuggled close. I’m not so twitchy now. After we get to know each other better, we can invite Grace in for some scones, for now I need to sit with Her and let the steam rise. It occurs to me that most of my favorite shirts are stained. I wonder if anyone else might want to invite Mercy in for a cup of coffee.  She is free after 6 most mornings.

Another Lisa

On By LisaIn Faith2 Comments

I met this girl in 5th grade, a really hard year for me. I had moved, switched schools from an older red brick building, marble steps worn in the center by the hundreds of children rushing to recess, matronly teachers who had taught many of our parents. This school spoke security to me, smelled of learning, the cool hallways of the basement carried memories of other eager students. This place was my sanctuary. Then my parents divorced, mom moved us and we entered a new school, a yellow brick open classroom new concept horror. I struggled to adjust to the noise, the distractions, the lack of well worn banisters to hold onto as I traveled the steps, securing me into this world. There were no steps, nothing to help me rise, nothing to tell me any other child had survived childhood, to whisper “keep learning, stay close to the teachers, follow the path.” I was lost at sea.

I got removed from my initial classroom because I changed all the male pronouns in a story to female ones, the teacher didn’t appreciate my creative license. She hid my math book for days, I fell behind in my assignments, got sent to see the principal. Her anger and duplicity reminded me of home, she scared me. Her attempts to teach me to follow her rules only taught me to shutdown, again, a meeting was held, I was moved. I found myself in the neighboring class with a much nicer teacher.  She was still too young for my liking and now I had a reputation as a troublemaker so my classmates treated me that special mix of awe and exclusion that children are so good at. Except for one girl. We shared a name but she already was years ahead of me in sophistication. She had colored pencils and crayons and made pictures of her name, painstaking pieces of art with each letter outlined with the same color in pencil as she had colored it. I was entranced. My name had never felt beautiful before. I allowed some of her glow to spill onto me, I edged closer, she let me in. She was an exotic beauty even then, sought after by all, she gave me group credibility. She was my lifeboat for 5th grade. She has not stopped ensuring I don’t drown.

Forty-two years later, her heart is as pure, she is as gorgeous, she still creates beauty. She traveled 50 miles yesterday to deliver a wreath for my door, I haven’t seen her in too many months. She stopped in only for a minute, to gift me these reds, oranges, yellows arranged with love. She created it several days before, before I wrote about longing for color. She hears my soul before I speak it. She added a little plum to go with the pumpkins, a plum, my Plum. An extra over the top touch of love that says I know you, I know your heart. Her wreath is beyond beautiful, my porch now explodes in the colors my soul craved. Never deserving of her friendship, she still gives it anyway. I bask in her grace glow, I rest in her peace gifts. I never really stopped being the troublemaker, she is still the cheerleader.

Her love speaks God to me, is that absolute example of His forever presence in my life. I haven’t earned His love, it is there for me anyway. He decorates my name with colored pencils and crayons, He calls me from the safety of an old school into harsh overhead lights but doesn’t leave me there alone.  He gives me another Lisa, a choice always of how it can be if I choose to follow His new path, one that may not include a musty basement but surely leads toward the Light. While this is a story about one special friend, my introverted life is expanding by way of more like her. People of faith who send lifeboats and letters, draw pictures and drop off care packages. People who insist on being in my world, blocking out the noise and distractions,  pulling me up the steps as we rise together, hand and hand without banisters. Friends who remind me I don’t wait alone, the leaves will turn. Until then, we will decorate my porch together.

Waiting on the Leaves

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

All of our leaves are still green, I am searching for color. The flowers around the yard are mostly gone, lone sunflower stalks self planted as the seeds slide from bird feeders are our only reminders of summer. Yet fall hasn’t actually arrived with glory either. I look for those reds, bright oranges and yellows. I crave the smell of bonfires and the sound of crunchy leaves under foot. Crisp apples, warm cider in mugs, orange pumpkins on the porch, a new season. We are in the in-between, the waiting. Transition time is rarely beautiful, rarely easy on the eyes.

Mama is carrying a new baby, due in just over 3 months. She calls me several times daily, I make the 5 minute trek to her apartment at least 3 times a week. She asks for help setting up the nursery, organizing clothes. We already set up her kitchen when she first moved in to this new apartment, one much closer to our home. We already set up Plum’s room, organized Lego totes and attached Minecraft posters to the wall. We set up the pantry and the built shelves. Trip after trip taking benches, chairs, metal racks, end tables, from our home to hers, transitioning her and Plum into a home not just an apartment. Long chats throughout our tasking, mama talks and asks and owns her past mistakes. Two years ago I would never have imagined helping her again like this, somehow I knew we always would. It was an ugly transition time. We are on the other side, bright colors of forgiveness and maturity, of grace and love, yes, love. In spite of myself I love this woman-child.

A year ago we picked up our Arrow from prison, full of hope for a fresh start. We brought him home, fed him, clothed him, gave him a job. We gave him access to a car. We didn’t give him adulthood. He had to leave to find that. He is coming back into our lives on his own terms, on our terms too, but as a man, not just as our child. He calls, always some excuse because still he cannot just say he wants to talk to his mom. He visits his son, a lifeline for Arrow. I don’t know his day to day, where he lives, who his friends are. This is good. Arrow and I can get too close, then we get unhealthy. I worry, try to save him, forget he has to save himself. Our horrible transition several months ago was heartbreaking, now he is transitioning back in a way that doesn’t hurt any of us. I am beginning to find patches of light with my Arrow, when he shows me what he works on, when he eats lunch at my table, takes home plastic bowls of left-overs. He is grateful again. I feel touches of pride. Slowly we are making our way back, allowing hurt from the past to fade as the colors of now take over.

I wish I knew what this waiting time means for Chef and I. Dragging on, fear and anger begin to rise again. The mortgage lender doesn’t want to hear that we are trusting in God’s timing. We celebrated having so much time together, now we get on each other’s nerves. Colors are fading, the leaves aren’t turning yet. This transition doesn’t feel like movement, it feels like stuck. Remembering past waiting times reminds me that something incredibly better was coming, something I couldn’t foresee. I just have to keep doing the thing in front of me, the next thing that is right and good. The fog will lift, brilliant colors will explode before my eyes. I will tell a story of waiting and the joy that came after.

Today I see green leaves and long for red and yellow. I long for apple cider and security and bills caught up. I long for brilliant yellow and health insurance. Today I am waiting, tomorrow the leaves may begin to turn.

Collection of the Broken

On By LisaIn FaithLeave a comment

Slogans flood my newsfeed, suggesting I not get tripped up on my past. I have only to look forward, not re-read that chapter. Don’t let others define me, let history be just that. I’m not sure who these cliches and little seeds of “wisdom” help, it isn’t me. Anger and frustration are generally my response, rarely do I find encouragement or comfort, certainly I have never felt empowered. This high speed digital age doesn’t let mistakes of the past stay there. Real stories reduced to sound bites in order to garner clicks, generate traffic, the lives involved hardly matter. This world does not forgive well, it certainly does not forget.

Last night I read of a young woman in Italy who took her life after a scandal surrounding a sex tape she made willingly with her partner. She shared it with an ex-boyfiend and two others who decided the world needed to see this. What in God’s name was she thinking, right? Except she clearly wasn’t thinking that it would go viral, that her face would stare out from t-shirts, phone covers, magazines. She couldn’t escape even though she fought legally to have the video removed from the internet. Once it was out, it was out of her control. A mistake made became too big, never to be forgotten. One year after the video was shared, this 31 year old woman gave up trying to forget, to ask the world to not define her by this one lapse in judgement. I am sickened by the world’s loss of God’s child, another one we just couldn’t help exploiting simply because we could hit that share button. We are all complicit in her death. Should she have know better? She wasn’t a child, she was old enough to understand what could happen if she let anyone into her privacy, it was no longer hers. Yet at what point do we say, “Oh honey, I get it. I have made mistakes too. I will pledge to delete this thing anytime it pops up and ask my friends to do the same. I will write messages to any organization that tries to slip this into a news clip, telling them to stop, I don’t want it. I am with you honey. Will you do the same for me?”

We are all broken, make no mistake. For years I thought my mistakes were bigger, worse than anyone else. I allowed shame to rule me, keep me in the shadows. I thought if I tried hard enough to be someone else, maybe those cliches would work. I was wrong, so very wrong. Wasted years of God’s child sitting on the sidelines, afraid of exposure, unsure when the next judgement would hit or from where. A horrible time in my life, over 2 decades ago, still tries to follow me now. Somehow I have weathered the judgments, the lost jobs and relationships. I created my own world removed from clicks and cliques, from whispers and wonderings. I don’t need cliches to tell me how to deal with my past. I am my past but I am more than that. I am my today and hope for my tomorrow. I am strong enough now to have created a village, a community that rejects shaming, that doesn’t share hurtful videos or gossip. They know we could all be the target so easily, We all have secrets, some haven’t been exposed, yet.

My heart aches for this young woman, for the thousands of others out there who are breaking apart in shame. God wants so much more for them, from us. As I have shared my broken life, I have collected more and more broken souls, people who rejoice in being authentic and know there is no room for shame in our community. We don’t have space here for judgement, no time for digging in the past. I don’t care about anyone else’s junk, mine is enough to carry. I wake every morning reminding myself that I am worthy, I am now. God how I wish this woman could have gotten to her now on the other side of shame. The old AA adage “secrets keep us sick” just doesn’t apply here, sometimes sharing makes us sicker, called viral for a reason.

I didn’t know of her story until it was too late. There is still time for others. For all my broken sisters and brothers, I am with you. I know shame. I have made mistakes. Stay with us, get to the other side. I promise to never share your secrets. Come and sit with us, our little collection of the broken. No one will ask you questions, no platitudes or suggestions it will be easy. Come and rest child, you aren’t alone. God is here among us. You are worthy. The only thing we will share is grace.

 

Mismatched Plates

On By LisaIn Faith, The ChefLeave a comment

Our Pastor asked the congregation to join in on an all congregation wide study, sign up for any number of times, find the one that works best, but sign up. The slots for Wednesday with the promise of a meal together preceding the study went quickly, more groups were added. Chef and I volunteered to create the meal, our small groups leader admitted she didn’t have that piece worked out yet but was trusting God did. Our church takes some faith leaps like that. We were given great latitude, they know we can feed 100 people easily. We asked if we could skip the paper plates, get back to using dishes that could be washed and reused, saving money and the environment.  Yes! The church didn’t have enough, shop Goodwill, we are no longer a congregation that must having everything match.

As the first evening approached, we had some hiccups. The planning time between Chef and I didn’t happen. I thought he was taking the lead, I thought he needed this project right now. When we are both in a kitchen, he is always the boss. I am forever his sous chef.  The crazy busy schedule of the 3 weeks preceding left little time, time we didn’t use to have dinner planning conversations. I thought, he thought, neither of us said, until Tuesday when my panic spoke for me. I was the chef this week, last minute, not ideal for a control minded, list making planner. I got grumpy then went shopping for dinner.

Wednesday afternoon we carried in boxes of dishes and bags of produce, we hauled in cans of tomato sauce, containers of cottage cheese. The kitchen counter now buried under what in only hours needed to become a meal, we set to work, silently. I was still slightly frustrated at my Chef, his salad chopping took all afternoon. You may never see a more beautiful salad, he does nothing in the kitchen without precision and attention to detail. He feeds people visually also. I raced around arranging tables, directing our helper who stopped in through each step of the ziti, finding napkins, silverware, running all the plates through the dishwasher. Chef kept chopping. I didn’t talk to him except to ask how much longer, how many bowls he needed, would he be able to help with the drinks. Intent on his task, I’m not sure he even realized I was not talking to him, my anger rebuffed. He was in his element, creating beauty to put out for the people.

Dinner was being served in the sanctuary, every other meeting room was filled with a group. Each time I entered to add something to the table, my anger lifted, at least until I went back into the kitchen, only steps away. I chose to pick it back up. What an exhausting exercise, carrying all the food out and moving large tables was not what wore me out. I didn’t stay in the sanctuary long enough, I chose to see my Chef and get mad. I chose not to see that actually everything was working exactly as it was supposed to, everything except my attitude.

The food was ready, people began to enter. A table filled with mismatched plates, big bowls of freshly chopped salad,  more bowls of crisp cucumbers, tiny carrots, and then foil pan after foil pan of baked ziti, a table laid out as an offering to those who would gather for a Wednesday evening bible study. I couldn’t get beyond the plates. They took up much more room on the table, paper would have stacked more neatly, more compactly. These plates, discarded from numerous homes, no longer needed or wanted. We added these plates to our meal, to our church as an investment in our future, a commitment to feeding more and more, again and again. These plates of diversity said we are a group with some chips, some roughness, yet we all belong in this sanctuary. Some were fancy, some scratched up, maybe more loved by constant use. These plates were us.

Everyone ate, loved the salad. They noted the care in which it was created, they felt cared for. A communion in the sanctuary mid week over diced produce and pasta prepared us to study our path as disciples. God does amazing things with tomato sauce and grumpy cooks. Chef and I are talking again, planning for next week. This is a challenging time for us, too much time to communicate, forgetting to say things that matter. As time wears on, we may get grumpier with each other, we may find our plates showing cracks. God in His infinite wisdom has put us in the kitchen together, led us into the sanctuary for the next 6 weeks. Next week I plan to walk a little more slowly between the two, spending more time remembering that we are just there to make some food, God will feed the people. My Chef will make it beautiful. I will put out the napkins and tend to God’s plates. We might find peace in the kitchen, we know grace awaits us in the sanctuary.

Sunflower Legacy

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The ChefLeave a comment

My Chef set up a pizza bar for dinner, little bowls with choices of bright red and green peppers, basil from the kitchen garden, onions both purple and white, bright romas and earthy mushrooms. Containers of seasonings, a bag of shredded mozzarella, personal pizza crusts, a tiny bit of olive oil, a pastry brush. Chef was ready for dinner and pizza class. He and Plum got to work. A most patient teacher, Chef picked up bowl after bowl and presented them to Plum. Chef asked  him to smell the contents, identify each item. Mama and I were captivated. I would have just told him, rushed through the process. Chef fully involved Plum in such a way that he would then remember as he began to create. Together they spread oil on the bottom of the crust, flipped it over and then slathered sauce. Plum chose his toppings, created his meal. Our new pizza master then made pizzas for mama and me. We all gathered around this child as he prepared gifts for us, gifts laid out by Chef, staying within his glow, hanging on each piece of joy he shared. Glances at mama’s face to see her eyes smiling, Chef’s face devoid of worry in this moment, I knew we all were feeling the warmth of his spirit.

After dinner we skipped the dishes and escaped to the play set. Time is precious now with my Plum. He abandoned me for formal education, no longer my daily playmate and joy bringer. I have to make do with dinners midweek and every other week end. He is tired, learning to read and follow rules that can’t be pushed with a sweet smile at grandma wears him out. I push him on the swing and delight as his smelly little boy feet come near, catching the scent of this babe I once rocked. He wants to go higher, higher, he doesn’t realize he is going farther away as well. I could stay there all night, pushing and waiting, listening to giggles. His day catches up, though, bedtime is nearing.

No longer full of energy to run, he listlessly pulled petals from the stray sunflowers around  the porch. Fascinated by flowers, he has done this since he could crawl. I haven’t taught him to leave them alone. I have taught him to explore, to feel them, I plant extras around the yard knowing little hands will find delight in their discovery. This night he wondered about the seeds. We moved to the huge sunflower in the front, the lone stalk that survived the squirrels and the dogs. Rocking together on my old porch swing, side by side we harvested. Peeling away layers of outer leaves, scrubbing away the inner covering, we found the seeds hidden. Hundreds of seeds, amazingly arranged each in a safe pocket, one flower able to feed and bring new life long after it is gone. Sunflower legacy. My sweet Plum carefully arranged seeds atop his boulder on the edge of the yard, away from dogs, for the birds to reach. He found other seeds and picked flowers for the bees. He asked for a piece of bread, tore it into small bits, arranged it on his new nature center. Not caring about the big picture of other feeders full of seeds, plenty of flowers for the bees, he created his own gathering place. He asks me to watch over his offerings of grace when it is time for him to leave.

This child is the stray sunflower, not intentionally planted but part of God’s plan to feed us all. He shines more brightly for the unexpectedness of all that is him, his face raised to the Son amidst all the battles for his very survival. A heart so pure, so freely giving of grace, his soul nourishes us all as we gather around him. He shows us God. I realize while I am pushing that swing, I am stable, solid, steady. I am watching My plum to be sure he is still holding tightly, still firmly in the seat, I watch for weariness, I help him go higher, ready to catch him. Does my God do any less? Plum reminds me that as I swing away from God, He still delights in me, waits for my return, eagerly accepting me in my filth, shame, in my exhaustion. My Father is pushing me, up and away, into the world to do His work. He listens for my giggles. God sends me out again, again, higher, farther, hoping I will find His flowers and spread some seeds, I will make His pizzas and feed His family. God wants me to see all He has hidden inside of me, safely in little pockets, waiting for me to expose them to the sun. Seeds ignored grow moldy, no good to anyone. God plants flowers in unexpected places, waiting for me to discover them with joy. I am a flower also, discovering me.

This child is no longer my little playmate, he may always be my teacher. Maybe I show the Face of God to him, He surely is His face for me. May I always be open to learning and feasting at his table, may I always remember to plant extra flowers. When he no longer needs me to push him, I will still listen for his giggles, still gather close to catch the scent of this babe who came to bring me grace.

 

 

Ropes and Lights

On By LisaIn Faith, Stella, The ChefLeave a comment

Remember that old movie Poltergeist? I barely do and I am sure I have it all mixed up but I keep hearing the odd little woman tell the little girl to go to the light.  My Chef told me more details, said the woman knew there was peace and serenity in the light. She didn’t believe the child could come back into this world.  The parents instead attached ropes and went in after her, drug her back from the demons and saved this child. I think my story is filled with friends who have attached ropes to pull me back AND shouted at me to go toward the light.

I was given the opportunity to let go of a major church responsibility, to free myself to mourn. This is kindness, this is grace. I received an email from my so very wise pastor reminding me to  go towards the light. The choice is mine to wallow or accept the challenge to pull myself out of the demon filled depression and find a flicker of hope. The choice is always mine. I chose to maintain my schedule, tug on the ropes of those who are pulling on me. I answer calls, emails, I eat some lunch. Food is toward the light for me. Interaction is toward the light for me.

My friend from college who can assess any situation in my life because she knows all the players and she has a razor sharp mind, found the joys. She highlighted the positives. She met me in the mud but tugged on the ropes to pull me out, making certain I knew where the hopes were.

My chef who has tiptoed around me now for days because I am not very pleasant keeps bringing me food and orange juice and lets me lay on his lap. He deserves a gallon of peanut butter chocolate chip caramel ice cream, if such a thing exists, and big bricks of cheese. (We don’t have dairy in our house as Plum and I can’t tolerate it.) He is gently pulling me back to the light with his constant love. This is grace.

Depression lies, tells me to stay in the dark with the demons, tells me the ropes will never be strong enough to pull me out. It tells me the light will burn me. I have believed those lies before. I stayed stuck in the dark, ignoring all the friends who threw lifelines, all who tried to connect until they slowly went away. Now I can see I actively pushed myself in further, back then I thought I had no part in any of it. Depression lies. What feels like great passivity is, for me, rejecting ignoring throwing away the lanterns the candles the glow sticks offered, with great force. Turning away into the darkness. Choosing sadness, unwashed hair, smelly sheets, choosing to wallow. Depression tells me it fells better there, it is easier there. Depression lies.

At 52, I have come to accept that I am not going to have one of those easy lives that some may be handed. I am never going to be rich, I won’t be posting pictures of all my children and grandchildren for each holiday around a grand piano or a grand oak tree. I won’t be running races or winning awards, I won’t receive a retirement package. My life has had many trips through the darkness, many chances to choose my path back. It gets easier, finding the light, each time I do it. Accepting help, listening to the calls of friends is finally  becoming habit. Trusting their voices, instructions, insights, wisdom when I can no longer see.

Challenge accepted, life. I am in this for the long haul. Knowing it will never be easy, knowing any day could hand me heart ache, I am still going to look for the light. I know where that will take me, towards hope, little shining bits of hope. As elusive as fireflies in late summer or stars in a cloudy night sky, I just have to trust the light is there and start walking. God’s light never burns out, never leaves me alone. As I turn towards it, slowly move in that direction I find the glow grows bigger. Bigger, always big enough to warm me with hope. Peace and serenity might be a stretch.

Photo credit to Pastor Pat Sleeth, fisher of men, women and the rivers of the northwest