The Story Is Not Over Yet

This is a cry out to so many of my friends who are walking a narrow lonely path in the wilderness right now, trudging through estranged relationships, shattered dreams, sickness, huge awkward burdens that no one knows about, extreme loneliness, and the octopus-like strong arms of depression threatening to pull them down for good.  In these harsh realities and desolate places, it is so easy to fall for the deception that you are all alone in this and no one understands, screwing tight the lid on your raw emotions when someone says “how are you?”

But there are those people who, despite the pain I know they are going through, still have a twinkle in their eyes, a peace in their hearts, an endurance that exposes them, as if they have a secret joy the rest of us cannot see.

There is a reason for it all.  Play this video now.

The end of this hard path may not be near, the lights may not suddenly evaporate the darkness, the deliverance may be revealed in going through rather than being plucked out of.  A lack of courage within myself is one of the reasons I love running so much, because God uses running to remind me to double-knot my shoes and get out there in life…and that despite the pain and fear, He will  -- once again – bring me through it, not on my power, but on His.  He uses it to bring me to Him and give me the strength to do what is a lot harder than running 20 miles by myself through wind and sleet. 

Oh, that we would see differently what looks like a bleak landscape, transformed into a place of amazement.  In the book of Hosea, God promises to “make the valley of trouble, a door of hope.” (Hosea 2.15)  The story is not over yet.

Someday, we may glimpse a network of a bizillion redeeming purposes, as if the storm clouds part and sunlight beams through.  If not now, one of the joys of heaven will be gleefully shouting, “So THAT is why that happened!”  There IS a reason for it all, deeper meaning than we could ever imagine. 

I cry to God Most High,

to God who fulfils His purpose for me.

                 Psalm 57.2

Frozen!

It is currently 18 teeny tiny degrees outside, and so, “Frozen!” is probably an appropriate title for a blog in the beginning of February.  But “Frozen!” can mean more than the outside temperature.  It is the times of being overwhelmed (or besieged – see February 9 verse at www.worddujour.blogspot.com) by barbarians both real and imagined.  Fears, worries, discouragements, the high and scary places of life, so many people who want a piece of you, way too much to do, or even the vast wilderness of loneliness – all these things can tie barbed wire around our feet or load up our daily backpack with more than we are capable of carrying.  Sometimes, I freeze.  I succumb to a paralysis of not knowing how to handle this huge day or task ahead of me.  Where do I even start?

I love how God’s Word speaks about paths and steps and following His ways.  Step by step by step.  Someone once told me that when I am in the grip of panic, DO ONE THING.  Just one thing that is needful.  “Empty the dishwasher,” she suggested.  I have always remembered that.  That may seem a bit absurd, but it is one little bold baby step you are capable of tackling.  And once you get going, He can lead you into His day for you, one step at a time, no matter the fears or foes.    When this frozen moment happens to a friend of mine, she intentionally calls someone to encourage them or does something kind or helpful for someone else.  It frees her to move on.  And to see those phantoms vanish before her eyes.

What is in your path today?  Pray that God would reveal HIS day for you, not just what to do, but even in what sequence to do it.  Let Him order your day,  and follow Him into it, one step, and then another. 

 

You shall seek those who contend with you,

but you shall not find them;

those who war against you

shall be as nothing at all.

For I, the LORD your God,

hold your right hand;

it is I who say to you, “Fear not,

I am the one who helps you.

                Isaiah 41. 12-13

Julia – Part 2: Well, I Won’t Be Moving To Paris Anytime Soon

My first adventure in French cooking produced more than a culinary surprise.

Mastering the Art of French Cooking had stared at me from across the kitchen for two days.   The ingredients were crowded together on the counter like runners at a starting line.  I wrote my previous blog, ran nine-miles, and realized suddenly when I returned, that if we were going to eat that evening, I could delay no longer. I preheated the oven, chopped four kinds of produce and cut up two types of meat, dividing them into little glass bowls.  I dug through the pots and pans, wooden spoons, and measuring cups, the preparation not too different than single-handedly packing the car for a three-week family camping trip.

Lesson #1:  Read the instructions carefully.  The first step called to boil the bacon for ten minutes in a saucepan, heat up a tablespoon of olive oil in an oven-proof French casserole dish (I used our very American cast iron skillet), and then lightly brown the bacon.  Whereas, I have no idea why you boil bacon, I followed the rules.  So far, so good.  Directions indicated to remove the bacon with a slotted spoon.  I missed the part about DRYING the bacon before putting it in the skillet.  Needless to say, even a very few drops of water and VERY hot oil do not mix.   The oil shot out all over the stovetop.

After cleaning up my mess, afraid of a five-alarm fire if I didn’t, I was able to sear the beef in the same pan without incident.  It appeared that things had settled down.  I sauteed the chopped onions and carrots, and then realized the recipe never referred to them again.  Having missed the step about the bacon, I reread the recipe four or five times, but the vegetables were orphans, no room at the inn.  Lesson #2:  Punt when necessary.

The pace picked up significantly.  Simultaneously the beef was browning in one pan in the oven (four minutes, toss, four minutes more), quartered mushrooms dancing in butter on the left burner (six to eight minutes), cute little pearl onions braising in stock on the right (saute ten minutes and simmer for forty), and the sauce bubbling in yet another vessel.  I had two timers chiming, and I am sure, a frantic look on my face.  “A second pair of hands” should have been included in the list of equipment, a role known by the French as the “sous chef.” I was alone, over my head, and treading in shark-infested waters. 

Long story short, we had leftovers that night.  I finished the final touches to the sauce after dinner.  We each took a bite and decided there was enough of my concoction to serve some guests who were coming the next evening for supper.  It would work.  No one would know of my disaster in the kitchen which at the time looked like a yellow-taped crime scene.  It appeared that a three year old had emptied every cupboard and drawer.  Bill was amused at the number of of pots, pans, bowls and utensils stacked by the sink to dry.  I had to clean the stovetop three times during the course of preparation, but whoa, it smelled really good.  And I didn’t die.

The next evening, we entertained two couples that we have never met before, as a part of a “dinners for six” event coordinated by the church we attend.   I knew that I was in trouble when asking the compulsory question “Where are you from?”, one of the couples revealed that they had lived in France for twelve years.  I could hear God chuckling.  My first attempt at French cooking and God sends us a couple from FRANCE???  The husband entered the kitchen and exclaimed, “Boeuf Bourguignon!” with a real French accent.  “I haven’t had that dish for such a long time,” he said.  “It’s one of my favorites.”    Ok, I thought, NOW I die.  I looked at the back door.  It sounded like a great time to escape outside and go run a marathon or two in the cold and dark.

But at the table, something happened.  As he ate, our guest leaned over and remarked to his wife, “Oh, she even used those little pearl onions,” in the voice of one seeing a long-lost friend.   While the rest of us enjoyed the meal, he delighted in it.

And Lesson #3 descended on my heart.   God chuckled because He knew that this attempt of mine was not about me attempting a new recipe at all.  When He compels us to step outside our comfort zone and we follow Him into it, something far deeper always emerges, the “raison d’etre.”   God uses it to bless others.

Now to Him

who by the power at work within us

is able to do far more abundantly

than all that we ask or imagine…

              Ephesians 3.20

Today I Meet Julia Face to Face

I grew up in a home where common sense did not reside. It is still a mystery to me that my parents -- a professional violinist and tone-deaf research scientist -- raised four children.  Sheet music, orchestral scores, and music manuscripts littered our living room.  My father would conduct experiments throughout the house, including an ill-fated backyard skating rink in the dead of a Chicago winter.  Dinner?  I can remember my mother looking up from her music as if emerging from another world, it never occurring to her we would need to eat today.

If it weren’t for my widowed grandmother who lived with us for several years, we would not have eaten at all.  She cleaned, she sewed, and she made food from what was already in the cupboard as she did not drive.  Mom would go to the grocery with nary a meal in mind, choosing instead what was marked down from produce to outdated cans which she usually bought by the case.  Bread, she purchased, from an outlet store, most often white sandwich loaves that could be smashed flat with very little effort.  Dolly Madison snack cakes were purchased in large cartons and stored in the freezer.  When I think of the preservatives that I have consumed in my lifetime, I figure I will live a very long time.

Our house was not known for its culinary expertise.  Everything came from cans, including our best friend Chef Boyardee and his associate Franco American.  My grandmother could make about anything if you gave her condensed Cream of Mushroom soup and a can of tuna.

When Bill and I married, I discovered the wonders of Bisquick.  Our first week of married life, I learned to make Bisquick biscuits -- “from scratch” -- a far cry, I thought, from a can of refrigerator biscuits that you hit on the side of the countertop to open.  I advanced to making “real” spaghetti by actually boiling noodles and heating up a jar of Ragu.  When we visited Bill’s parents the first time, his mother – a cook extraordinaire – prepared macaroni and cheese for a quick supper one night.  I was 27 years old and had never had macaroni that didn’t come out of a blue Kraft box.

Needless to say, learning to cook for me was on the magnitude of learning to bungee-jump.  Under my husband’s tutelage and my mother-in-law’s recipe box, I learned to feed our family, realizing first that cookbooks were not written in obscure ancient languages.  Through many mistakes, I also realized that recipes were meant to be followed.  Some dishes became favorites, and others, well, at least I didn’t burn down the kitchen.

So, considering my background,  today I will meet Julia Child face to face, working my way through a recipe for an entree I cannot even pronounce.  Step by step.  As one of my daughters would say, “Just follow the instructions, Mom.”

Taking up this culinary challenge is one of the things, oddly enough, that I have learned from running.  As I have gotten older, I realize that my elaborate justifications-- to not do so many things –- are only really feeble excuses on life-support.  For years, I would see runners and say, “I could never do that.”  Early one morning, I started a slow jog a half block at a time when no one could see me.  And I didn’t die.  That was twelve years and six marathons ago.

Today – well, Julia, let’s give this a try.

Do It Again!!!

The onset of a new day to a two year old is as full of wonder and adventure as the first day of creation.  There is no recognition of mundane.  To our granddaughter, all is profound from seeing a dog walking down the street to being allowed to use the Elmer’s Glue all by herself.  Enthusiasm is her middle name.  She will literally run laps through the kitchen, living room, front hall, and mudroom, over and over and over again, each time shouting out “Hi, Momma,” as she passes by.  She has an extensive vocabulary for a child her age, but the word “boredom” has no meaning to her at all.  A day is never long enough to accommodate her energy and unending questions. 

Last week, I taught her the song “The wise man built his house upon the rock,” complete with hand motions.  Each time when I came to the end of the song and the foolish man’s house went SPLAT, she would burst out laughing, deep and genuine, and shout, “Do it again, Grandma.  Do it again!”  The repetition only seemed to reinforce the joy she was getting from hearing the song about forty times in a row, until I could break away and do something exciting like changing her brother’s diaper. 

At night, when finally the house was silent with two sleeping babies and two exhausted parents, I curled up under the duvet in the study and re-read one of my favorite books, Orthodoxy  by G. K. Chesterton.  After a non-stop day of songs and running laps and building towers of blocks (all the stuff that Grandmas are licensed to do), I chuckled at what I read, as if this specific page arrived right on schedule. 

p. 58  …it might be true that the sun rises regularly because he never gets tired of rising.  His routine might be due, not to lifelessness, but to a rush of life.  The thing I mean can be seen, for instance, in children, when they find some game or joke that they specially enjoy.  A child kicks his legs rhythmically through excess, not absence, of life.  Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged.  They always say, “Do it again”; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead.  For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony.  It is possible that God says every morning, “Do it again” to the sun;  and every evening, “Do it again” to the moon.  It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike;  it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them.  It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our  Father is younger than we.  The repetition in Nature may not be a mere recurrence;  it may be a theatrical encore.

That is the joy and wonder in which we were designed to live.

…and a little child

shall lead them.

                    Isaiah 11.6

Do it again!