A Crock-Pot Recipe that Reminds Me to Wait it Out

The whole house smells of seasoned broth from a crock-pot of vegetables, chicken, and spices.

A crock-pot represents that glorious Unseen Hand that takes all the bits and pieces you can hardly stand separately and simmers them together into something nourishing.

I glance at my old crock-pot and think about all my life's fragments and frayed ends that--by God's grace and timing--simmer down and build this perfect recipe that makes sense.

Normally, I have no patience for things that take all day.  But crock-pots not only make it a joy to wait, but there's this strange, cozy comfort in knowing that they sit there on the kitchen counter, working.  

In this crock-pot of the heart, you wait it out and know that, at just the right time, He'll have made something of it all.  There's a warmth and a fragrance in this beautiful waiting. 

Crock-Pot Chicken and Pasta Soup
1.  After breakfast, add frozen peas, carrots, and corn to a crock-pot.
2.  Add one chopped onion and one chopped red pepper.
3.  Add 3 frozen chicken breasts and season with salt, pepper, and anything you love. Add 3 cups of water.
4.  Cook on high half of the day.  Then, shred the chicken into bite-sized pieces.  Stir the pot and continue cooking all day.
5.  An hour before dinner, add your favorite kind of pasta and cook until tender.  Enjoy as a soup, or add less liquid for a hearty pasta dish. 

Enjoy!
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Don't you love that feeling of having dinner made by breakfast?

You've Got to See This

My neighbor has a gift.  She's an artist, but nobody really knows--at least we didn't--until she began to show us all.

Her drawings make me so happy.  They evoke something in me that the real object doesn't.  I realize I'm just looking at a drawing of a little girl's shoes, but something about this artwork delights me. 

Reluctantly, she shows her sketches to the neighborhood children, and they gather around her in wonder.  "You drew that?  You really drew it?  With pencil?  How?"

If you ever get a chance to speak with an artist, I highly recommend it.  I ask Jennifer Kelly to explain to me why I love this drawing so much.  She writes, "There's just something little-girly about the shoes, kicked off in a rush to go play. Their shape is reminiscent of the body's long curves; the interior almost calls you to put your foot in, and your skin tingles, remembering the feel of your last pair of flats. Maybe the visceral nature of pencil strokes enhances the touch-feel-experience of the memory."

Living with flair means you seek out your neighbor's hidden talents.  And if you are the neighbor with the gift, living with flair means you offer it to the world.  You go public, you open your sketch book, and you let the community be delighted by you and God's creativity flowing through you.  

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Journal:  What gift are you hiding from us?

Arise, Go

This morning in church, I notice the verb God uses when he speaks to reluctant prophets.  He says:  arise. 

I can't stop thinking about this verb.  Arise!  Arise and go!

It's such an interesting command.  I learn that arise literally means to come into being, to emerge, to move upward.  

Arise!  Come into the calling I have for you!  Emerge out of whatever darkness you're in!   

Move. 

He takes us by the hand and invites us to arise and go.

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Journal:  In what ways am I being called to arise and go?

Things That Make Us Humble

I'm learning to give thanks for things that make me humble.  What a blessing in disguise when we experience failure, sickness, less-than-perfect children, a rebuke from a boss or superior, moods we can't manage, laundry we can never finish, schedules we can't control, or any host of things that cry out:  You are not capable--in your own strength--of living your life!  You are not as great as you think you are! 

I'm sitting in church, upset about all the hard things happening.  I'm skimming the first chapters of the book of Isaiah, thinking about my own proud heart.  I find the most unusual verb: whistle.  God whistles twice in the book of Isaiah.   The prophet Isaiah says God whistles for us--getting our attention--so we'll turn to Him.  I start chuckling in my seat.  I picture myself running off into the distance, into all my own plans and in all my own prideful independence. 

Then, I hear that long, sweet whistle calling me home. 

That's what these disappointments mean.  I need God.  He's calling me home. 

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Journal:  Is God whistling for you through this situation you're in?

I Wasn't Supposed to Have Even One

All year, I've waited for the raspberries.  Finally, we have a single ripe berry on the bush this morning. 

I complain to my husband about how unproductive the berries have been.  "Look at the neighbor's berries!  They have so many ripe berries! We have one!" 

"We weren't supposed to have any this year," my husband--the gardening expert--reminds me.  "The neighbor's plants are mature, and ours are young.  Next year, we'll have our berries."

I wasn't supposed to have any.  The truth of it resonates deep in my soul.  I expect and demand so much.  I look at all my worries on this Sunday:  my daughter's possible gluten allergy, news of a sick friend in the hospital, my deadlines, my students.  I place them all in the great lap of God.  I'm humbled before that lap; I do not demand or complain. 

His great blessing brought into my life the very things I now worry about.  His great blessing--when I did not deserve even one of these things--children, friends, work or whatever it is--means I cleanse my heart and rejoice in the very things about which I want to complain. 

That one bright berry--when I wasn't supposed to have any--tastes sweeter than you can imagine. 

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Journal:  Am I fretting over a blessing? 

The Way You Should Go

On our journey home from Colorado, an older and wiser couple drive one hour ahead of us.  They warn us of traffic or storms.  They select the best hotel option.  They research and find great local restaurants. 

As we arrive behind them, we receive the reconnaissance report.  How easy to travel this way!  They even make dinner reservations for us so we just walk right to our table. 

It feels like we are not alone.  As I thank God for them, I realize they visually represent God's presence and provision all along. 


I recall the verse in Deuteronomy where the author reports that God "went ahead of you on your journey, in fire by night and in a cloud by day, to search out places for you to camp and to show you the way you should go."

I love that God shows us the way we should go.  






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Journal: Has it been obvious that God has gone ahead of you to show you the way you should go? 

Just Look Up

Every time I feel lost in this new place, I just look up.

An enormous mountain rises so high that you can see it no matter where you are.  When you observe it, you immediately reorient.  You suddenly know which direction to go. 

I find myself desperate for that mountain.  With every turn in the car, I'm shifting in my seat, craning my neck to find it.  And then I relax.  "This is the right way," I say.  I don't even need street names anymore.  I just drive on with that mountain beside me, and I know I'll make it home.

I'll remember the simplicity of looking up to find a mountain as I continue in this journey of faith.  
 
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Journal:  What in my life has been a fixed mountain for me?

Give Your Life Away

My arms are sore from turning double-dutch jump ropes. 

From 6:30 PM-7:30 PM, 30 (yes, thirty!) parents and children came out to the parking lot for Monday Night Neighborhood Fitness.  Imagine a swarm of children riding bikes and scooters or playing football and Frisbee.  Imagine a car blaring music from an iPod so a group of children can dance.  Imagine moms and dads walking together and connecting in their own neighborhood. 

Imagine a little boy tugging on my sleeve to announce he rode ten times around the lot which I clocked for him as one mile.  Imagine another little girl finally learning to jump rope. 

I need more kites!  I need more cones for obstacle courses!  I want hula hoops and another set of ropes! 

Why am I so happy when I'm turning jump ropes?  It makes no sense that something like this would so deeply change my life. 

Over the weekend, I hear Larry Crabb (a Christian psychologist) talking about the goal of Christian therapy.  As someone who battled depression all those years and reads everything I can about finding happiness, I drop everything to listen. 

Crabb tells me that, typically, we think about counseling and our own happiness as answering the question, "How much can I get out of my life?"  But therapy in the truest, Biblical sense asks, "How much can I give of my life?"  In practice, I have found my own happiness bloom fully when I'm involved in tasks that serve others and let me forget myself.

I want to give my life away.  Turning jump ropes isn't glamorous, and it doesn't generate any revenue.  But something about this task has secured more happiness for me than anything else I've done this year. 



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Journal:  How is God asking me to give my life away? 

Screaming "Base!"

Today I chase my daughter around the living room to tickle her.  At one point, she defiantly stops in her tracks, places one hand on the couch and screams, "Base!" 

"I'm safe!  I'm safe on base!  You can't touch me!"  she insists, nodding her head and putting one hand up as a stop sign. 

I wait patiently for her to move from "base" only to find that as soon as she's nearly in my grip, she just touches the wall and screams, "Base!" again.  

For little ones, the concept of a "moving base" saves them every time.  They just have to touch something--anything--claim it as their safe haven, and stop the attacker (in this case, the Tickle Monster).

She's onto something.

I imagine enemy attacks against us in various spiritual forms.  I reach out my hand, wherever I am, cling to God and scream "Base!"  You can't touch us here.  We are safe. 

Living with flair means I realize I'm on base.  


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Journal:  What do I need to scream "Base!" to as I claim my safety and protection in God?

Going to the Bottom of the Well

Just this week, a dear friend of mine describes herself as  "holding on to the edge for dear life so she doesn't fall to the bottom of the well."

You grip the well's ledge, keep your chin up, and refuse to fall. 

It's a haunting image of a life lived in fear of surrender.  My tight grip on the ledge represents a picture of what I cannot face on the road to personal transformation, freedom, and joy.   I'm afraid of what's down there if I journey deeper into places of brokenness.  Can't I just stay up here, white knuckled, with my jaw clenched, fighting? 

All day, I consider how I need to let go of my tight grip on my life, trying to hold everything together in that desperate and clenched way that drains out the life and hope. 

A friend looks her straight between the eyes and says, "You need to let go and fall to the bottom of the well."  That's the way to begin to heal. 

But what happens when she lets go?  What fearful thing awaits?  She cannot do this alone. 

Another friend says, "I'll fall to the bottom with you."

And another, days later, adds:  "God is at the bottom of the well." 

We release our grip, surrender to the work of healing God wants in our lives, and look around.  We aren't alone:  Friends journey down into the darkness with us, and God himself embraces us at the moment we let go. 


(Photograph of a well in Argentina, Creative Commons)

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Journal:

Today, I remember a quote from the poet Rainer Maria Rilke:  "Works of art always spring from those who have faced the danger, gone to the very end of an experience, to the point beyond which no human being can go. The further one dares to go, the more decent, the more personal, the more unique a life becomes."  

What danger do I need to face? 

What You Stir Up

Today, for some odd reason, I think about how many times I stir throughout the day.  I stir my coffee or tea, I stir the oatmeal, I stir the batter, I stir the juice, I stir the sauce as it simmers.  Stir, stir, stir.  Maybe it's the Italian Mama rubbing off on me, but I have a spoon in my hand most of the day.

I stir because the good stuff settles at the depths, and my quick spoon riles it up and mixes it back in.  

I'm in church, praying that God would stir up good things in me.  I want passion stirred, hope stirred, and the kind of faith that moves mountains stirred.  It's in there, settled at my depths.  Stir me!

Later, I go home to look up that beautiful verb.  Unfortunately, it's often associated with negative ideas.  We stir up dissent, controversy, and drama.  We stir up anger, bitterness, and jealousy.  In the book of Proverbs, I find that every single use of the verb stir warns against rousing up these negative traits.

I don't want to be a person who stirs up the wrong sorts of things.  

I want to stir up goodness.  I want to leave a wake of peace, joy, hope, and faith.  Once you spend time with me, I want to have stirred up love and happiness in you--not conflict or anger.

Living with flair means I trust God to stir up good things, and I, too, stir my environment to mix in every wonderful element I might.



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Journal:  Am I a person who stirs up controversy or leaves a wake of peace?

How to Increase Your Capacity

Today, I read this quote:  "An organism expends as much as it receives and no more; therefore, receptivity is the first law of life."

Receptivity:  the willingness and readiness to receive.  

I wonder how we might receive from God, draw life and energy, and then expend.   Otherwise, we find ourselves in unnatural and impossible deficits, exhausted by our lives. 

All day long, I think about how much we expend as we go about our days.   I've mastered the art of expending, but I want to learn the art of receptivity.   I receive from God through prayer and the scriptures, and I receive from others as I let them care for me when I'm in need.  What makes this so hard every day? 

My husband reminds me that, in terms of biochemistry, certain drugs block the receptor sites of a cell so they cannot receive.  In our lives, what would block our receptor sites so we cannot truly receive from God?

We both know the answer as soon as we ask the question.  It's pride--our own self-sufficiency and our belief that we can control and direct our own lives.  My supreme busyness reflects that deeply embedded pride.  I must go and go and not ever sit and receive.

Not today.  I need to receive. 

As I position my heart to receive, I find that God sends strange offers my way:  a ride home, a friend delivering a meal, a moment alone to read my Bible, an unexpected treatment offered by a doctor.  I relax into this day and open every receptor site I have.  I find peace soothing my soul.  I let God fill me, and then, I have the capacity to expend. 

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Journal:  How do I receive from God?

The Worst Gift-Giver

I'm a horrible gift-giver.  It takes me forever to think about what would delight another person, and so I abandon the task altogether.   Other folks present beautiful, timely, unexpected gifts to their friends just because they saw something and thought to themselves, "My friend would love this." 

I wish I were a better gift-giver!  I think of the kinds of "good gifts" God rains down--often beautiful, timely, and unexpected blessings.  I want to learn how to reflect that goodness to others. 

Yesterday, a former student of mine asks if I'll meet her on campus because she has a little gift for me.  Nothing special, she tells me.

When she arrives with some other students, she pushes across the table a jar of Coconut Satin and Silk Lotion from a little company called Soaps and Such out in Auburn, New York.  Over her holiday break, she figured out how to find some for me. 

"It's the smell you always commented on--the lotion smell you said you loved," she says, smiling. "You can't buy it anywhere but from this one place.  It's homemade."  

I open the jar and smell the coconut lotion that transports me to a tropical paradise. We all pass it around and lather our hands with it.

Last year, as I walked by this student's desk to return her papers, I would linger and say, "What is that smell?  It smells just like coconut!  I wish I smelled like that all day."

I'd be writing on the chalkboard, and I'd start craving coconut cake.   

It was her Coconut Satin and Silk Lotion.

That was six months ago.  

The student observes the tiniest detail and remembers.   It wasn't a particularly expensive gift.  It wasn't large or even wrapped.  But it changed my whole day. 

These sorts of gifts challenge me to observe and remember so I can bless others.  I don't know what I loved more:  the gift or the fact that she remembered I like the smell of coconut.

Living with flair means I observe, remember, and bless others with tiny gifts. 


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Journal Question:   Sometimes I experience little blessings all day that show me God is watching and knows all the things I love.  As I learn to reflect God's love, am I watching closely what tiny, simple things others love so I might give a gift to bless them?

From Cowardly to Courageous

My little cat, Jack, advances even further in the direction of being fully alive.  Once wounded, this now strong kitty first relearns how to purr.  Then he figures out how to meow again.   Then, he moves past his wounds and chooses to love and serve others.  Finally, he begins to master basic feline behaviors like kneading. 

My daughter asks me, "Mom, what else will Jack do as he becomes more and more like a healthy cat?"  I have no idea.  But we wait and we watch.

Recently, a friend delivers a gift to our three cats.  It's a huge, fluffy cat bed to sit by my rocking chair.  But we have three cats.  Who will get this soft bed?   Jack has no chance, especially with that one cat (Louie,  alpha male) who dominates every household scene.  Normally, Jack cowers around the others.  The three cats stand there, observing this amazing bed. 

Then it happens.  Jack moves forward and claims the bed for his own.  He transforms from cowardly to courageous right before our eyes.  He kneads the bed, turns a few circles, and has slept there ever since. 

I watch that little cat, and I remember God's work as Healer.  

On our way to recovering from whatever wounds us, we suddenly realize the plans in store for us.  One day, we find we have the courage to move forward, claim our dreams, and stand up to those that threaten us.  We discover our place.   We find we are so healthy that nobody even remembers where we came from or how we were wounded. 

We find we are fully alive, doing all the things we were meant to do.  Nothing holds us back. 

A Clog in My Heart

Yesterday, I'm walking alone in the woods behind my house.

Evening in the Pine Forest

It's not a very big forest, but it's big enough to get lost in.

I'm looking up through the pine trees, taking photos and moving forward with a grand plan: I want to see the sun set through the pines, and I want to find beautiful pine cones.

A chill settles on the forest, and a strong wind snakes around the trees like it's coming for me.  I know if I keep walking in one direction, I'll hit a road, but I'm not sure which road or how far it is from my home.

By this time, I find myself taking a winding path and tumbling out onto a foreign road like I'd been spit out from the forest's dark mouth.   I'm in some strange neighborhood now.   It's getting colder, and I'm sapped of strength.

Finally, I clench my teeth and call my husband because I have no idea where I am.   He's so loving about it, so gentle.  But I'm angry at myself that I have to call him for help, and I refuse to have him drive to pick me up.  Instead, I walk the mile home along a road with no sidewalk. I'm too smart to be lost.  I'm too capable to need rescue. If you saw a hopeless woman without her coat, tripping along and nearly falling back into the forest, you were looking at me. 

Pine Cone on Forest Floor

What is this deep resistance in me?  What ancient sap inside of me keeps me proud and unyielding when I know I need rescue?  I refuse for anyone to come find me and just take me home.

This morning before church, I review my photos:  The pine trees and these cones aren't oozing sap like they do in the warmer months.  In the colder seasons, the sap thickens and hardly flows.   There's a clog in the heart of those trees until the summer sun comes and warms it, changes it.

As my husband pours warm syrup over snowman-shaped pancakes this morning, I pray that God would unclog the cold, hardened things in me.  Otherwise, I'll stay lost and wandering in that dark woods. 

What Your Underwear Drawer Can Show You

I run down the stairs with my purse swinging wildly behind my back and cry out, "I have to take the girls shopping.  They need new socks and underwear. I can't find one thing for them to wear! "

"Are you sure they need more?" my dear husband asks in response. 

"Yes," I nod my head. "Definitely." 

We return home, and in order to stack all of our new stuff neatly in their drawers, it occurs to me to refold the little one's underwear drawer because it's a tangled vine of swirling tights, wads of underwear, and socks without partners. You can't see a thing in there. 

This is why I went shopping. 

I dump the whole drawer out, isolate items, and begin the slow process of refolding.

Long Lost Pink Mitten

That underwear drawer had 30 panties (that's thirty!), 10 pairs of socks, 4 leotards, 6 tights, and 1 missing mitten. Did I mention how many underwear?  Didn't I?  Thirty.

I learned my lesson.

We have stuff to spare.  The mess just created an illusion that I was missing something.  Had I paused and assessed the truth of the circumstances, I once again would have found abundance where I perceived scarcity.  

What theme is this God continues to show me?  Living with flair means seeing God's abundance. It might mean I sort through my life--isolate the blessings--and see all I have.  Once I'm organized, I find I have more than I need. 

The Danger of Inviting God In

Last night, my youngest daughter and I read together from a book, and it occurs to me that she's actually reading.  She's actually reading words.

She'll never be the same.  Once you learn to read, you can't undo it.  You see a word, and you must read it.  You can't refuse.  The effects of learning to read are irreversible.

And involuntary.  Try it.  Look at a word and try not to read it.  You just can't help yourself.  You've cracked a code; you've escaped from a labyrinth and nothing will ever look the same.

It reminds me of a life of faith.  The Teacher shows you how to crack the code; you're out of the maze. 

A life of faith irreversibly alters the way a mind sees the world.  It shimmers with the radiance of God's glory, and you interpret everything through the lexicon of God's love, goodness, and power.  At first, like for a young reader, the process is slow and basic.  You recognize God in obvious ways, perhaps recounting answers to prayer, emotions felt in worship, or wisdom gained through Bible reading.  But then, you find you're really reading.  You can't help it.  You read God in the tiniest moment and see into the life of things.

You'll discern the truth about this world.  Your heart will break, and you'll want to hug strangers in grocery stores. You'll start worshiping God when you see an acorn, a seashell, or a cat's missing eye.  You'll see a spiritual narrative behind even the garbage in the parking lot.  You'll write a blog every single day because you can't contain the worship and keep it all to yourself.

You'll want to proclaim things. 

That's the danger of inviting God in.  You will learn to read, and you won't be able to undo it.

It Really Works!

Green Tomatoes Leftover from Summer

I was a doubter about the whole ripening-tomatoes-in-the-basement plan.  Everybody said they would rot.  Everybody said they wouldn't taste the same.

My daughter and I journey to the basement late yesterday and sit cross-legged before a box of tomatoes wrapped in newspaper.  Just a few weeks ago, we gathered all the green tomatoes from our garden before the first frost.  

She unwraps the first one.

Tomatoes Unwrapped! 

It's a juicy deep red.  It's a brilliant and fragrant red. 

We can hardly believe it.  My daughter and I unwrap each red treasure.  The experience is better than picking them off the vine.  Add the element of doubt and surprise, and all of a sudden, we have a celebration on our hands.

Basement-Ripened Tomatoes

We carry our produce to the kitchen.  Outside, the cold wind blows.  There's a chance of snow, and the gray sky announces winter.  But my kitchen says its summer--the kind with fresh tomatoes and a counter top full of vegetables.

Roasting Tomatoes and Garlic

We get to work.  The little one decides we must make homemade. . . something.  We chop each tomato and roast them with cloves of garlic.  Then we remove skins and seeds and blend the whole thing into a delicious soup.  We've got grilled cheese sandwiches crisping and homemade garden tomato soup simmering.

I'm so thrilled that those tomatoes never ripened this summer. I'm so happy for that particular disappointment.

When Plan A fails, Plan B often turns out better--more magical--because of the unexpected, against-all-odds sort of outcome. The truth of it all hits me like the cold wind against this window.  Plan A has to fail sometimes because God's got a surprise in mind that I'll unwrap when the cold wind blows, in the sorrow of a dark basement.  That's when I'll need it most.

What You Bring to the Fight

A great big dog and his owner arrive at our front door yesterday.  This neighbor has stopped by to visit on the front porch, but while fumbling with his gloves, he lets the leash loose.  The enormous dog squeezes past the screen door and rockets into the house.

Our cat, Louie, sits in the foyer, minding his own business.  He's licking a paw; he's yawning. 

And then, in a blur of fur and teeth, the dog nearly devours my cat.

Louie barely escapes.  He then exits the scene in what I think is a cowardly retreat.  But no!  That cat has hidden himself from view momentarily.  While hiding, the cat puffs out his fur in a magnificent display and returns to fight. 

Huge canine beast verses tiny (but now very fluffy) kitty.  There's no chance, folks.

But Louie knows he can dominate by speed, sharp claws, and clever maneuvering.  Size does not matter when you know what you bring to the fight.

We intervene and stop the brawl.  But all night, I'm laughing about Louie's bravery.  I'm chuckling about how he hid away, like Clark Kent in a telephone booth, to make his Superman transformation of fluffed-up fur that wasn't even impressive. Did he not realize how out-sized he was?  Did he not think of the danger?

It's ridiculous to take on such a monstrous dog.  But in kitty logic, size rarely matters.  Besides, Louie knew that my husband had his back.  And this was his turf.  No dogs allowed. 

That cat has flair.  His confidence, despite his size, amazes me.  Might I enter my mental and spiritual battles with the same fervor?  The enemy looms large, but I know what I bring to the fight.  I know who has my back.  Kitty logic might just save the day.

5 Blisters

I count 5 blisters on my hands.

I touch each one.  A blister is the fluid that collects to protect the skin underneath from damage.  With that bubble of liquid in place, the layer below stays safe and can heal from whatever assaults it.  The blister is the skin's defense mechanism.

These particular blisters arise out of an afternoon of raking leaves and building leaf houses with my daughters.  We map out rooms to our imaginary homes and pile up leaves for walls.   In our minds, the architecture rises up, brick by brick, and materializes over our heads.  An imaginary fire roars in the fireplace.  An apple pie bakes in the leaf oven.

It isn't until I come inside to grade papers that I realize the damage to my hands.  These blisters are perfect protection from what I didn't even perceive was wrong.

I didn't tell my body to do that.  I didn't even know it was happening.  What an intricate design the body is that it protects and repairs without our permission, without our even knowing!  So while I'm off imagining a life in leaves, something makes that layer I need to live outside of imagination.  It's protects me when I don't perceive harm.

Blisters remind me of God's loving protection--the kind I don't invite or often value, placed right in my hands so I can heal.