Trusting the Process (without Peeking)

I'm a horrible disaster in the kitchen.  But God seems to teach me things in this place of flour and butter.  This morning, I tried my neighbor's delicious "popover" recipe.  Their family loves popovers.  They sprinkle lemon juice and powdered sugar atop the fluffy dish, and voila!  Breakfast joy!

Yesterday, she scribbled the recipe for me on the back of my daughter's "She Had a Wonderful First Day in Kindergarten" card.  You melt 2 tablespoons butter in an oven-safe skillet at 475 degrees.  Meanwhile, you whisk together 1/2 cup milk, 1/2 cup flour, and 2 eggs.  When the butter melts, you pour your batter in the skillet, close the over door, and wait exactly 12 minutes.  No more, no less.  And you cannot open the oven door.  The popover won't puff up if you do.

I do everything according to the instructions.  But when it comes to the "no peeking" part (and my oven has no glass window for seeing inside), I can hardly bear it.  Was it working?  Was my batter fluffing up?

12 minutes seems like an eternity.  I'm dying.  I have to peek.  I have to make sure the process is working.

I bite my lip and wait.  I actually count down with my timer--aloud--those last few seconds.  Finally, I can open the oven door.

It worked. 

Why was it so hard to trust the process?  Why did I have to bite my lip and restrain myself from needing proof that something good was actually happening inside that hot oven?

Oh me of little faith!  As I enjoyed that delicious treat with my family, I remembered that I can trust the process even if I can't see what's happening.  God works in secret within what often feels like an emotionally dark inferno.  But if I trust the process, I'll turn into what I'm supposed to become. 

Living with flair means I'm OK with not peeking.  What's supposed to happen is happening.  I'll see the product when it's time.

A Way to Stop Fighting

We woke up to screaming.  All week, we've been listening to our daughters work out their conflicts.  Lately, they've been fighting over everything:  Whose turn? Whose portion? Whose toy? 

In church this morning, I asked another mother how she handles sibling fighting.  Her answer surprised me.

She said to teach my children that they aren't special.

Is this mother American?  Has she been in a coma?  Aren't I supposed to be training my children to believe in their absolute specialness?  Aren't I supposed to be telling my little girls how wonderful, how amazing, how special, special, special they are?  Of course they deserve that turn, that portion, that toy.  I've trained them to expect nothing less. 

I think I've been raising narcissists.  Something's gotta change. 

That mom told me to ask one sister if her other sister were any less special than she. 

So I did.  Without that sense of "I'm uniquely special," it was hard to justify who deserved that turn, that portion, that toy.

Who is more special?  Me or you?  

As I'm worshiping God in church this morning, I think about what causes so much distress in my own heart.  So many of my own internal and external conflicts arise out of a sense of entitlement.  I'm so special, God, so don't I deserve this thing?  I'm so special, God, aren't you going to do this wonderful thing in my life?  It's my turn, God.  It's time for my portion. 

The problem isn't that I'm not special.  I am.   The problem is that you are too--just as much--and I don't see it.  If I did, I wouldn't fight for my personal story, my turn, my portion, and my toy.  I'd see you as equally deserving of every opportunity and every bit of joy.

It was a sobering thought for someone like me--a recovering narcissist of sorts.  I looked around the sanctuary at hundreds of folks on their own spiritual journey.  Might I give up my turn, my portion, and my toy for them?  Might I reengage with people, recognizing a profound sense of how special they are?

Selfishness might stem from an exaggerated sense of my own specialness.


Are others special enough (as special as I am?) that I might defer to them, sacrifice for them, and lose my place in line?  Living with flair means admitting (though it's painful!) that I am not more special.  That's one way I can love others better, even when they get the biggest portion and the best toy.

A Weekly Personal Reboot

Sometimes it helps me to think of my life as an operating system--like on my computer--that needs to reboot or reset every week.

To reboot means to reload an operating system.  You have to turn everything off, restart, and then launch the whole thing over again.   You reset your machine.   To reset means I clear away errors or events that clog my system, and I bring everything back to it's normal operating condition or initial state.   

Saturday cleaning day is my reset day.  I reboot the whole house. 

As I scrub, wash sheets, clean floors, rearrange bookshelves, I think about cleaning as rebooting.  Tomorrow, we wake up, go to church, and start the week afresh.  We'll create disasters in every room, dishevel all the books, track mud upon the clean floors, and leave traces of our projects.

But we'll reset the next Saturday--reboot--to that initial state so we can start a new week.

What if I didn't reboot?  Could the house freeze up like my computer?  Would we prevent important changes from taking place that require a reset?  Just like my computer needs that reboot, I realize how important it is to let my family enter tidy rooms primed for a new week of creativity, relaxation, and connection.  If the clutter and dirt of the previous week remains, I'm not allowing space for the new.

Cleaning my house resets it for the upcoming week.  But personally, what am I doing to reboot my own mind and body?  What does it mean for me to "reset" and enter this new week with a clean, smooth operating system? I want to practice taking the kind of time it requires to slow down, let all my programs rest, let the screen go dark, and then start up again so I'm ready for this new week.

If I don't answer the phone, it's because I'm rebooting. 

Living with flair means I reboot my living space and my life every week.   It's a way to get my operating system ready for new updates and new flair. 

(Photograph of first Argonne Computer in 1953 with scientist Jean Hall.  Courtesy of Argonne National Library)