Happiness is...

...heading home for a white Christmas.

Espresso Truffle Brownies

Adapted from this gluten-free recipe.

• 1/2 cup dried black beans (this is the same as one 15.5 ounce can of cooked black beans, but this way there's no extra stuff in them, and cooking them with the coffee and vanilla helps them absorb those flavors)
  
• 1/4 cup coffee beans, finely ground
• 3 teaspoons vanilla
• 3 eggs
• 3 T coconut oil
• 1/3 cup cocoa
• 1 teaspoon baking soda
  
• 1/2 cup diced dates
• 3/4 cup chocolate chips (the only not-healthy ingredient - I did use organic, but next time I'll make my own)
• 1/2 cup chopped walnuts
  

Soak beans. (I did the quick soak method: bring to a boil, remove from heat and keep covered for an hour.) Drain beans. Cover with 1 1/2 cups of water, add coffee and vanilla, and bring to boil. Boil gently, partially covered, until beans are tender, adding water if necessary.

While beans are cooking, place dates in small pot, just barely covered with water. Simmer to soften.

Place cooked beans (including juice and coffee grounds - should be about 1 1/2 cups), dates (drained), eggs, and coconut oil in the blender. Puree. (If your blender is struggling, add a bit more coconut oil.) Add cocoa and baking soda and blend until mixed. Stir in chocolate chips and walnuts.

Pour batter into greased 8x8 baking pan. Bake at 350 until top is dry and sides begin to pull away from the pan (20-25 minutes).

Brownies will be gooey when they first come out of the oven. This is, of course, not a bad thing, but you won't be able to serve them as a bar. Once they've sat for a day or so they have a fudgie-brownie-meets-truffle consistency and taste even better. My only other tip: don't mention they have black beans in them until people have tasted them. You can't taste the beans, but some folks would be too squeamish to try them.

Lunchbox Cookies

One day I was thinking, we eat celery with peanut butter and raisins, we eat apples with peanut butter - why not combine them all in one yummy good-for-you cookie? So I adapted a recipe I got ages ago from my second favorite mother of seven and called them After School Snack Cookies. That cumbersome handle morphed to Lunchbox Cookies, but they're actually perfect for breakfast on the go.

WARNING: These cookies are hearty and wholesome and not very sweet. If that's a problem, add more honey, call them something other than cookies, or get a recipe somewhere else.

• ½ c. coconut oil
• 1 c. honey (use good, raw local honey - the stuff from the grocery store may be cheaper, but it also may not be honey)
  
• ½ c. natural peanut butter (this matters!)
  
• 1 ½ T vanilla
• ¾ c. milk
• 3 c whole grain flour (I use part whole wheat, part oat)
  
• 1 ½ t baking soda
• 2 T ground flax seed
• 2 ¾ c oats
• ¼ c sesame seeds (if your sesame seeds are unsalted, you may want to add a pinch or two of salt to the cookie dough)
  
• 1 apple, diced
• 2 stalks celery, diced
• ¼ c. raisins

Combine coconut oil, honey, peanut butter, vanilla, and milk. If you measure the oil first and then use the same measuring cup for your honey, you'll waste less honey!

In separate bowl, combine flour, baking soda, and flax seed. Add to wet ingredients. Stir in oats, sesame seeds, apple, celery, and raisins. Let sit for 15 minutes.

Roll into balls, flatten slightly between hands, and place on greased cookie sheet. Bake 10-15 minutes at 350.

I always give the above disclaimer before serving these cookies. So long as you're not expecting a super-sweet cookie, you'll love them!

Hope Gratitude

So, the whole regular-or-even-daily posting on gratitude leading up to Thanksgiving didn't pan out quite like I expected, but here's a late one to roll us into Advent.

"I suck but there's hope." That's how some friends and I summed up our lives tonight. It's the Gospel in a nutshell - I'm depraved and helpless, but hope is found in the Cross, in the Christ who doesn't just offer something to be hopeful for but becomes our hope.

His kind of hope isn't the wistful thinking we're accustomed to, the I-hope-I-win-the-lottery optimism that knows all along it will be disappointed. His kind of hope is a sure thing, a promise that we wait for while knowing it's already kept. We have hope that we aren't stuck the way we are, hope for redemption, for the resurrection that cannot be unless death comes first.

The curse of Babel in Genesis 11 is followed by the promise of blessing in Genesis 12. The writing on the wall -- that we're mortal, that we don't measure up, that our false hope will crumble in our fists -- is followed by lions shutting their mouths while Daniel prays and a pagan king opening his to praise the living God. And even as God pronounces to Adam and Eve the dreadful consequence of their sin, he is promising to send the only one who can defeat it.

Like their children and their children's children, we rest in and long for the Savior who came and who is coming. "He comes to make his blessings flow far as the curse is found" -- in every corner of the world, in every corner of my heart.

Again Gratitude

On a three-year-old, long black piggytails and big brown eyes -- and dimples, lord help us, dimples! -- can hardly be improved upon, but the fact that her name is Lucy adds to the overall adorableness of this little personality. One Sunday class was over and Lucy was engrossed in play, her back to the door, when her mother came to pick her up: “Lucy! It’s time to go!”

From the sparks that ensued one would think her mom had threatened something dreadful - spinach for dinner, perhaps, or a trip to Siberia. Lucy whirled around, all lowered brows and pouting lips and flailing arms. “Again?!” she cried.

The audacity of her mother to take her away from a place that would soon be dark and empty, locked up tight! To force her to exchange this room with its dingy tile floors and flickering flourescent lights for the comfort and security of home! To insist on feeding her a nourishing meal, kissing her owies, tucking her in at night! Every week it’s the same -- the tyrant simply refuses to abandon her.

If I ever got to the end of the list of reasons to be grateful, which I won't, I’d have plenty of cause to start back at the beginning. I’ve been shown mercy again. I’ve been forgiven again. I’ve been provided for again. He puts the lonely in families again. His compassion is new every morning again.

He’s more than proven Himself. How is it that I’m still surprised when He shows up and remains true to His character all over again?

Gospel Gratitude

It's November, and in preparation for a holiday that begins with a prayer of thankfulness and ends with over-indulgence and football, I'll be posting regularly (daily?) about things I'm grateful for. Gratitude's a discipline to cultivate, not just a feeling. It's also a close cousin to humility, so when the fourth Thursday rolls around I ought to be the humblest person at the table.

Here's today's:

Therefore, since we have been justified by faith,
we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ.
Through him we have also obtained access by faith
into this grace in which we stand,
and we rejoice in hope of the glory of God...
For while we were still weak, at the right time Christ died for the ungodly.
For one will scarcely die for a righteous person—
though perhaps for a good person one would dare even to die—
but God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners,
Christ died for us.

- Romans 5:1-2, 6-8

Any proper "Count My Blessings" list must begin with this mind-boggling truth - not that I loved God, but that He loved me.

Open Thank-you Note

Of all the good gifts that You give, today I'm most grateful for desire. Thanks for tugging my heart towards Yours.

Happiness is...

...mercy and mercy and mercy and grace.

Last Night's Dinner

Would you believe I had completely forgotten that I know how to make chapati?

Seven years ago, a one-legged Fijian man with tatoos, an eye patch, and a gap-toothed grin taught me how to make Indian flatbread in a community kitchen in rural Kenya. (He later gave me a pink and purple bracelet and many a mournful gaze, so my rolling pin skills must have made an impression.) Chapati is simple and delicious but I haven't thought to make it in years.

Last night I had Kristen over so we could connect over bowls of leftover lentil barley soup. Whole-grain chapati was just the thing - the wheat and flax making it good and nutty, the oat flour keeping it soft, the coconut oil and honey complementing the spice-and-vinegar of the lentils. I'm glad I remembered that I have that skill. Pretty sure I still have the bracelet, too.

A Letter to the Fall

Dear October,

Could you please stay forever?
If you do, I promise I'll be good.

Sincerely,
Libby

[anything you want them to be] Muffins

I've been asked for the recipe for "my apple muffins" or "my maple muffins" or "my breakfast muffins." Fact is, it's the same recipe, a "nothin' naughty" stroke of genius that works for just about anything. I'm tired of looking the original up and remembering all my little tweaks every time I bake it, too, so here 'tis:

• 1/3 cup milk
• 1 cup plain yogurt
• 1 egg, lightly beaten
• 3/4 cup maple syrup
• 1 lemon, juiced (about 2 tablespoons)
• 2 teaspoons vanilla*
• 2 cups whole grain flour (I always do part whole wheat, part oat. I grind oats in my coffee grinder, much like the Ingalls ground wheat in The Long Winter, except they did it by hand and I do it by electricity.)
• 2 tablespoons ground flax seed*
• 1/4 cup whole oats*
• 1/4 cup chopped walnuts*
• 2 teaspoons baking soda
• 2 teaspoons cinnamon*
• 1/2 teaspoon nutmeg*

*Approximate measurements, which is better than saying "a handful" or "a generous shaking."

Mix dry ingredients. Separately, mix wet ingredients. Make a hollow in the dry ingredients and pour in wet ingredients. Stir only until blended. (Don't overstir!)

Makes about 2 dozen. Bake at 350 for 12-20 minutes (sorry, can't remember how long it takes).

These puppies are moist, aromatic, and incredibly delicious. I almost always make a streusel topping of oats, walnuts, cinnamon, and honey that I sprinkle on before baking. If I'm lazy (or out of oats) I drizzle honey on top and sprinkle it with cinnamon.

I've made these with apples, which is yummy. I've made breakfast muffins with carrots, apples, and dates. I've made blueberry ginger muffins that I served with a spiced honey butter. I've made them with 1/2 cup of honey instead of the maple syrup. I'm guessing you could do just about anything with this recipe. I want to try pumpkin, and a savory muffin with garlic and onion and celery and some kind of seed. This afternoon I'll be making blueberry pecan muffins.

Most muffins are tricksters. They call themselves muffins to fool you into purchasing them as a healthy alternative to cookies or doughnuts when they're actually loaded with bad-for-you ingredients. But not my muffins! And they're still packed with flavor. Try for yourself!

Doing It Myself

I've been following a lot of Do-It-Yourself blogs lately, largely due to a recent quest to eat right, to avoid buying what I could make myself, and to use natural alternatives to standard chemical-ridden products. It's about stewardship -- of my money, my health, and God's creation. It also gives me wicked bragging rights.

These DIY women, though -- and they're all women, it seems -- punch holes in my smugness balloon. I can feel pretty good about tweaking recipes to make them good for you until I read posts about grinding your own flour and soaking your grains for 24 hours. (Like I know I'm going to bake something a day in advance!) DIY Women always have obscure herbs and various essential oils on hand, and loads of time to drive to farms to buy raw milk and then make it into butter and yogurt.

Reading DIY blogs has brought up a few questions I'd like to ask the DIY Women:

1. Is there anything that baking soda cannot do?
2. It seems that you all love the scent of lavendar. Why on earth?
3. Do you actually exist in human form or are you some kind of bread-dough-kneading, homeschooling, food-preserving superbeings with internal natural remedy encyclopedias?

I'm brought back from DIY despair by the reminder that I work a full-time job outside of my home, besides living in a community that I invest a lot of energy into. I don't have to be a DIY Woman. I don't have to drink the koolaid kefir flavored with natural juices from fruit trees cultivated in my backyard. I can do things my way.

Today's run...

... as well as Monday's, took place beneath the stars early this morning. Strength training was included. Just started a fitness camp with other members of my community, and we're all having a love-hate relationship with it. Typically, we hate it until it's over, and then we love the fact we did it, and then we walk around bowlegged like cowboys and hate it again.

You often hear people say that a workout made them painfully aware of muscles they never knew they had. That's silly. I had a very good health teacher in 5th grade and learned all the Latin names of all the muscles. I may not remember all of them, but at one point, I did know that I had them. I am currently painfully aware of their existence.

Fitness camp lasts a month, and although I'll keep running throughout and afterwards I won't be regularly blogging about it anymore, because the only thing more boring than my molasses jogs is reading about them.

Happiness is...

...contagious laughter, babies who snuggle, reminders of the Gospel, Sunday afternoon walks, and the particular shade of blue of an October sky.

Today's run...

...was long overdue.

It was overdue because it had been sixteen days since I'd gone running (last Thursday's attempt being too piddling to mention).

It was also overdue because I finally overcame the Exercise Equipment Phobia that has prevented cold-weather consistency throughout my running career.

That's right: I conquered the running-to-nowhere machine.

I logged only two miles but increased my pace by more than two minutes. And now I'll join the throngs of latecomers who won't stop raving about the bandwagon to those who jumped on it long before. Beyond the practicalities of ensuring a steady pace and keeping track of the time, there are mirrors! accessible bathrooms! security! day-and-night, rain-or-shine availability! the privacy (having my apartment's little weight room to myself) to play music out loud, even sing along! My life will never be the same.

Tune in next week for my enthusiasm over other bright ideas like Facebook (I never dreamed I'd reconnect with so many old friends -- and even see pictures of their babies!), GPS (no more phoning friends for directions for me!), and Google (why, you can find out anything you wish to know! Just type in your query and poke the "Search" button and up pops the Internet!)

Today's run...

...took me past a sign for Tangley Lane. Isn't that a good name for a street? It reminded me of getting my hair brushed as a kid. So did my three-mile jog, actually -- an it-hurts-but-it'll-be-over-soon experience.

The only difference? Instead of a pretty ponytail on the other end of it, I got sore muscles and a sweaty face and the satisfaction of knowing that I didn't give up.

All Growed Up

I was a strong-willed toddler who insisted on being called "The Babe." Not sure how well that would go over now, but I enjoyed two years and nine months of being The Babe until Sally came along.

I'm the one on the left, trying to get everyone to look at me. Sally's on the right, drooling and sporting boy hair. Becky, in the middle, is taking it all in stride. She'd already been dethroned three babies ago.

When my new little sister came home from the hospital, I noted forlornly, "I used to be the baby, but now I growed up." The adjustment was difficult for me, and no wonder - twenty-something years later I still don't like being nudged out of the center of attention. I just hide it better.

Growing up hasn't grown on me. I still think of myself as a kid, and most days I have no desire for that to change. I don't suppose there's any getting around it - although this poem nearly had me fooled:

When I was One, I had just begun.
When I was Two, I was nearly new.
When I was Three I was hardly me.
When I was Four, I was not much more.
When I was Five, I was just alive.
But now I am Six, I'm as clever as clever,
So I think I'll be six now for ever and ever.
- A. A. Milne

Maybe six is the golden age, the narrow window of opportunity in which, if you set your mind to it, you can stay the same age forever and ever. I missed my chance. No doubt I was so relieved to make it to six (having been informed all my life that five-year-old girls are for eating) that I completely forgot and focused my energies on making it to seven.

Some days I'd just as soon be six, confident in my cleverness. (I'm far more clever now but unblissfully aware that there's a lot more cleverness to be attained.) Or I could be three and my mom could style my hair in looped-up braids to keep me from sticking it in my nose. (Sometimes it's nice having no other option than to do the right thing.) Or I could be ten and when I say the wrong thing people would laugh and think I'm cute instead of getting mad and thinking I'm insensitive.

All that to say, being a grown-up is not all it's cracked up to be.

Today's run...

...was preceded by a lovely game of football. Yes, I called it "lovely," because that's how I feel when a crisp autumn day is followed by a tussle with the ol' pigskin. There was one other girl playing, and she runs faster and catches better than I do, but I was definitely the best at yelling and falling down.

I am, in fact, so hardcore that I ran 2.5 miles afterwards.

Then I rewarded myself with a mint brownie from Sharon. It was so good that if Sharon were to write a blog devoted to mint brownies, I would link to it right now.

Quote of the Day

It was too cold to go out
It was too wet to play
So we both sat inside
On that cold, cold wet day.

-The Cat in the Hat, by Dr. Seuss

It's been raining all week.

Happiness is...

...neighbors who don't password-protect their wireless.

On Community

The other night I was planning to post some thoughts about community. But community happened instead.

I've been learning a lot about community lately because I've been in transition. For about a year now the dream of having My Own Place has never been far from my mind. Last week the dream became reality - but at the last minute, I almost bailed.

When I left home nine years ago I moved into what you could call an "intentional community." I don't like that phrase because it's redundant. You can share space and meals and responsibilities, even pray together, but you cannot have real community without being intentional. Anyway, it's been a joy and until recently I had hardly considered living any other way. But this past year it's become obvious to me that I'm [gasp] not nineteen anymore and that having a bit more space to call my own could be a good and healthy thing. My Own Place became an ever-intensifying desire.

So last week I made a bold move of independence and faith and rented an apartment a whole mile away from the house where I've lived and worked with our ministry staff. The process of buying dishes and tea towels, shoving my stuff in my car, and moving in was exciting, until it hit me: wait a minute! I hate being alone!

I mean, I really hate it. I have been called a great many things in my life, but "introvert" is definitely not one of them. My Own Place morphed to My Lonely Place as I began to feel isolated and alone before I'd spent a single night at the apartment.

One thing I've learned over the past few years: when overwhelmed by feelings of isolation, seek out community! So I called my roomies together - you know, all the girls whose house I'd been dreaming of moving out of - and asked for prayer, which they graciously provided. Over the next couple of days I began seeking input from others and praying like crazy.

It was a good process. It forced me to recognize that the idea of My Own Place had become a refuge for me over the past year. A reality check told me that Christ alone is my hope, and shelf space and my own bathroom and food that hasn't been labeled with a Sharpie are not rights to be demanded. I also had to confront my fear of being left high and dry financially. When it finally came down to it, I felt that it was still the right thing to move in and hesitantly did so.

I couldn't have moved out of "community" without the help of my community. Whether they were carrying heavy things or encouraging me when I didn't know what to do or coming over to hang out to help ease the transition, I needed these people, and they were there.

I love how God designed us to need one another. It's really his mercy, isn't it? Independence won't just keep us from meaningful friendships - it will keep us from the cross. Community reminds me that I could never be ok on my own - and by the grace of God, I don't have to be.

The funny thing is that I've been far more intentional about community since I moved out of it. My time with people has been focused - not just sitting in the same room hiding behind my computer or iPhone (the Internet should only enhance real-life community, not replace it). I'm increasingly aware of how much our lives were meant to be shared.

So the other night, when two of the staff girls dropped by (no doubt to keep me from feeling lonely), and then one of my former students arrived as they were leaving, I had no complaints about my post on community being delayed. As my second visitor and I shared a good old-fashioned heart-to-heart on my couch, I thought to myself, "This is what it's all about."

Today's run...

...was cut short after about 1.2 miles in the rain. My goal for the fall has been to never quit a run without meeting my goal for that day. So today I failed in both goals. Never mind the stitch in my side! But there's always tomorrow. I will not go quietly into the night.

Today's run...

...was a study in mind over matter. Two sluggish miles managed to pass beneath my tennies while I cursed the chili I ate for lunch.

One great motivator: the new-to-me dress I tried on this afternoon that would have looked a lot better on last year's BMI. Oh, and also the knowledge that healthy choices honor my Creator.

One great demotivator: the overweight power-walker in the "Mom" T-shirt, huffing and puffing along in the opposite direction, who kept passing me at roughly the same place on the loop - meaning that my run was about the speed of her walk.

Happiness is...

...a Saturday and a book.

Today's run...

...happened.

That's about all that can be said about my 1.5 mile jog, at no particular pace, this evening. It happened. Still, that's more than can be said of most of my runs this year. Despite a tight schedule on a muggy evening, despite inhaling a bit of gravel, despite a few guys that probably weren't creepy (but I'm awfully creepable), today's run happened.

And if I boast*...er...blog about it, there's a greater chance that it will keep happening.

*Please disregard yesterday's post about all the good things I accomplish being like filthy rags or clanging gongs or whatever.

Odds and Ends

This morning I woke up feeling disappointed. Perhaps I should say that I woke up feeling like a disappointment, as the only thing I was disappointed in was myself. Some days are like that - that cloud, that vague sense that I'm not quite ok, that there's something I ought to be doing better or more or differently.

Underneath it all, of course, is the fear that I've disappointed God somehow. The "ought to's" pile up and point the finger. Thank goodness for the Gospel! I grasped for it this morning, while still lying in bed condemning myself for not getting up yet: His love for me has never depended on my good behavior. I am not defined by my unmet ought to's.

And so I had a pretty good day, with a list of small accomplishments. I made productive choices at work. I finally ran a mile after too many months of sporadic exercise. I ate lots of vegetables. I got a library card. I cheered for my friends' softball team. I wrote a long-overdue e-mail to a heart-friend.

Thank goodness once again for the Gospel, which shows up to remind me that I'm nothing on my own. It reveals the castle I thought I was building to be nothing more than a dollhouse, clumsy and crude at best. And that's ok. If I find my worth in what I do, I'll always let myself down eventually. I can't accomplish a thing without His grace. End-of-the-day self-satisfaction leads only to early-morning self-disappointment.

Thank goodness for the Gospel. Thank goodness for my Jesus.

Cultural Whiplash

This time it's a latrine that reminds me why I love my life.

Not that I've been in desperate need of reminding. These past few weeks - as I've hung out with kids and watched them get excited about God and His purposes, as I've coached my students in leadership, as I've lived and laughed with my beloved Mexican friends, as I've swam in sea and cenote, as I've sweated and swatted mosquitoes, as I've collapsed late at night in my low-swinging hamaca, as I've relished yummy Yucatecan delicacies like panuchos or machacados - I've rediscovered the smile I'd lost this spring in the chaos of preparation and the burden of a grace-resisting heart. But my grin grows wider as I pick my way through the jungle of a backyard behind my new Mayan mama's cocina.

A fire pit here, a tricycle-cart there, a thatched building providing extra cooking space, a covey of women in their white embroidered dresses gossiping in Mayan while watching the pot of beans, and finally a rickety structure in the back corner, bamboo poles and tree branches held together by scraps of what-have-you, dried palm leaves for a roof, and a tattered curtain reminiscent of the sackcloth that Old Testament characters are so fond of donning. I try not to think about where this remnant of drapery has been as I pull it aside to enter. Inside is a rotting wooden floor keeping a makeshift seat suspended over what must be an old well. The smell and the flies make its new use all too clear.

Kenyans call this kind of toilet a "long drop," I recall as I precariously take care of business. No doubt if I fell through the gaping hole I'd wish the drop were longer - anything to delay the inevitable unsavory plunge. "That," I tell my morbid imagination, "would be a terrible way to die." There's certainly no cause to linger in a place like this - and yet, as I make my way back to the raucous cocina where our family dinner awaits, the only thought I have is how much I love my life.

My days in the tiny village of Teabo (which sounds to me like an expression of affection from a Spanish speaker with a cold) fly by in a blur of greenery and afternoon showers and two-tiered translation - and before long I'm saying good-bye to new friends - friends whose first language is not Spanish but Mayan, friends who are just barely scraping out a living and yet send me off with gifts, friends who hardly know me but cry to see me go.

The four-hour van ride to the Cancun airport is not long enough to transition smoothly. I find myself in line with the guy who is paying to check a fifth suitcase, the woman who is already drunk, her companion who loudly belittles her. I buy a half pint of milk for three times the standard price of a liter and await my flight in a terminal with a Bubba Gump Shrimp and a Margaritaville, surrounded by tourists who've experienced a Mexico as authentic as Taco Bell. They sport tans they've worked hard for, lying on sand imported from fishing villages elsewhere in the peninsula - I watched the 'dozers tear up the coastline just days before. They've stayed in resorts that are driving up the cost of living for the people who grew up here, resorts kept running by people who've left farm and family to seek their fortune in tourism. The women wear ridiculous hats and sundresses just like ones I've seen in souvenir shops in Thailand and Turkey and India and Florida, dresses most likely imported from Indonesia.

I drink every last drop of my thirty-peso milk and remind myself how selfish I've been and how much mercy I've been extended. I, too, have sought my own comfort and pleasure, carelessly disregarding the affect of my actions on others. It was my self-centered living, after all, that crucified Christ. Still, I wish I were back in Teabo (or "Te Quiero Buchisibo," as I like to call it), swinging in my hammock in my spider-infested house, rushing to fill the tank when there's running water, trekking across the backyard to the latrine.

Today's Butt-kicker

Shortly after making amends with someone I'd cut down with my razor wit:

"Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart
be acceptable in your sight,
O LORD, my rock and my redeemer."
- Psalm 19:14

Can't have acceptable words without the meditations of a pure heart. I'm grateful for the stability of my Rock and his faithfulness to redeem me and my relationships from the messes my impatience, my arrogance, and my thoughtlessness make.

Today's Accomplishments

• Drove around Merida in a persnickety van and got thoroughly lost - several times - but found my way without phoning a friend.

• After six days without any caffeine, downed a French press in the morning, a frappe-plus-two-shots-topped-with-whipped-cream-and-cajeta (my guilty pleasure, ordered in flawless Spanish and prepared by a barista who greeted me by name) in the afternoon. (CouldthisbewhyI'mstillawakeandblogging?)

• Finished I Chronicles and rejoiced with King David in seeing the hearts of those I lead devoted to God. (It's been nice reconnecting with David after II Samuel killed him off.)

• Spoke lots of Spanish.

• Drove someone to the emergency room while being given directions in Spanish. (He's fine.)
  

• Made tea out of fresh chamomile - so fragrant - necessary, after all that caffeine.
  

• Shared the tea.
  

• Prayed specific prayers for people - I'm sheepish about how uncommon that is.

• Conveniently forgot to make that phone call I keep putting off.

• Said good-bye to a dear old friend that I see every couple of years or so.

• Had amazing conversations with girls I love - most of them over coffee.
  

• Saw a baby gecko.

• Delighted in my calling.
  

• Investigated this story about my beloved Turkey - note the difference in how it's spun. (This piece may tell it like it is, but what a cheesy/peynirli/con queso title for a column!)
  

• Divulged.

• Named said persnickety van "Guacki Junior" (after Guacki, a very large avocado that became our team's mascot but slyly snuck off to Chetumal in someone's backpack this morning).

• Gave hammock advice.

• Gave lentil soup advice.

• Gave relationship advice.

• Gave personal hygiene advice.

• Gave migraine advice.

• Gave pursuing-the-Lord advice.

• Acquired 20+ new mosquito bites, but scratched a tad bit less.

• Heard God speak - never gets old.

• Sang an old song that I haven't sung in years.

• Made a list of the day's accomplishments and posted it online.

Say "Yes" to Cenotes

The hacienda was abandoned ages ago, when plastic rope made the sprawling hemp plantations obsolete, but the rusted iron tracks criss-crossing the acres still remain. Now the wooden, horse-drawn carts tote people instead of the smelly plants, creaking over the tracks through a jungle of tangled-up trees and the occasional remnant of spiky hemp.

Most of the carts are laden with Mexican families out for a Saturday dip, but we occupy four of them, a passel of gringos swatting horse flies. My horse is particularly lazy and prone to wander off the track whenever given an opportunity - taking after his driver, who is whiny and ready to be home for the day. Occasionally we meet cartloads of people heading back from our destination, and since there are more of us, they all unload and lift their carts off the track for us to trot by. When we do meet a group that matches our size, some friendly banter gets tossed back and forth by the drivers - "We've got more!" "Well, we could beat you!" Eventually we get out and let them pass.

I keep my eyes peeled for a regional tree - I've forgotten its name - that has the mystical property of causing dreadful welts on the skin of anyone who crosses its shadow. There is, of course, a scientific explanation - potent black sap that drips from the leaves - but legend has it that centuries ago, Mayans who had been left to die for refusing to convert were tied to this particular tree - and cursed it. The antidote to the black sap is the bark of another tree that always grows nearby. I love my wise Creator, always providing a remedy for the curse.

Finally we arrive at the first cenote. The whole peninsula is teeming with underground rivers, and countless openings and caves that used to invite worship (and, some say, human sacrifice) now beckon us: "Refréscate!"

The water is cool and fresh and impossibly clean, redefining "deep blue." Openings in the roof of the cave let light filter down, and tree roots dangle just above the surface of the water, tempting a climb. We float on our backs, admiring the view. We hurl ourselves from the platform ten feet up.

Eventually they call us out and it's on to the next one - this one accessible by a slippery, rickety ladder down a narrow hole. I'm amazed there's no liability release form to sign. This cenote has an island in the middle but no platform to jump off of - we improvise, balancing on the railing of the balcony before taking the plunge.

It's dusk by the time we leave, and before long the fireflies make their appearance - luciernago in Spanish, but the Mayan is prettier and much easier to pronounce: cocay. We creak and rattle our way home. I imagine the Mayan workers when the hacienda was in its prime, urging the horses on, anxious to be with their families. My "family", a hodgepodge of gringos and Mexicans, heads back to our home away from home, exhausted and hungry, but with a story to tell.

Word of the Day

tramposo: Spanish for "cheater"

I beat some Mexican kids at Uno last night because I knew that word. File it away for future reference. You never know when it may come in handy.

Happiness is...

...knowing that you are exactly where you are supposed to be, and that it's more fulfilling than anything else could possibly be.

I am, and it is.

Su Casa Es Mi Casa

Coming to Mexico - the Yucatan in particular - is like visiting the home of my childhood best friend. It wasn't quite home, but it was still home. They weren't quite my family, but they were still family. Besides, "Aunt Anne" made the best chocolate chip cookies, and there were always lots of craft supplies and fewer meddling older siblings. When I step off the plane in the Cancun airport it's like walking through the back door at Aunt Anne's old house - all the sights and sounds and smells are so familiar that I want to hug the immigration officer.

And here I am in Merida, which I've always preferred to other cities in Mexico even though I've spent less time here. What's not to love? Tiny taquerias and tortillerias with names like "Gift of God" or "The Divine Child" sprinkle the city with that authentic goodness that's so hard to find anywhere else. Jokes are twice as funny when told in Spanish. Avocados are cheap, and fresh, and good, and limes grow on the tree in our courtyard. Don Jerman, the sweet, shriveled elderly man who's staying at our hotel, greets me with a kiss on the cheek and sends his daughter in search of his amiguita if I neglect to say hello. Hermana Isabel stands eye-level with my belly button and bustles about cooking vast quantities of deliciousness.

Then there are the sprawling colonial haciendas - beautiful reminders of an ugly past. There are the paintings of Mayans being burned alive for refusing to convert to Catholicism. I cannot forget the depths of our depravity, the injustices we're capable of committing. I cannot forget the One who knocks, the One who serves, the One who says "Come to Me, and I will give you rest!"

It's no wonder most Yucatecans sleep in hammocks - I do the same, smugly aware of my cultural adaptability - because most days the heat of the sun seems as oppressive as the conquistadores. But even the sun takes a siesta occasionally. On those afternoons, a sudden, ferocious downpour arrives without warning and stops almost as soon as it's begun, like a mother swooping in with a washcloth to scrub the sweat and dust off a squirmy little boy's face, even though it will be dirty again in no time. Merida, too, will be cool and clean only for a moment, but it remains dimply and endearing even in its sweat and mischief.

Increased Strength

On the day I called, you answered me;
my strength of soul you increased.

-Psalm 138:3

I've always known that God can give me strength, but these last few days I've known it so much more. Increased strength - and with it, joy, grace, intimacy, and fruitfulness.

The whole psalm is pretty good. As opposed to all those bad psalms out there.

Happiness is...

...a Yucatecan hammock.

*posted from my Yucatecan hammock. In the Yucatan.

Twisted Truths

-or-

"Lies Masquerading as Truth"

"You will never be good enough."
(I don't have to be.)

"You have failed - again!"
(No doubt - but I'm forgiven.)

"You don't have what it takes."
(It has never depended on me.)

"You are lacking. You are not enough."
(Again, I don't have to be. Every gift I have is what He ordained. Every gift I lack - He ordained that as well.)

"You will mess things up."
(Probably. Good thing it doesn't depend on me. Good thing His grace is already there.)

What freedom in admitting my brokenness! It is true, I confess - I'm weak, sinful, and bound to fail. Shout it from the rooftops! But that is only half the truth. The rest is that He is infinitely strong, perfectly holy, and never fails - and He is with me.

That's all the truth I need.

He Gives to His Beloved Sleep

"Unless the Lord builds the house,
those who build it labor in vain.
Unless the Lord watches over the city,
the watchman stays awake in vain.
It is in vain that you rise up early
and go late to rest,
eating the bread of anxious toil;
for he gives to his beloved sleep."

-Psalm 127:1-2

The bread of anxious toil has been my staple in recent days (weeks? months?), with an emphasis on "anxious." It's easy to forget, sometimes, that God's the one building the house, not me. As soon as I forget that, the whole construction seems doomed to crumble - rightfully so, if I'm the builder.

It reminds me of the time that David offers to build God a house, and God turns around with a reality check ("Would you build me a house to dwell in?") and a mind-blowing blessing ("The Lord will make you a house...And your house and your kingdom shall be made sure forever before me.") David is humbled and grateful, as well he should be. After all, he set out to build God a house, and God said, "No, no, allow Me!"

Who am I to build anything for You, Lord? Who am I that You would build anything through me? Who am I that You would choose to dwell in me?

Your beloved sleep, because they trust You to produce fruit from their labor.
Your beloved sleep, because they know that You are not as interested in their activity as You are in their hearts.
Your beloved sleep, resting in Your goodness and grace.
Your beloved sleep, because they know they are beloved.

On King David

When I was a kid, we had a "Picture Bible." It was the Bible in comic book form. A little scary, maybe, but I devoured that thing. It was so well-loved that it was in two chunks, the cover long gone. I remember waking up early on Saturday mornings and reading those stories. I can still picture what Jezebel and Esther wore (pink with a funny gold hat and a long white goddess gown, respectively), what Moses and Aaron's faces looked like, the way Absalom hung from a tree.

David was my favorite. My affection for David was something akin to a celebrity crush. I'd speed-read the stories leading up to his and then slow down and savor his rise from shepherd to warrior, from fugitive to king.

I'm nearing the end of II Samuel right now in my (mostly) daily reading, and each time I close the book (a real one now - I've graduated to lots of words and no pictures) I discover that I can't wait to "find out" what happens next.

Tomorrow King David will say his final words, maybe even die. I'm dreading it.

Factoids

Paranoias

• That I have forgotten to lock the door at a public restroom and someone will walk in on me. (I always double check. I've only forgotten once.)
  
• That I have something unsightly between my teeth. (Not entirely unfounded - I eat a lot of broccoli and raw almonds.)
• As a child, that my fingers would get stuck in the drain at the bottom of the pool and I would drown. (Hasn't happened.)
  
• As a slightly older child, that I would be attending a wedding and when the preacher said that if anyone saw any reason why these two should not become one they should speak now or forever hold their peace, I would accidentally blurt out, "I object!" (Hasn't happened...yet.)
  

Wish List

• Vintage cowboy boots - brown
• A spice rack
• A pair of kitchen shears

If I had all the time in the world and most of the money...

• I would spend half of it baking delicious things that are good for you but don't taste like it.
• I would spend half of it traveling the world, visiting old friends and making new ones.
• I would spend half of it renovating an old farmhouse.
  
• I would spend half of it planting a garden, canning produce and drying herbs.
• I would spend half of it learning how to dance.
• I would spend half of it reading those books that have been on my list for years.
  
• I would spend most of it doing what I do now, while wearing my vintage cowboy boots in the kitchen of my renovated farmhouse, baking delicious things from my garden, and dancing.
  

I've recently discovered...

• That my eyes turn turquoise when I cry.
• That bourbon truffles are to die for.
• That I might be addicted to caffeine.
• That brushing my teeth with baking soda is not as bad as I expected.
  
• That new friends and old friends, far-away friends and right-here friends, are worth the risk and the effort.

Just Call Me Susy Homemaker

I'm typing with that homey sound of the washer and dryer as background music. It's a satisfying feeling, because I was so behind in laundry that I had run out of just about everything. But it's satisfying for another reason: I just made my own laundry detergent. It took five minutes, seriously, and it's better for me, better for creation, and better for my wallet. (We'll find out if it's better for my clothes - I'm guessing it will be.)

I also mixed up a batch of my cereal. That's nothing new, as I've been eating the same breakfast nearly every day for months. It's a blend of whole oats, unsweetened coconut, chopped walnuts, ground flax seed, and (the one concession to my new attempt to avoid processed food) Grape Nuts. I eat it raw with cinnamon and milk every morning, but it's good cooked, too. I crave the stuff.

Earlier this week I invented a new salad (fresh greens with plenty of spinach, yummy local strawberries, local-to-Alabama-where-I-bought-them cucumbers, fresh mint, ginger-candied almonds, and little chunks of extra-dark chocolate) and a new smoothie (made with all that leftover cucumber, mint and spinach, plus flax seed, milk and agave nectar). They were delish, mostly nutrish - and I thought them up in my very own noggin.

I am very proud of me.

New Friend

"I almost got hit by a car."

I was loading my trunk in a dark parking lot when along came a boy no older than four who clearly knew no stranger. It had been a long weekend of standing on high heels, running frenzied errands, slapping yellow flies, catching my breath on various porch swings. I had just watched two of my dearest friends exchange forgettable words that held unforgettable significance, and now I was cleaning up their party and loading up their gifts. This sociable urchin with his round face and silky hair was a welcome reprieve. He was the sort who ought to be in overalls, no shirt, no shoes, with a creek in the vicinity.

"Yes, I saw that," I replied seriously. "That's why it is so important to listen when your mom is telling you to wait." I reminded myself of my mother, as I so often do when speaking to children. His own hovered in the background, nodding appreciatively. A moment ago she'd apologized to me after hollering "Car!" in my ear as I walked past, my arms full of silver-wrapped towels, spatulas and casserole dishes.

"The music made my tummy hurt," he continued, clutching his little round belly and filling me in on the details while Mom fidgeted, clearly eager to put her family to bed. I tried to help. "I think your parents want to leave," I told my friend regretfully.

He stood eye level with my taillights and leaned in, lips puckered. "I'm going to kiss your car. Then you'll remember me."

I bent over and pointed to my cheek. "Why don't you put a kiss right here? That will help me remember."

He obliged. I'll keep up my end of the bargain.

Letter

Dear Premature Grey Hairs,

Bite me.

Cordially,
Libby

Sunrise

Good morning, old friend!

I hated time this morning, hated the floor that met my feet, hated being awake and alive, but then you came along, filtering rosily through the branches outside my east window.

The birds have been singing for hours, but did they get louder when you joined them? Like the child who thinks all grown-up company comes just to see him, they welcome their big shiny playmate.

Few things are certain - fewer, perhaps, than I once thought - but you never fail to greet me, hand in hand with each new day. I'm beginning to think, just maybe, that this one holds something worth getting up for, after all.

Bittersweet Mayan Chocolate Cake

I bragged the other night that I was going to make "the cake to end all cakes." That may be a stretch, but it was pretty dang good. So, without further ado:

Bittersweet Mayan Chocolate Cake

First, I made a Flourless Chocolate Cake adapted from this epicurious recipe:

• 5 ounces bittersweet chocolate
• 1 ounce unsweetened chocolate
• 1 1/2 sticks butter
• 1 cup sugar
• 5 eggs
• 3/4 cup cocoa
• vanilla
  

Chocolate and butter were melted in a jimmy-rigged double boiler (during which I added a splash of vanilla). I removed the top pot from the heat and whisked in the sugar, then the eggs. The cocoa was "sifted" (I also don't have a sifter, so I filled my tea strainer with cocoa and sprinkled it by gently tapping the side) over the surface, then whisked in until just combined. Baked in a 9-inch cake pan (buttered, then wax-papered, then buttered again) at 375° for 25 minutes (until a crust formed).

This dense chocolatey goodness was inverted onto a plate and topped with...

Spiced Ganache:

• 3 ounces bittersweet chocolate
• 3 ounces unsweetened chocolate
• 3 tablespoons butter
• 2 tablespoons heavy cream
• 'nother splash of vanilla
  
• sugar
• cayenne pepper
• cinnamon

I melted the chocolate and butter, vanilla and cream all together, added a sprinkling of sugar because it was supposed to be bittersweet but was leaning a little too heavily toward the front end of that adjective, and stirred in cayenne pepper and cinnamon "to taste". (I guess I ought to measure if I'm going to post recipes, huh?)

The ganache was spread over the cake, then sprinkled with some cocoa powder.

I served this with a mango raspberry sauce - just fruit, really. (I diced the mango and mushed a small portion of both fruits, then mixed 'em back up. This made it saucy, messy, and sweet, much like myself.) On top was fresh whipped cream.

We squeezed thirteen pieces out of this cake, so as not to leave anyone out, which is unluckier than any old number. It got some rave reviews, some hesitant ones, which is to be expected - spicy chocolate is not for everyone. My own review? I'm too modest to tell you.

Dreaming of...

...spice racks, aprons on hooks, row upon row of gleaming Mason jars.

Again, Ceaseless Praise

"I will sing to the Lord as long as I live;
I will sing praise to my God while I have being."
-Psalm 104:33

How much praise does He deserve? As long as I have breath!

Spring Rain

It rained last night, and now the world is all fresh-scrubbed and green.

"The world is mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful."
-e.e. cummings

Poem In My Pocket

Written on a napkin in my pocket:

My Lord, I find that nothing else will do,
But follow where thou goest, sit at thy feet,
And where I have thee not, still run to meet.
Roses are scentless, hopeless are the morns,
Rest is but weakness, laughter crackling thorns,
If thou, the Truth, do not make them the true:
Thou art my life, O Christ, and nothing else will do.

-George MacDonald, Diary of an Old Soul

Word of the Day

bumptious: crudely, presumptuously, or noisily self-assertive

I just like this word. I will find opportunity to use it in context tonight at dinner. That should not be difficult.

Happiness is...

...a day that smells like rain, wet dirt, and earthworms.

Daily Dose of Conviction

"There is one whose rash words are like sword thrusts,

but the tongue of the wise brings healing."
- Proverbs 12:18

Well. That's a butt-kicker. Lord, let my words bring healing and life!

Betrayal

People will let you down sometimes.

This is nothing new. Surely I've heard those exact words from the lips of a sage older woman in a movie. "Honey, that's just a part of life," Sage Older Woman says to the forlorn beauty sitting at her kitchen table. "People ain't perfect, and they will let you down sometimes." She's wearing an apron, of course, bustling about her carefully middle-class kitchen. She proceeds with an object lesson based on something she's baking, while Forlorn Beauty drinks in the coffee and the unconditional love. "People will let you down, it's true," Sage Older Woman finishes, sliding a plate of fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies across the table, "But you've still got to try." Forlorn Beauty hesitantly takes one, and somehow we feel that what she's biting into is not just a cookie but a fresh start. Sage Older Woman pats her hand. The music soars.

People will let you down, and not just in the movies. I've experienced enough failed friendships and broken trust to know that. Still, unpleasant surprises can leave me reeling with questions: is nothing sacred? is no one trustworthy? can anyone remain faithful? Underneath them all is the question I'm really asking: is it worth the risk?

So I look pragmatically at the examples around me - men and women of character, full of faithfulness, integrity, and passion. And I'm unconvinced. I've been surprised before, after all. The answer to my questions, then, is "yes and no." Yes, some people are trustworthy, but they're still capable of letting me down. Yes, many are faithful, but they are not without fault, and there is no guarantee.

Then I think about my Lord and realize that He is the resounding "yes" while I am the resounding "no." He, the sacred, faithful One will never betray my trust, and He considered my life worth the risk - not exactly a risk, since my eventual unfaithfulness was not a possibility but a sure thing. And I realize that there is as much cause to fear that I'll betray another - and worse, betray Him! - as there is cause to fear that I'll be betrayed.

The warning, "So if you think you are standing, watch out that you do not fall," plays tug-of-war with the promise, "[He] is able to keep you from falling, and to make you stand without blemish in the presence of his glory with rejoicing." I fall again on the grace of the One who will never let me down.

Defining Atheism

atheist: one who has never seen the mountains

Happiness is...

...sundresses, and the right kind of weather for wearing them.

Today in Haiku

Friendships in conflict
Forgiveness sought and granted
Repentance, God’s gift

Happiness is...

...quarts of vegetable stock in the freezer, all the laundry in the wash, and this body getting to bed at a decent hour.

But true contentment lies in knowing that I could stay up all night reading trashy novels and eating fast food and my Father would not love me less. It lies in knowing that had I cleaned out my car, gone running as planned, and skipped that brownie, He would not love me more. I'm feeling good about a productive day, but it doesn't change my need for His grace.

"In repentance and rest is your salvation,
in quietness and trust is your strength."
- Isaiah 30:15

Indeed

We never hunted Easter eggs as kids. Mom and Dad hid jelly beans instead, and it still makes perfect sense to me - who wants an egg? Hardboiled eggs are only good in moderation, but hiding fried eggs would be impractical, and plastic eggs are just silly.

So Easter egg hunts are a new experience and usually make me miss jelly beans tucked between the black keys of a piano, jelly beans hidden amidst the cobwebs of a candlestick or a pottery vase, jelly beans frantically tossed into my basket before the selfish siblings could get them.

My community split up in different homes for “family meals” and then gathered at an open field for a (mostly) grown-up Easter egg hunt. Having no sense of nostalgia over scooping up garish little not eggs containing what I’m trying not to eat, I was unmotivated. But I didn’t want to be a bad sport, so I ventured into the field and before long began a different sort of search.

Our field was generously sprinkled with violets. Soon I was so engrossed in picking them that a green plastic egg hidden in the grass startled me. Violets are significant to me, after all, and on a day like today when we celebrate new life in Christ nothing could be more appropriate to hunt.


The scent of a violet is elusive - I have a distinct memory of being a kid of five or six, perched atop the slide in the backyard with my nose buried in a bloom, trying to take in as much of its perfume as I could. Maybe my sense of smell is aging, or maybe Kentucky violets are shyer than their Yankee cousins, but this spring it seems I can’t catch a whiff of anything.

The collective fragrance of today’s bunch, however, is filling my room. They smell like childhood days spent in a Wisconsin backyard, my imagination my playmate. They smell like happiness and hope.

Which reminds me of how much I enjoyed gathering with various expressions of family today.

• At this morning’s service my joy was increased by celebrating my risen Savior surrounded by others whose hearts hold the same hope - hearts that have become linked to mine.

• Shortly afterwards I marveled at the Gospel story as seen through the eyes of three-year-olds. (When talking to one wide-eyed little girl about Jesus dying on the cross, she asked, “When? Last week?”)

• Then I joined with a slice of community made up of friends old and new, savoring the mutual hospitality of a potluck meal, lingering in conversation long after we’d eaten our fill, sharing the burden of cleaning up when we were done.

• And Resurrection Sunday will culminate with a long-awaited Skype date with one of my dearest heart-friends. We’re separated by land and sea and time zones but share a similar quest to display His splendor as we keep His hope alive.

Together truly is better.

Two Minutes to Resurrection Sunday

Two dozen eggs boiling on the stove, some for deviling, some for decorating. Nine ungodly pounds of ham already in the slow cooker, waiting for the fixin's (that's next), ready to be plugged in tomorrow morning to [slow] cook while I'm at my morning services (attending one, serving one, as they say). A loaf of bread rising in a warm oven. Strawberries ready to be washed and served with sour cream and brown sugar; peppermint tea waiting to be brewed, sweetened, and chilled; a tablecloth needing to be ironed. Tokens of hospitality, fitting for the day we celebrate the greatest hospitality ever offered to undeserving - often unwilling - guests.

I did my shopping last minute, as usual, and drove home a moment ago, anticipating tomorrow's celebration and all it represents. Since Thursday I've been mulling over the weightiness of the cross, with snippets of song the soundtrack for my meditation: "It was my sin that held Him there until it was accomplished...Oh, praise the One who paid my debt...Were you there when they crucified my Lord?"

I was there, and I ought to tremble, and not just sometimes. Friday's story should be familiar to me, but never common.

On tonight's drive, Damien Rice happened to be the soundtrack, and his praise was certainly not directed to the One who paid his debt. But just at the moment that I noticed how big and full the moon is tonight, hanging low and silvery and tempting me to stop and admire instead of go home and cook...just at that moment came the words of praise: "Can't take my eyes off of you!" The words resonated and my heart sang along - and not to the moon!

Oh, Creator of beauty, Giver of life, I often take my eyes off of You. I want to be so captivated by who You are that I cannot look away. Did I say that I want to leave it all behind? Because I do - I want to forsake this body of death! I am the crowd calling for a criminal instead of clinging to You. I am the Pharisees, seeking their own glory instead of Yours. I am the disciples, falling asleep when You asked them to pray. I am Pilate, fearing man instead of trusting You. I have betrayed You and denied You; I have run away from the cost. But Your dying breath bought me life and the veil is torn in two. I am forgiven. It is finished. You paid it all. I am Yours.

Why should I gain from His reward?
I cannot give an answer.
But this I know with all my heart:
His wounds have paid my ransom.

Handiwork

I sit in bed doing some hand sewing by lamplight. I don't often sew by hand, but an uncooperative machine made me want to utter unladylike words, so I've resorted to needle and thread.

I never noticed how soothing the swish of thread through fabric can be. I'd forgotten the hurry-up-slow-down look of a handmade seam - long, impatient stitches followed by nice even ones, as though my mother were watching and reminding me that it's best to do it right the first time. I recall Beezus Quimby reciting her aunt's mantra: "Make your knots a secret!"

My fingers shape something out of nothing and I become one with the women of the past, whose homes and families were as well-dressed as their own diligence and creativity allowed. I am Caroline Ingalls beside a kerosene lamp, humming hymns and mending my green delane. I am her daughter Laura, stitching for pay to buy a piano for my sister. I am Diana Barry, feverishly crocheting doilies so as not to be outdone by the Gillises. I am Hester Prynne, turning shame into an opportunity for beauty.

Happiness is...

...a Tennessee country road, the air thick with honeysuckle in the spring, tobacco in the fall.

Ceaseless Praise

I will hope continually
and will praise you yet more and more.
My mouth will tell of your righteous acts,
of your deeds of salvation all the day,
for their number is past my knowledge.
With the mighty deeds of the Lord God I will come;
I will remind them of your righteousness, yours alone.

-Psalm 71:14-16

"Their number is past my knowledge." How true that is! I could never run out of reasons to praise my God.

Batter My Heart

Batter my heart, three-person'd God, for you
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend
Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurp'd town to'another due,
Labor to'admit you, but oh, to no end;
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captiv'd, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly'I love you, and would be lov'd fain,
But am betroth'd unto your enemy;
Divorce me,'untie or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you'enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

John Donne, Holy Sonnet XIV

My Book of Numbers

The land is rich and full of promise, green, alive with fruit. From atop the mountain I survey its wildness and feel that old longing for adventure begin to stir again. It's everything He said it would be, vast and beautiful.

But there are giants. Milk and honey, honey and milk, He said, but no mention of giants. Surely He never intended me to wrestle my inheritance from these ugly mountains of flesh! They skulk about menacingly, throwing rocks, beating the air, and a terrifying clump of them has me in their sights.

Ingratitude, Discontent, and Hopelessness lumber toward me, their message clear: you're trapped, there's no way out. Complacency camps out nearby, his fire inviting, his eyes hungry. Clutter and Chaos, those mischievous twins, dance in my peripheral, freckle-faced boy giants with relentless energy. And a puny ogre looms large before my eyes, blocking my vision of anything else. He introduces himself as Distraction, but he's just being polite - his real name is Idolatry.

Dull eyes bulge and meaty lips drip drool as they consider me, a mere morsel to be divided and devoured. Stubby fingers point, but not at me - they point at my God, and accusations slither from their tongues. "He promised, but He won't deliver! Sure, He's big enough to do it, but quite frankly, He doesn't care! Give up now - you can't win. Did He really bring you here to die? Forget about Him - pursuing intimacy with Him is like chasing a mirage. He isn't going to speak to you anyway. Just fill your life with Things and you'll be fine. And what's this 'peace that surpasses understanding' you're looking for? Impossible! You've got too much to do, and He'll never let you rest. Go back where you came from! Remember the good old days?"

And with that I awake from the trance of their lies. "Remember the good old days?" Oh, yes - I remember. True, we had food - enough to keep us alive and working hard. And we had houses to live in - but no freedom to leave them! I remember the weight of the burden, the sting of the lash, the bark of the slave-driver. I remember new life from my womb being ripped from my arms, my dreams drowned, my hopes buried. I remember my labor that was never enough.

And I remember - oh, I remember the blood of the Sacrifice that spared me from death! I remember how He brought me through the water unharmed, provided exactly what I needed for each day, went before me in the wilderness to guide and protect me, fought every battle to deliver me from my enemies. I remember how He made a way for me to relate to Him - me, the unclean, made right with Him, the Holy!

Go back? Never! So help me, I'll not waste a drop of that precious Blood! My steps may be feeble, but I'll advance - I'll go forward wherever He leads me. He's never welched on a promise before, and I believe Him - I believe! - when He says He never will.

I'm not alone. We're shoulder to shoulder. We raise our wobbling swords, and He - He rushes in,
and does the rest.

Happiness is...

...a Sunday afternoon nap.

Saturday Brunch

There's a delicious breath of freedom in the phrase "Saturday Brunch." First, it's Saturday - sleeping-in Saturday, lounging-around Saturday, do-nothing-unless-you-want-to Saturday - twenty-four hours of unscheduled bliss. And then it's brunch - like breakfast, my favorite meal of the day, only later and bigger and friendlier.

That said, here's what I made for Saturday Brunch:

Grain and Nut Whole Wheat Pancakes
As usual I kind of did my own thing - you'll notice some imprecise measurements.

• 1 1/2 cups old-fashioned oatmeal (ground up in my coffee grinder - only I left a handful of oats whole)
  
• 1 1/2 cups whole wheat flour
• handful of chopped walnuts
• smaller handful of whole flax seed [Edit: have since learned that I should grind flax seed, as it won't digest otherwise. Don't ask me how I discovered this.]
  
• lots of cinnamon
• little bit of nutmeg
• 2 teaspoons baking soda (or thereabouts - the box was nearly empty so I just dumped some in)
  
• 1 teaspoon baking powder
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 1 cup plain yogurt
  
• 1 1/2 cup milk
• 1/4 cup honey (Tip: a touch of olive oil inside the measuring cup keeps you from wasting the honey remnants that stick to the cup. Although those were always fun to lick out anyway.)
  
• 2 eggs
• a few generous drops of vanilla
  

You know the drill - mix dry ingredients, mix wet ingredients, stir together just until blended (the biggest mistake people make with pancakes is over-stirring!) I always cook pancakes in real butter, and I spread these ones out a bit because they get too dense if they're too thick. They're also quite filling, so I make them a little bit smaller than usual.

Top this yummy, hearty deliciousness of a flapjack with real maple syrup, real organic whipped cream (sweetened with agave nectar and a touch of vanilla), and a sprinkling of cinnamon, and you'll forget there was ever such a thing as a five-day work week in your recent history.

Also on the table: strawberries and blueberries with more of that real whipped cream, a French press full of fresh-ground Sunergos Sumatra (I saved some heavy cream from a whipping to put it in my coffee, unsweetened), some Bolthouse C-Boost juice (mango, cherry, and apple...and apparently camu camu fruit and maitake mushroom? what?), and bacon (which I avoided, but it did make the house smell like a Southern mama lives here rather than a passel of single females with varying degrees of domesticity).

Top this off with a dollop of quality conversation with Hannah, for whom I am increasingly grateful, and Saturday Brunch becomes a true Sabbath of rest, remembering, and celebration. One might call it a Gospel Brunch and only be half joking.

This was plenty of food for me and Hannah to eat our fill and various housemates to roll out of bed and shuffle through the kitchen to fix their plates. (Although some did insist on defiling my healthful whole-grain pancakes with fake pancake syrup - and not just any pancake syrup, but generic, lite pancake syrup. Lite!)

And there are leftover blueberries and whipped cream, giving me something to look forward to - that and a Saturday afternoon that, according to the sunshine outside my kitchen window and the forecast on my homepage, seems promising.

"We Sell Greeting Cards"

"Everyone has their purpose," said the man in the airport. He was middle-aged and middle-class, average height, average build, and there I was talking to another stranger on another layover over another cup of coffee.

He'd seen me reading and asked if I was a student, so I told him the path I'd chosen. That's what elicited his statement. "Everyone has their purpose." My radar went on the alert at the prospect of having A Conversation of Significance.

"What's yours?" I asked.

"We sell greeting cards."

"Oh!" Outwardly I smiled and nodded while he went on about trying to undersell Hallmark. Inwardly I raged.

A means, perhaps - an element of one's purpose. But nobody's purpose is to sell greeting cards. Nobody's.

A Thought

"Then all the congregation raised a loud cry, and the people wept that night." - Numbers 14:1

How often is my sorrow the result not of my circumstances but of my own unbelief?

That was the case in this story.

First Violet

This morning I discovered the year's first violet.

She wasn't a very brave violet, probably because she was alone. She had hardly opened up, and I almost missed her crouching there by the sidewalk in Missy's front yard.

The first violet of spring is like a gift to me. Some years I look for it, going from house to office and office to car and car to classroom with my eyes for once in the present, scanning any patch of grass for a glimpse of purple. Other years, like this one, the first violet sneaks up on me, startling me with hope.

Every year the violets come. Every morning the sun rises. Some winters seem to last forever, but eventually snow gives way to sunshine every time. And my God is forever as sure as the dawn.

I know I ought to let them live full, happy lives, but for years the first violets have found new homes between the pages of Psalms or Hosea or Song of Solomon. Today's violet may read less truth on her wallpaper, but it seemed fitting to slip her between my hand-written ramblings of hopes deferred, of promises certainly coming but yet to be fulfilled, of longings that linger like a Wisconsin winter.

Journal Excerpt

Tues, Jan 13, 2009

Chennai, India

"Then the Lord took note of Sarah as He had said, and the Lord did for Sarah as He had promised."
-Genesis 21:1

Oh, Father, your promises never fail! You always fulfill what you have spoken. As I've been reading about Abraham and Sarah waiting for a child - and waiting, and waiting - laughing at the promise because sometimes you have to laugh so that you don't cry - I've been reminded of my own unfulfilled promises. Certainly I haven't waited as long, and although at times they do seem impossible they are not so impossible as a 90-year-old woman having a child! "Is anything too hard for God?" he asks - and the angel who visits Mary, whose Child fulfills the ultimate promise both to Abraham and to us all, echoes the question, but with confidence: "For nothing will be impossible with God."

You, my God, are a fulfiller. You give good gifts to your children. You will provide. You always do.

Thank you for the greatest Promise of all, that you fulfilled long ago and you fulfill every day in Christ your Son. "In the mount of the Lord it will be provided", they said of the mountain where Isaac wasn't sacrificed. Abraham called you Jehovah Jireh that day, and for the first time today I saw the true significance of that name. You provided a replacement sacrifice for me. You provided what I needed the most - what I still need every day: salvation by grace through faith.