Snow Day, Part 2

Some offices have coffee breaks involving burnt Folgers and styrofoam. Around here we build snow creatures inspired by Dr. Seuss and sip lattes. Don't you wish you had my job?

Oh, and we definitely have the best snowman around. Those kids down the street didn't stand a chance.

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 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.

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.

Today in Haiku

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

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.

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.

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.