Beef Stroganoff and Ballgowns

Beef Stroganoff. 

Ketchup, Scotch Tape, and Humility


I remember my mother every time I make beef stroganoff. Specifically, I think of her when the recipe calls for me to add two tablespoons of ketchup to to the pan.

My husband, whose admiration for this dish led me to learn to prepare it, was astonished the first time he saw me assembling the ingredients: top loin of beef, beef stock, fresh sliced mushrooms, sour cream, diced onion, minced garlic...and ketchup.

"I can't believe it has ketchup in it," he said.

"The recipe says it does," I responded.

Later that night, as we ate, he admitted that despite the ketchup, the stroganoff tasted just as stroganoff should, with no identifiable ketchup flavor.

Sometimes, you need humble ingredients to make something grand.

My mother knew this well.

My first year in high school, she sewed a beautiful blue velvet formal for my first big dance. We chose a pattern together, with banded puffed sleeves, an empire waist, and a modest v neckline. The fabric was fragile and soft, an exquisite blue like the sky, the moment before darkness--brighter than stodgy navy, but subtle, all the same. We picked a narrow gold braid to trim the neckline and sleeves.

She sat at the Singer and sewed, calling me to her occasionally to fit the sleeve bands precisely to my arms. After I stood for the hem, she sewed lace seam binding to the raw edge of the velvet, then painstakingly  hemmed the dress by hand, catching the lace with her needle every half inch with a fine stitch.

"A regular hem will leave a line showing around the bottom--it'll mar the velvet," she explained, teaching me as she sewed.

Even though the hem would be one inch from the floor, even though the the lighting would be dim at the dance, she did her best to perfect that detail.

The dress was grand. I wriggled into it, admiring my mother's work.

And then, minutes before my escort was due at the house, I caught the heel of my golden sandal in that delicate hem and ripped it loose.

I would have cried, but I had spent several minutes applying mascara with my wobbly fourteen-year-old touch.

"Don't worry," Mom said. She left my room, returning a moment later. In her hand was a roll of Scotch tape.

She knelt on the floor behind me and taped up the sagging hem. Then she ran a length of tape along the entire back of the hem, sealing those half-inch gaps from my heel's marauding intrusion.

I'm not afraid to put ketchup in the stroganoff recipe because my mother wasn't afraid to mend my dress with Scotch tape. It's one of the greatest lessons she taught me:

When you're making something, a dinner or a dress or a child's character, use the best ingredients you can assemble. And don't be afraid to add something humble if that simple thing will make it better.

My mother knew this well, I think, because humility shone from her. Quick to offer praise, she never boasted in herself.

And that made her grand.

My Brother Tim and Mom, in her Kitchen, Christmas. 

In loving memory of my mother, Marilyn Lee Downs Seiler

August 20, 1936-September 30, 2008

⁸ He has told you, O man, what is good; And what does the LORD require of you But to do justice, to love kindness, And to walk humbly with your God?

Micah 6:8 (NASB)

I'm linking up today with Ann Kroeker for Food on Fridays. Won't you hop over and have a look? 

The Office Scandal

Prickly, Prickly Cactus

Even the Cactus Blooms Sometimes


My first boss, back in 1977, wasn't a friendly man. In hindsight, I see that he was a very good boss: He set clear expectations, provided feedback on performance, dealt fairly with employees, applied policies consistently, followed through on promised actions.

But he didn't smile. He didn't make small talk. He shut down any venture into chat: I learned quickly that he did not wish to hear about my dog's latest escapades or the term paper that had drawn my labor late into the previous night. And so, in my dealings with Mr. D., I spoke when spoken to.

In other words, he was businesslike. But at 18, my experience with adult men had been confined to my father, my uncles, friends' dads, teachers, men we knew from the neighborhood or church--friendly guys who took an interest in me. So I didn't recognize businesslike when I saw it.

His demeanor scared me, because at my tender age his civil reserve looked just like mean. "Mean" seemed to be the general opinion of my cohort, the part-time cashiers.


It seemed to me that Mr. D. was downright prickly.


And so I was nonplussed one day as I walked into the office to punch in.

I found Mr. D. standing next to our office manager's chair, one hand resting gently on her heaving shoulder, the other offering her a tissue. He murmured, "there, there." Pain, but no awkwardness, hung in the air. I slipped quietly away, backing out the office door into the plumbing department of the home improvement store.

Startled by the scene, I nearly tripped over a display toilet.

I didn't know what to think. Another coworker arrived a minute after I left the office, breezing in to make her own discovery. She emerged a moment later, eyes glittering.

She stage-whispered to me. "Did you see what's going on in there? With Mr. D. and Lana?"

I shrugged and continued to my post at a cash register at the front of the store.

A short while later, Lana hurried past, eyes red and somber and focused on her path. She skipped her usual stop at the checkstands to chat and pushed through the door, car keys already in hand.

The cashiers twittered through the shift, between ringing up sales and dusting endcaps and offering refunds for unused paint rollers, about what could be going on with Lana and Mr. D.

Patty whispered, "I came in to get my check on Friday and they were in the lunch room together."

Sarah said, "I saw their cars parked side-by-side in the parking lot on Tuesday."

My stomach churned as I listened. By closing time, speculation had turned to certainty in Patty and Sarah's view: "Something's going on between them," they agreed. "What else could explain it?"


We trooped to the back of the dimmed store to lock up our cash drawers and punch out. Above the time clock, Mr. D. had posted a memo on the bulletin board:

"Lana Hostead will be on leave for the next week. Susan Burg will assume her duties until she returns.

Lana's mother and brother were killed in an accident in Kansas today."

I looked at Sarah and Patty, expecting to hear some kind of admission that they'd horribly misread the situation.

Silently, they punched their cards and walked away.

It took me years, and a stint or two in supervisory positions, to understand that Mr. D., the boss, was a sliver of Mr. D., the man. When the thought finally emerged, I wondered whether he'd wanted to laugh with me over my silly dog, or to encourage me about the value of the late nights spent on history papers. I considered the precautions a middle-aged man might take, managing a bunch of nubile young women.

I have decided that the compassion I saw bloom the day Lana's world shifted is a truer image of Mr. D. than the businesslike boss who donned quills to maintain a distance.

¹³ Keep your tongue from evil And your lips from speaking deceit. ¹⁴ Depart from evil and do good; Seek peace and pursue it. 

Psalm 34:13-14 (NASB)

Wiping Out: Failure and Redemption

Judi, Rob, and Elaine Matoushek. Pinning Ceremony. Honolulu. September, 2011.

Persisting

I still remember a silly analogy I offered to my son-in-law once. And I blush when I do.

It was Christmastime and  my daughter Elaine was dating Rob. The whole family could tell that this was "the one"--that this relationship would endure. The kids weren't officially engaged yet, but I saw it coming. We all did. 

Rob and Elaine had driven up to attend a Christmas pageant at our church. Later we gathered at our home for dessert. Rob, a Navy man, had recently learned that he had not been selected for promotion to chief. 

"Epic fail," he said to me.

"Rob," I said, hugging him. "You haven't failed until you quit trying. You wiped out this time. So grab your board, paddle out, and wait for the next big wave."

Rob doesn't surf. I don't surf. But the respectful young man nodded, instead of snickering. 

Not long ago Elaine called me in the midst of my work day. She and Rob are married now, and recently moved to Hawaii so Rob could take up his new duty station at Pearl Harbor. She doesn't call me during my work hours unless something big is happening, so I hurried to answer the call.

"Rob made chief," she sobbed.

I stood in the parking lot outside my office, cell phone pressed to my ear, and cried right along with her. 

I'm proud of my son-in-law. I'm proud that he's chosen a life of service. I'm proud that he persisted in his quest to advance in his career. I'm proud that he kept seeking. 

The Chief and His Family. 

There's a lesson for me in his persistence. Like a surfer, I've wiped out more than once in my walk with God, flailing along the face of a big wave of faithlessness, of sin. 

But I never drowned. And each time, when I finally stumbled, sputtering and humbled, to shore, God stood right there, waiting for me.

For me.

He's waiting for you, too.

¹³ But as for me, my prayer is to You, O LORD, at an acceptable time;
O God, in the greatness of Your lovingkindness,
Answer me with Your saving truth.
¹⁴ Deliver me from the mire and do not let me sink;
May I be delivered from my foes and from the deep waters.
¹⁵ May the flood of water not overflow me
Nor the deep swallow me up,
Nor the pit shut its mouth on me.
Psalm 69:13-15 (NASB)

Strung out on Prayer, Part Four

Two Strands of Beads. September, 2011.

[I didn't know, back in March that these posts would become an occasional series, but they have. You may find the earlier ones here:
Strung out on Prayer
Strung out on Prayer, Part Two
Strung out on Prayer, Part Three]


Encouragement to Go: Spirit or Impulse?


"I need to make some beads for Charity," I blurted to my husband. My words surprised me as if they were executing a long-plotted escape from my lips.
"Sure," he smiled. We were traveling, celebrating our anniversary. He smiles persistently when we travel.

A few days later I chatted with my friend Duane. We were discussing photos for a blog post he'd asked me to write for BibleDude.net and I offered to send him a shot of my prayer beads.

The next thing I knew, my fingers were typing in the little chat box: "I'll make you a strand, Duane. What are your favorite colors?"

I sat and watched as my fingers formed the words. Hmm.

A few days later I prowled the selection in my favorite bead shop, choosing beads for two third millennium friends.

And a few days after that, I tucked two small strands of beads into tissue paper, slid the packets into envelopes, and sent them off towards the Midwest.

My parcels have now been delivered. I received sweet little notes from Charity and Duane, who are each facing a season of special challenges.

I'm wondering: was that the Spirit leading me to offer these small gifts? Or did I act on an earthly impulse?

I'd like to think it was the Holy Spirit.

I'd like to think that my heart is so finely tuned to God's will that when He puts something on my heart, I act immediately, always ready to obey.

I'd like to think that I'm completely surrendered to Him. 

Some days, my pride insists that I am wholly given over to my King.

But I know myself better than that.

I'm glad my friends liked their beads. And I'm so, so grateful that I always have room to grow more faithful to God.

 ⁹ And this I pray, that your love may abound still more and more in real knowledge and all discernment, ¹⁰ so that you may approve the things that are excellent, in order to be sincere and blameless until the day of Christ; ¹¹ having been filled with the fruit of righteousness which comes through Jesus Christ, to the glory and praise of God.
Philippians 1:9-11(NASB)

 

Turning to a New Chapter

Our Wedding Day. September 2, 2007.

Summary and Prologue


Anniversaries are a bit like that, aren't they? We reflect on our shared history, wonder what the coming year will bring us. My husband Rich and I, who married in middle age, each with our own history of priors, just celebrated our fourth anniversary.

I think this surprise chance in midlife makes us more grateful--much like a lonely mutt who's been rescued from the pound. We try to make each anniversary special, mindful that our years together are limited. Usually, if we're traveling for our anniversary, we count the trip as our gift, rather than exchanging presents.

And so, I was surprised when Rich presented me with a gift--carefully wrapped, a wonder in itself--as we set off for our weekend away from home and its endless claims on our time. He'd just picked me up at work; the present sat on the front passenger seat, where I couldn't miss it, had to handle it just to get into the car. I set it on the back seat and smiled.

"Aren't you going to open it?" he asked.

"I thought I'd wait til we got to the hotel," I answered.

"Oh, go ahead and open it now." I looked up. His eyes were dancing.

I peeled away the green paper, noting it was my favorite color, not his. Beneath it I found a Kindle.

"Oh my goodness! Thank you!! I've been wanting one so much!"

Rich beamed. "I know," he said. "I saw them at Target when I bought dog food, so I decided to get you one. I'd been thinking about it for weeks."

"I wasn't expecting us to exchange gifts," I said, watching his face. "I don't have anything for you."

His smile grew. "That's okay. I just wanted to give to you."

I wanted a Kindle because my post-surgical thumbs sometimes struggle to turn paper pages. Our small home doesn't offer space for rows and rows of books. I loved the idea of never again sifting through stale magazines in a doctor's waiting room.

And my dear husband had surprised me with one.

Holding this new way to read made me think of the chapters of our marriage:

2007 brought marriage, a new home, evacuation due to wildfire, and my first-ever opportunity to host the family Thanksgiving gathering.

In 2008 my mother grew ill and died--and our granddaughter Carly was born, a breathing reminder that life insists on itself.

Rich and Carly. 2008.

In 2009 our horizons grew as I returned to writing. Rich could have chosen resentment as I spent more time lost in thought, listening, tapping at a keyboard. Instead he chose to encourage. He might as well carry a megaphone and pom-poms.

2010 brought two engagements, a wedding, a new grandbaby.

Rob, Sawyer, and Rich. 2010.

This year another wedding looms. It will increase the grandchild count by three, as our new son-in-law has three amazing children. It's also been a season of burdens, as Rich's mom recovers from a car accident's serious injuries.

Marrying later in life brings unique joys--how many brides are greeted at the altar by a ring bearer who looks up and says, "Hi, Grandma!"? And it brings its own challenges. Ghosts of past failures threaten to haunt.  Compared to young newlyweds, we had a few extra decades to establish separate customs, more time for freshly-poured habits to harden to concrete before we merged our lives.

We can't know how many chapters lie ahead as we walk through life together. But this I know: sharing that story with this man, whose heart can't tell whose grandchildren are whose, who becomes giddy at the prospect of surprising me with a gift, who loves me as Christ loves the church,  makes me the most blessed wife in the world.

Comedy, drama, tragedy, farce--it's all good. I can't wait for us to step into the next chapter.

²⁵ Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ also loved the church and gave Himself up for her, ²⁶ so that He might sanctify her, having cleansed her by the washing of water with the word, ²⁷ that He might present to Himself the church in all her glory, having no spot or wrinkle or any such thing; but that she would be holy and blameless.  

Ephesians 5:25-27 (NASB)

The Man who Didn't Raise Me

Rod Seiler, Enjoying a Card. Father's Day, 2011. 

Celebrating my Father on His Birthday

"Your mom did a good job raising you and your brother and sister," my dad said to me one day as we sat, just the two of us, talking. 

My eyes widened. "Dad," I said, "You did a good job, too!"

"It was your mom. I was always working," he sighed.

He's right. He was always working. In addition to his career as a telephone engineer, he worked at raising decent children. 

I was his toughest assignment.

It began when I was a toddler. Visiting friends, I discovered an old razor blade, rusted beyond purpose, and being a toddler, I put it in my mouth and bit.

My father reassembled all the fragments of crumbling metal, toiling with tweezers, to ensure that I hadn't swallowed a single sliver. 

The Christmas Eve I was nearly five, bedtime brought bitter tears. I had asked Santa for only one thing, and then convinced myself that unless Santa brought a Baby Pat-A-Burp in the night, he would bring me nothing for Christmas. 

Late, late that night, after I'd sobbed myself to sleep, my dad drove to my grandparents' home, an hour away, to exchange the doll they'd bought for me with a gift from Mom and Dad's Santa stash. It wasn't enough that he knew I would receive the coveted toy at their house, later, on Christmas; he exhausted himself to make a swap so that Santa would deliver my Baby Pat-A-Burp.

He knew it mattered to my four-year-old heart, so he made it happen.

My father taught me, when I was five, how to play chess and form letters. To this day, my right-handed grip on a pen bears his southpaw's unique grasp. 

The night my brother was born, he walked my sister and me across the hospital's dewy lawn, soaking all our sneakers, hoisting us to peek through a window into the nursery for a glimpse of our new baby brother. The next day, when my sister and I quarreled over who would wear the "It's a BOY!" button to school, Dad solved the dispute with a flip of a coin.

When a friendly game of softball turned ugly, shredding the ligaments of my dad's knee, he wheeled himself into the yard, huge cast supporting his healing leg, to play catch with my sister and me. 

Dad worked hard at his career, too. Mom was home, mothering us: Dad provided the resources for music lessons, braces, new clothes every September, family trips. He served in the U.S. Marine Reserves, having completed his active duty before my birth. He went to college at night. He volunteered at church, coached softball teams, boarded the band bus at 4 a.m. with the other parents.

When I was an intractable teen, rebellious and angst-ridden and angry at the very air I breathed, he loved me enough to weather my endless whining when my drunken escapade had led him to ground me. I could wheedle Mom, whittling her resolve until she relented. Dad stood firm, valuing my character over his comfort. 

If I had a new beau, the young man always had to come inside and shake my father's hand before we left on a date. Always, Dad asked me, in my suitor's presence, "Do you have change for a phone call?" He sat, every date night, in his rocker, smoking his pipe and reading until I was safely delivered home. 

The day I wrecked the family car, I expected his wrath. My fingers shook as I phoned him with the news. "Are you hurt?" he asked.

"No, Daddy."

"Is anyone else hurt?"

"No."

"Okay, then. Call Mike at State Farm." 

When my mother died, my father grieved with a grateful heart, thanking every nurse, every visitor, the housekeeper who mopped the floor in the hospital. He shook the funeral director's hand as we planned my mother's memorial. 

And always, through every hairpin turn in my life, every opportunity to begin something new, he asked, quietly: "And what about your writing?" He never let me give up on words.

As an adult I learned that some people struggle to see God as a loving Father, as they have no human reflection of that image. My dad showed me mercy and justice, forgiveness and discipline, and love.

Always and unconditionally, he offered love. He still does. 

Yesterday Dad celebrated his 77th birthday. We gathered at my sister's house.

Watching him, I realized:

Mom was the heartbeat of our family. But Dad was, is, will always be, our backbone. 

²¹Fathers, do not exasperate your children, so that they will not lose heart.

Colossians 3:21 (NASB) 

Edited on October 6, 2011: I'm repurposing this post to contribute it to a group blogging project at The High Calling, hosted by my friend Jennifer Lee at Getting Down with Jesus. I hope you'll stop by.

Stuff Happens

Conference Room.

Busting Up

When people entrust you to manage their money, a certain level of genuine credibility is necessary. And so, at my work for a registered  investment advisory firm, we maintain a professional atmosphere in our office.

Mostly.

Friday, though, I completely lost that demeaner. In a private meeting. With my boss.

I swore. 

We'd been working, with other staff, all week, on an analysis of a specific alternative investment for a client. I love projects like this one, where my role is to weave together contributions from other staff who are expert on the topic. I write, edit, and polish until we've created a comprehensive, concise, clear report. It's engaging, sometimes intense, even draining work--but it's also my favorite kind of challenge. 

She and I had painstakingly reviewed the 14-page document and were meeting, again, to discuss any final revisions. We'd met twice before, earlier in the week, for this same purpose. The project was nearly finished; it was Friday afternoon. We were both a bit punchy.

She and I were dissatisfied with a sentence, so we tossed possible revisions back and forth. 

"Even after thorough due diligence, fund failure, or even fraud, is possible." 

"Even after thorough due diligence, investors cannot be assured that the fund will succeed and be safe from fraudulent losses."

"Even the most thorough due diligence does not guarantee that the fund is safe from the prospect of fraud or failure."

"Even after thorough due diligence.....stuff happens." Except I didn't say "stuff." 

My boss looked at me, stunned. I sat in my chair, stunned right back. We were respectable, godly women. How had I managed to blurt that word out? 

Then she giggled. I chuckled. Clearing my throat, businesslike, I looked back down to our draft. "I'm sorry," I said. 

And then laughter--sweet, musical laughter--billowed forth from my boss. I joined her, and before I knew it we were both guffawing, tears streaming, gasping. 

Finally I could speak. "I can't believe I said that." 

"It's okay," she said. "It's been a long week. We needed that." 

I was grateful, so grateful, that she'd offered me grace instead of a rebuke. 

And then I told her, "You know, at lunch today, I read that The High Calling is doing a community writing project on laughter as therapy. Now I have something to write about!" She smiled, wiping her eyes. 

"You should," she said. "That was definitely therapeutic." 

³ Sing to Him a new song; Play skillfully with a shout of joy. 

Psalm 33:3 (NASB) 

Deidra Rigg is hosting all the laughter as therapy posts over at Jumping Tandem. I hope you'll enjoy the collection. 

Apples, Apricots, and Acts of Worship

An Inviting Hallway. Ojai Valley Inn and Spa. September, 2011.

Seeking Treasures in Shangri-La

An unexpected gift led my husband and me to spend our anniversary weekend in Ojai, a tiny town tucked snugly into the hills east of Ventura. We crave tranquility when we travel; the Ojai Valley Inn and Spa promised peace. And so we went. 

Upon arrival a smiling bellman opened my car door, greeted us with real words and escorted us to the lobby. After the check-in ritual, he led us to a golf cart, loaded our luggage, and drove us through the property, pointing out the spa, the pro shop, the gift store, the restaurants, all housed in white stucco and red tile, surrounded by impeccable gardens and paths. 

I felt myself exhaling way down to my toes. This will be a good place to spot God, I thought to myself. 

And it was easy to see Him here, in this magnificent setting, staffed by helpful people with authentic smiles and caring voices. 

Our room was edged by a balcony that offered a gaping view of the golf course and the hills beyond.

A walk-in closet provided ample space for our clothes. Built in 1923, I suspect the inn had been designed to cater to travelers arriving by train, trunks packed for a long respite. 

Everywhere we turned, we discovered an invitation to rest awhile, to relax, to drink in the calm of the day. Sitting areas called us from interior corridors.

Outside, courtyards also invited. One evening we watched a family roasting marshmallows over a fire pit here, the flames' reflection illuminating happy faces. 

As we explored, pathways asked us to tread on gravel, to peek around the next bend, to see what came next.

Even the corners of the herb garden promised rest.

In the morning, deer browsed unmolested on the driving range. 

We found other treasures, too: soap that smelled of the herb garden at dawn, the scents still drowsy as they awaited the sun's intensifying warmth. Sheets softer than newborn skin, covering a bed that coaxed deep, restful sleep from us. 

And the greatest gift of all: apricots. 

We've visited hotels that offered fruit in the lobby, or in the guestrooms. Always we'd find apples, cold-stored and sturdy, prepared to sit awhile before being claimed by a hungry visitor. Here, we found three flawless golden apricots, tree-ripened to yielding perfection, fragile, waiting in a miniature crate on an old wooden table in our room. 

All weekend I thought about those apricots. It's safe and easy to dump a sack of apples into a bowl and leave them to be taken, or not. Apricots are different. Handled roughly, they'll bruise. Offered too soon, they're hard and bitter. Left too long, they're unpleasant mush. Yes, a gift of apricots requires timing, discernment, careful handling....love.

The apricots taught me something: in my marriage, in my family, in my church, in my neighborhood, in my work....in my life: I've offered too many easy, sturdy apples and not enough tender, perfect apricots. 

Apricots have a place in my life plan. In my quest to make every act an act of worship, I'm going to do my best to share fewer apples. And more apricots.

1 Therefore be imitators of God, as beloved children; 2 and walk in love, just as Christ also loved you and gave Himself up for us, an offering and a sacrifice to God as a fragrant aroma.
Ephesians 5:1-2 (NASB)

I'm linking up with Ann Kroeker for Food on Fridays--because apricots are food, after all. Please stop by and feast.

The Missing Soprano and the Body of Christ

Trabuco Canyon Community Church.

Standing in the Gap

On a recent Sunday morning our trio of worship leaders was only a duo. Sue sat at the piano, Don stood at the mic, tuning his guitar--but Amy, whose lovely soprano weaves its way around Don's steady baritone, was absent. 

It happened to be September 11. And I happened to be thinking, a lot, about absent people on that sad anniversary. 

As we took our seats in our usual spot, six pews back on the left, I thought of wives turned to widows, husbands left alone, who slid solitary into pews that they once shared with their beloved. I squeezed my husband's hand, grateful for his familiar calluses. 

We sang Micah 6:8 that morning. This verse always carries me back to my mother's memorial service, pokes at the hole she left in my heart. Memories of Mom sharpened the focus of my contemplation.  Thousands of people died that day. Each one of them left holes in hearts. 

Amy's absence began to sting me, even though I knew she was safe, simply delayed. When we sing the chorus of Micah 6:8, Don sings "But to do justly" and then Amy repeats that line. They follow the same pattern singing "And to love mercy." The song was going to sound incomplete without her.

This day, I began to think, was about losing one's sense of completeness, about persistent holes in hearts. 

As we reached the chorus, Don sang out "But to do justly," holding the note just as he would if Amy were there to lay her soprano line over it. 

Then, from the back of the church, I heard two light sopranos reply, adding the echo of the line. Amy wasn't with us, but others stood in the gap, completing the melody. 

I fought an urge to swivel around to see who was singing in her stead, whose voices offered this gift. 

And then my mind returned to those families with ten-year-old holes, still agape, still leaking pain. I thought about ministry. I wasn't thinking of the sponsor-a-hungry-child kind, not the stock-the-food-pantry-kind, worthy as those missions are.

I thought about the sit-with-a-grieving-friend ministry, the coach-a-fatherless-boy's-Little-League-team ministry, the teach-a-dad-how-to-braid-his-daughter's-hair ministry. 

A prayer came to me: Father, you moved these women to stand in the gap today, to fill a void in our congregation's worship. You showed me a little glimpse of what it means to be part of the Body of Christ. Please Father, send Your hands and feet to those whose pain today is personal. Show them Your love. Fill the holes in their hearts with the completeness that comes from You. Only and always, from You.

⁴ Now there are varieties of gifts, but the same Spirit. ⁵And there are varieties of ministries, and the same Lord. ⁶ There are varieties of effects, but the same God who works all things in all persons. ⁷ But to each one is given the manifestation of the Spirit for the common good.  

1 Corinthians 12:4-7 (NASB)

(This chapter has much to say about the Body of Christ. Read the entire chapter here.) 

Over or Under?

Ti'i. 

Habits and Hurts

If you visit our home, you can tell who last replaced the roll of toilet paper by which way the paper hangs. If my husband Rich placed the roll on the spindle, the tissue flows over the top of the roll. If I did it, the paper hangs under the roll. 

I put the paper under because my cat, Ti'i, loved to stand on his hind legs and claw at the toilet paper. If the paper hung over, he'd unravel the whole roll if he managed to remain undetected while stretching and scratching. So I always, always, arranged the paper to hang behind the roll.

Ti'i was an amazing cat from the day he flagged me down, thrusting a paw through the mesh of his cage and furiously waving it at me as I visited the animal shelter looking for a companion back in 1995. "Is that your cat?" the kennel worker asked me.

"Well, if he's available, he is now," I smiled. 

Ti'i knew what he was doing when he chose me. He was a devoted companion and a great ambassador to his species, especially to humans who thought cats were aloof. He rode happily in the car, walked on a leash, ran to the door to greet guests. I often thought of him as a dog in disguise.

But he wrought havoc on toilet paper. So to this day, I hang the paper backwards. 

The thing is, Ti'i died in 2004. I'm hanging on to a useless habit because of an unpleasant experience that happened long, long ago.

I would like to report that this urge of mine to persist in habits that used to protect me extends no further than the paper question. But that wouldn't be true. 

I used to be married to a hoarder with a temper. To this day, growing piles of clutter, or a harsh raised voice, evoke a response in me that is no longer necessary. My husband is gentle and capable of driving right by an enticing pile of cast-offs at the neighbor's curb. So why does my stomach still somersault at a raised male voice? Why do I get edgy when the clutter multiplies?

Because I'm deficient in my faith, that's why. I have trouble giving my problems over to God. Even the ghosts of problems past are difficult to release. Somehow, my struggling heart believes that my gut reactions to memories of bad things can protect me.

They can't. But God can.

22 Cast your cares on the LORD
and He will sustain you;
He will never let
the righteous be shaken.
Psalm 55:22 (NASB)

Code Three: Running Hot

 

 Fire Trucks. Foothill Ranch. October, 2007

Trouble Ahead!

I pulled to the shoulder and stopped, watching in awe as a fire engine, lights flashing and sirens screaming, careened up the road towards me. It swung, northbound, into the southbound lane I had just cleared in response to its warnings. 

Wow. We could have collided.

And then I thought: Wouldn't it be wonderful if every bad thing was marked with red, red lights and insistent sirens?

A few minutes later I realized they are. They're written down in a book. My bible is full of "red lights and sirens" warning me to steer clear of troublesome situations and wrong steps.

Just the other day I wrote about an unpleasant exchange with one of the kids. If I'd been thinking of Colossians 3:21, or Ephesians 6:4, I might have behaved better.

Greed has tricked me, more than once, tempting me to bend the truth for my own reward. 1 Timothy 6:10 warns of its dangers. Christ Himself spoke up on the matter in Matthew 6:24.

At times I've refused to follow directions from someone in legitimate authority over me.  Genesis 19:17-26 provides a cautionary tale about the possibilities of insubordination. Even Moses was disobedient, and it cost him.

When I'm nervous, I blather. My bible warns me about running on without any real point to make in Proverbs 17:28.

I struggle with pride, sometimes. I crave recognition when I belong on my knees thanking God for His care and provision. I'd do well to hide the words of Proverbs 16:18 in my heart. The whole book of Proverbs is great reading for emergency preparedness. 

It took me a long, long time to understand that the bible isn't a reference book--it's a handbook. Its stories warn of dangers I face today and point me to righteous choices and behavior. 

From now on I'm reading from a Code Three point of view. 

⁶ For the LORD gives wisdom;

From His mouth come knowledge and understanding.
⁷ He stores up sound wisdom for the upright;
He is a shield to those who walk in integrity,
⁸ Guarding the paths of justice,
And He preserves the way of His godly ones.
⁹ Then you will discern righteousness and justice
And equity and every good course.

Proverbs 2:6-9 (NASB)

A Daughter Named Rebecca

Weddings, Vests, and Love

The email exchange between my bonus daughter Rebecca and me started innocently enough: We'd ordered her father's tuxedo for the big day and it seemed the order wasn't for the vest and tie that Rebecca had described to us. So I was trying to clarify what color those accessories should be.

The exchange turned into an argument. A ridiculous, back-and-forth argument that flamed big and wounded as it flung itself across broadband connections. "Caps lock" keys engaged and nails tapped furiously at keyboards.

I don't like to fight. But I felt I had a point worth winning to make. So I pressed on.

So did she.

Finally, the emails stopped. But we had no resolution. Fuming and shaking, I rose from my desk and took a walk. Elaine and I never fought like that, I thought. Ever.

Elaine had grown in my womb. I held her as she gazed upon the earth for the first time. Rebecca was my bonus daughter--a welcome part of the package deal that came with her dad when I married him in 2007. How could grown kids be so much work?

Soon I returned to my desk. I wasn't angry anymore. I felt drained, whipped, foolish. Rebecca was 24 when I married her father. And she came with her own package of life lived, of dreams, of hurts. I'd promised to love his children as I loved my own daughter. Nothing about today's exchange felt loving.

Later that day, I got into my truck to drive to an appointment. My radio spoke to me:
"Do you have a daughter named Rebecca? Call us now to play our Family Name Game. Brag on your daughter named Rebecca and you'll win $95 for yourself and $95 for your favorite charity. So if you have a daughter named Rebecca, call now!"

My eyes filled as I drove. I thought about the year she'd lived with us while she tried to figure out some important stuff. I thought about nights she and I sat late on the deck, talking, listening. I thought about a salmon dinner we'd gleefully shared when her fish-hating dad had been away on business. I thought about a birthday when she'd kicked me out of my kitchen so I wouldn't help prepare food for a party in my honor. I thought about her face, dark and somber as she greeted me at my mother's funeral.

"Yes," I whispered to the radio. "I do have a daughter named Rebecca. And she's loving and smart and big-hearted and she's getting married very soon." And when I could have shown grace, I showed anger.

Later that evening I sent her a text message. "Vests and ties for dads should be all squared away now. I am sorry today got so out of hand...when can we get together for wine and peace talks? Love u."

My phone sat silent until bedtime. I dragged myself upstairs with a hurting heart, not wanting to sleep with the mess I'd made still strewn across our lives.

The next morning, just as I arrived at work, a text arrived:
"Thanks. I'm sorry too. Talk to you soon."

Yes, I have a daughter named Rebecca. And moms and daughters--even bonus moms and bonus daughters--can recover from an occasional silly argument. Because they love each other.

¹³ But now faith, hope, love, abide these three; but the greatest of these is love.
1 Corinthians 13:13 (NASB)

The Library of Sham

 

Books at our House. August, 2011.

Judging by Covers

Once, many years ago, I visited a new friend. As she left me in her living room while she prepared coffee, I browsed her bookshelf. Picking up a old-looking copy of War and Peace, I opened the book. Inside the dust jacket was a cookbook!

She returned to the living room, carrying a lovely tray of coffee and homemade scones, as I stood with the book in my hands. "I have a friend with a used-book store," she explained. "My cookbooks don't make me look smart. Sometimes he gives me dust covers and I put them on my own books."

I was dumbfounded. Her disguised cookbook felt like a lie to me.

I sat uncomfortably as we shared good, rich coffee and the most amazing cranberry scones I've ever tasted. Our friendship never really took root--maybe because I wondered about her integrity.

Sometimes I think if her cookbooks had sat in her living room undisguised,visitors to her home would have had the chance to see something unique about her. She was a phenomenally good cook.

I thought of her the other day when I stumbled upon a web site that sells books by the foot. Their motto: "Your Vision, Achieved." They offer "Any Color. Any Subject. Any Age. Any Size." Need an instant law library? They can help. Need stacks of red books to set off your new den decor? They've got them.

When I'm really honest with myself, I have my own collection of image-building dust covers, just like my long-ago friend who baked amazing scones and didn't read Tolstoy. There's the strained chuckle that burbles out when someone with authority over me tells a cruel joke. A smile squeezes across my face when I hear hurtful words cloaked in dark praise.

As much as I hate to admit it, sometimes, when things tilt into skillful meanness, I slip on a dust cover of acquiescence instead of speaking up.

I'm sorry I judged my friend and her undercover cookbooks so harshly. I hope someday, as God continues His work in me, that I'll dare to toss aside my dust covers and and speak truth to ugliness.

²³ Search me, O God, and know my heart;
Try me and know my anxious thoughts;
²⁴ And see if there be any hurtful way in me,
And lead me in the everlasting way.
Psalm 139:23-24 (NASB)

Clumsy Bows and Beautiful Unions

An Amateur Bow. August, 2011. 

Make Something Beautiful and Strong: In Honor of my Bonus Daughter's Upcoming Marriage; In Honor of our Fourth Wedding Anniversary

My cousin Janene could take three pipe cleaners, two bent paper clips, a penny, and some ugly tissue paper and craft them into a centerpiece that would raise good money at a charity auction. She has a real knack for crafts.

Crafting is not my niche. So I'm not sure what possessed me to make a bow for my bonus daughter's bridal shower gift, instead of buying one already made, sturdy and beautiful. But there I was, on a Saturday morning, wrestling with two lengths of organza ribbon and my fingers, which were behaving like thumbs.

As I struggled with the ribbons I thought about it. Deep down, I wanted to make something strong and beautiful for her. For them. But I was discovering I couldn't do it by myself.

My husband wandered in and peered over my shoulder. With both my hands tangled in the filmy, iridescent ribbons, I asked, "Rich, can you pull right there?" He reached and gave a tug in just the right place. The bow was done. It wasn't perfect, but it was pretty enough, in its own fashion. And it was sturdy. This bow wouldn't disintegrate.

And it's just like that, trying to create a thing of strength and beauty. It takes work. Sometimes we struggle. Sometimes our efforts disappoint us.

And sometimes, an extra hand reaches in and makes our efforts pretty enough, solid enough.

It can work for bow-making.

And it can work for marriages, too. Four years ago today, I married her father. We've needed an extra hand more than once.

Our marriage is strong. And beautiful.

They'll have to create their own marriage--their own thing of strength and beauty. It's work that no one can do for them. But Someone can reach in and smooth their efforts, provide just the right tug to make it pretty enough and tough enough. I pray they'll remember to call on Him.

¹⁷ Let the favor of the Lord our God be upon us;
And confirm for us the work of our hands;
Yes, confirm the work of our hands.
Psalm 90:17 (NASB)