Under That Red Velvet Dress

My Daughter Elaine and Me. 1990.

No Place to Hide

"Let me zip your dress," I said to my daughter as we wriggled into our velvet dresses in the photographer's dressing room. As I ran the zipper up its tracks I marveled at the soft, perfect texture of her seven-year-old skin. Such a beautiful child...

We slipped out of the dressing room and into the studio. The photographer adjusted stools, showed us where to sit. The flash attachment lit the room like lightning in the night.

Contentment overflowed, escaping my lips in a sigh. I'd just completed my master's degree; these portraits were a gift from my parents to commemorate the occasion. My cheerful, cooperative daughter stood beside me, hugged me, leaned against my knee, obediently taking direction from the photographer. She smiled, placid under the volley of exploding lights.

"Up on your mom's lap--that's a good girl," the photographer instructed.

"I don't want to! It's HOT in here!" Tears suddenly welled in her eyes and a deep scowl carved itself a home on her forehead.

"Elaine!" I cried, startled and embarrassed by her outburst.

"I don't want to!" she wailed. I turned to the photographer, apologetic, as my child sobbed into my shoulder.

 I gathered my crying girl to me. She did feel warm. Those lights must have been too much for her. "Well. I think we have enough shots now. Thank you." He dismissed us.

We returned to the dressing room to change into our everyday clothes. By now her sobs had subsided to sniffles. I wiped her face with a tissue, then unzipped her dress.

That beautiful, tender skin had erupted in lesions! I couldn't believe what I saw. We'd been in the studio no more than fifteen minutes, and during that time, chicken pox had popped to the surface of her skin like tiny buoys bobbing on the waters of a still bay.

I took her home and took her temperature. Then I ministered to her with a warm bath, calamine lotion, chicken soup, her favorite blanket. Ensconced on the sofa with her favorite gingham quilt, a few books, and her stuffed panda, she relaxed.

When the proofs arrived, she and I studied them together. "You look so pretty," I told her. "Nobody would guess you were coming down with the chicken pox right there in the studio!"

"I didn't feel good that morning, Mommy. But I knew you really wanted to go make the pictures," she said.

I bit my lip, hugged her hard. "You didn't have to do that," I told her. "We could have gone another day."

"I wanted to make you happy," she said.

YYY

Today is my fifty-third birthday, but when it comes to sharing my real self, I might as well be seven. I want you to see the red velvet dress, not the lesions marring my soul underneath. I want you to think I'm fine, not in need of your ministry.

I still long for you to assure me that I'm a pretty girl. I cling to this childish notion, you see.

I think I'm only acceptable when I'm smooth, unblemished, pretty.


Today, I give thanks to my mighty God, who knows every flaw concealed beneath the party gown, and loves me anyway.

1 O LORD, You have searched me and known me.
2 You know when I sit down and when I rise up;
You understand my thought from afar.
3 You scrutinize my path and my lying down,
And are intimately acquainted with all my ways.
4 Even before there is a word on my tongue,
Behold, O LORD, You know it all.
5 You have enclosed me behind and before,
And laid Your hand upon me.
6 Such knowledge is too wonderful for me;
It is too high, I cannot attain to it.
 7 Where can I go from Your Spirit?
Or where can I flee from Your presence?
8 If I ascend to heaven, You are there;
If I make my bed in Sheol, behold, You are there.
9 If I take the wings of the dawn,
If I dwell in the remotest part of the sea,
10 Even there Your hand will lead me,
And Your right hand will lay hold of me.
11 If I say, “Surely the darkness will overwhelm me,
And the light around me will be night,”
12 Even the darkness is not dark to You,
And the night is as bright as the day.
Darkness and light are alike to You.
 13 For You formed my inward parts;
You wove me in my mother’s womb.
14 I will give thanks to You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
Wonderful are Your works,
And my soul knows it very well.
15 My frame was not hidden from You,
When I was made in secret,
And skillfully wrought in the depths of the earth;
16 Your eyes have seen my unformed substance;
And in Your book were all written
The days that were ordained for me,
When as yet there was not one of them.
 17 How precious also are Your thoughts to me, O God!
How vast is the sum of them!
18 If I should count them, they would outnumber the sand.
When I awake, I am still with You.
 19 O that You would slay the wicked, O God;
Depart from me, therefore, men of bloodshed.
20 For they speak against You wickedly,
And Your enemies take Your name in vain.
21 Do I not hate those who hate You, O LORD?
And do I not loathe those who rise up against You?
22 I hate them with the utmost hatred;
They have become my enemies.
 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 (NASB)

Restoring the Lamps, Part Three

Steady. Steady.

New Finish


I'm nervous as I sit down to paint my grandparents' lamps. I'm not crafty. My hand isn't always steady. I can't always stay in the lines. But the gold leaf has worn from the lamps and I promised my husband I'd touch them up.

I know I can't make them perfect, but I hope I can make them better.

It would be easier if they had but two dimensions: Round, I could see the whole of the task at once. But they're spheres, roughly. I can't see all the surfaces of a sphere at once. So I turn the lamp slowly as I paint, and as one area comes clearly into view, another area slips away, beyond my sight.

And I'm thinking love would be easier if it were round. Round, we could take it all in with a sweep, know all its features with a look.

But love isn't round. It's a ball. It rolls and bounces and just as we get one bit firmly in focus, another surface rotates sweetly away, out of our view.

Renewing the Gold

I turn the lamp and paint, carefully, carefully, filling in the bare spots in the gold. I remember this spot as I rotate the lamp.

My paint pen has passed by here once before.


But I missed a spot. With all this turning, it's easy to miss something. If I stood the lamp up and walked around it, would I see the gaps better?

No. Its shape is meant for turning. I'm not privileged to see it all at once.

The Best I Could Do.

So I roll the lamp through two rotations as I paint. Because I couldn't see it all at once. I know I'm done when the cord is wrapped twice around the lamp's base.

I might have missed a spot the first time.


I'm taking love up now, turning it slowly, examining every arc. It doesn't come with a cord to mark the revolutions. And by the time I return to the beginning point, the contours are new.

God made love a sphere. If we could see the whole of it at once, we'd weep at its magnificence and rail at the pain it brings. We see two dimensions of love at any moment; but there's always more, just beyond the curve.

Maybe this is a secret to love, then:

Keep rolling it gently. Never stop looking.

In Place.

11 He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end.
Ecclesiastes 3:11 (NIV)

Restoring the Lamps, Part Two

Lamps Under Renovation.

Protection

It's Saturday morning and the day overflows with what-could-be. I clear the remnants of yesterday's living from the kitchen island, make space for a project. My project.

I'm going to return these old lamps to usefulness. Rich will supervise, of course, because I've never rewired a lamp before. He assures me it's simple, but I don't want to burn our house down in the flames of my own pride.

So I cough up humility ask him to show me. He smiles, and he shows me how the pieces fit together to give light. A few of the old fittings are settled so tightly onto their threads, after decades coupled, that my weak hands cannot part them.

He helps me, this strong husband of mine. Then he leaves me space to work, to learn, as I disassemble the lamps. He understands that I need to do this thing, to return these relics of my grandparents' home to life. 

I realize that in my head, I can't separate their home from their marriage. I scoop that thought up, hold it wriggling in my mind for a moment, then release it to swim on downstream. 

I'm thinking about these old lamps who stood watch in my grandparents' living room for so many decades. They witnessed my grandmother's abrupt death, right there in her easy chair, working the crossword puzzle on a Friday morning. I imagine that on that last overflowing Saturday of her life, she didn't guess that there would be no more. And I see the blessing in her innocence. 

It feels like a gift to our union, bringing these lamps to our bedroom. These lamps illuminated love long before we knew one another. Their resurrection says, "your marriage is sound. It deserves these lamps." These old lamps, they know a thing or two about lighting the way of hearts. 

As I disembowel the lamp, I make a dazzling discovery.

Old Cord, Brittle. Old Cord, Supple. 

The visible length of cord, as anyone can see, is brittle, discolored, untrustworthy.

But the cord the lamp has sheltered within for all these years remains fresh and flexible. The years have not managed to wear it, to rob it of its resiliency. 

Now it's time to to tighten on the new fittings, and my hands are weak. So again I call for my husband, and again he comes and he helps me. As he reaches for the screwdriver, I rest in the certainty of his response to my need.

We fix a bulb in the socket, plug in the lamp, flip the switch, and in this light I see:

Faith is our bastion. It shelters our marriage as surely as the lamp shielded the cord from the ravages of the world. 

8 But since we are of the day, let us be sober, having put on the breastplate of faith and love, and as a helmet, the hope of salvation. 9 For God has not destined us for wrath, but for obtaining salvation through our Lord Jesus Christ, 10 who died for us, so that whether we are awake or asleep, we will live together with Him. 11 Therefore encourage one another and build up one another, just as you also are doing.
I Thessalonians 5:8-11 (NASB)

Restoring the Lamps, Part One

Lamp Shades as Pompoms. A Reenactment.

I Couldn't Renew Them Alone

"How about these?" I asked my husband, as we examined the selection of lampshades at our local Lowe's. "Those look good," Rich responded. So I selected a pair, spinning them slowly to make sure they were free of dents or stains.

Satisfied, we trooped down the aisle towards hardware. I carried a lampshade in each hand. Then I balanced one by its finial on the ball of each index finger, palms-up. These were large objects, and I could carry one on a fingertip.

I felt strong, balancing those lampshades on my fingertips.

I had a project in mind. My dad had given me these lamps, you see. They'd belonged to my grandparents. Mom had saved them for years, packed away in a moving carton in their garage. We'd toted them home from Dad's house at least a year earlier, and they'd sat in their carton in our garage since then. But now I was on vacation. A week stretched before me with few obligations and not-too-many plans. Fixed up, the lamps would be perfect in our bedroom.

They just needed a little attention to renew them.

I'm not sure where the burst of exuberance came from. Maybe the prospect of a week of rest provoked it. Maybe it was excitement over tackling, finally, the lamps.

But it came. Did you know that lampshades make a decent substitute for a pair of cheerleader's pompoms?

I didn't either, until I found myself grasping each one, extending one straight up and the other out to my left.

"Gimme an L!" I yelled, right there in the big wide center aisle at Lowe's. 

My husband turned to look at me. I smiled. I'm not sure who else might have turned to look. I didn't care. I was having fun.

I was playing.


I enjoyed it so much that I demonstrated this off-label use of lampshades to the young man who handled our transaction. He smiled, too.

All this playing and smiling made me happy. I felt relaxed, contented.

So I was really surprised when, as we drove home, tears came. 

These lamps are dear to me. They're family antiques. I remember them from a household that was a constant in my life as a child, a girl. My family moved several times, but Grandma and 'Pa's house always stayed the same.

I didn't find much of that earlier in adulthood, as I stumbled from one false start to the next.


It took a long, long time for me to locate my forever home.

I needed to resurrect these lamps. I wanted to do right by them, returning them to a place in the household where they'd be valued for their light and beauty. Now we had the new lampshades, replacement cords and sockets, and brand new shiny harps.

I wanted to make them new. But I needed help.


Rich would show me how to replace the lamp's insides. He's a skilled handyman and a patient teacher. The gold leaf on the lamp bases needs touching up, too. That part will be up to me. And I'm not the crafty type. I'm hopeful that I can do right by the lamps.

In any event, when I'm done, they'll have their forever home.

Or they'll be ruined.

I'm crying because I love these lamps. Or rather I love the memories they rekindle in me. And we're at a crossroads. Either my skilled husband and not-too-crafty me restore them, or they're ready for the dump. I know the rewiring is doable, so really, their fates lie in my not-so-steady hands.

I'm excited at the prospect of renewing them. And I'm afraid I'll do it wrong, destroy them.

Worn Gold Leaf.

I'm so grateful that my own renewal, securing my forever home, didn't depend on me. It doesn't depend on my husband's skill or the knowledge of the clerk in the craft store who guided me to choose the right gold leaf paint.

My fate lies in the steadiest Hand of all. He never errs. No matter how much touchup it takes to renew me, He won't tire of the task. Whatever light I give, it comes from Him.

He's saved a spot for me.

And I'll be welcomed there, even if I play pompom with lampshades in the home improvement store.

10 After you have suffered for a little while, the God of all grace, who called you to His eternal glory in Christ, will Himself perfect, confirm, strengthen and establish you.
1 Peter 5:10 (NASB)

I'm linking with Laura Boggess today for Playdates with God. Won't you come and play?

I'm Shining You On

Irrepressible Shining at Sunset.

Will You Shine Me On, Too?

My friend Mick Silva writes an encouraging meditation for writers every Monday. Recently, his reflection began with an anecdote:

Charlotte runs down to the piano. "Hey, Dad, listen to this!" she yells up. She plinks out her "song"--three keys down, 3 up, down, up--the one Mommy's just taught her. I come down and when she's done, I clap and praise her musical genius. Stunning. Transcendent! And I wonder, does she know I'm shining her on with all this?

I read his meditation and thought for a minute. It had been a while since I'd come across the idiom "shine [someone] on." As I considered his words, an idea lit in my still-caffeinating mind. My fingers flew as I tapped out a response:

Oh, Mick, you popped off a flashbulb! Right in my brain! 

You're shining your daughter on, all right. (I'm trusting you mean that in the sense I learned it when I was young and hip enough for slang: pulling her leg, sorta.) But what about this: 

You're shining a father's encouragement, to illuminate her growing and becoming on the piano. On the earth. In your family.

I hope every father shines his little girl (or boy) on. Every mom, too. 

I'd typed and sent the message before I realized exactly what I said. The words arrived, unbidden and welcome, a gift. They visited me like a brave hummingbird, inspecting the prism my eyeglass lenses cast in the sunshine. I sent them on their way without hesitation.

The exchange stuck with me through the day. Two thoughts emerged:

First, among the other gifts he shares with writers, my friend Mick Silva writes good meditations. This one, for example, kept me reflecting all through the day. He brings a unique perspective and awesome encouragement to this business of lining up words. If you're a writer, you should know him.

Second, it's time to reappropriate the expression, "Shine you on." From now on, if I'm shining you on, doesn't mean I'm ignoring you. It doesn't mean I'm misleading you. It doesn't mean I'm pulling your leg or feeding you a line, hoping it will benefit me.

Nope.

It means I'm doing my best to illuminate your best self--to light up some beautiful aspect of gorgeous you and invite you and others to see it, to value it.

I'm hoping to shine you on often. And I'm hoping you'll shine me on, too. Because we were made by an awesome Creator. It's so easy to focus on my flaws (and yours too, I'm ashamed to admit), to think about how I could do better. Be better. Love better.

But when we acknowledge His brilliance, refracted through us, we glorify Him. 

23 Let us hold fast the confession of our hope without wavering, for He who promised is faithful; 24 and let us consider how to stimulate one another to love and good deeds, 25 not forsaking our own assembling together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another; and all the more as you see the day drawing near.
Hebrews 10:23-25 (NASB)

I'm linking up with Jennifer Lee over at Getting Down with Jesus for God-Bumps and God-Incidences. Please join us!

My Eavesdropping Eyes

Uncorked. Successfully.

 

She's Not a Drunk! 

Listen to the tale a certain fifteen-year-old boy may have told his family after he ran into my mother-in-law.

"So I was walking down the street this morning, heading to Rudy's house. All of a sudden this old lady comes running out of her house with a wine bottle in her hand. She had one of those cork-puller thingies in her other hand, the kind that has a blade on each side that you slide in between the cork and the glass.

"She says, 'Excuse me, can you help me open this? We really need to get this bottle opened.' I take it from her and I see that the cork is all chewed and nicked up--she must have been trying really, really hard to get that cork out.

"So anyway, I take it from her and I work the cork out of the bottle. She says, 'Oh, thank you! You have no idea how much we needed this! We couldn't find the regular corkscrew and we just couldn't work the cork out with this thing. Thanks!' Can you imagine? It was only ten o'clock!"

Maybe his sisters snicker. Maybe his parents shake their heads. Maybe the family offers up a prayer for the neighbor lady who must have a terrible alcohol problem if she is so desperate at ten a.m.

It would be very kind of these people to pray for my mother-in-law's alcohol problem, if she had an alcohol problem.

But she doesn't. What the boy didn't know, couldn't know, is that inside, she and I had been looking, without success, for a waiter's corkscrew. On her kitchen counter all the ingredients for a luscious bœuf bourguignon  awaited our culinary attentions: the beef, mushrooms, onion, bay, and thyme all sat, waiting for the key ingredient, the wine. Our husbands were off pursuing some manly activity for the day and I'd promised to prepare a hearty meal for us to share once they returned. 

I should have asked Rich to open the bottle before they left. Or asked Dad where he keeps his corkscrew. But I didn't.

Without red wine, bœuf bourguignon is simply stew. And we couldn't open the bottle. Mom was hurrying across the street to ask a neighbor for help when she spotted the young man walking down the street, so she sought his aid.

Hours later, after our menfolk returned home for their excursion, we sat around the table enjoying our bœuf bourguignon over noodles, a crisp spinach salad serving as a foil to to its richness. I shared the story of Mom's expedition in search of able hands to open the bottle and we laughed, long and easy. Then it occurred to me that the boy would have a story to tell about his encounter with my mother-in-law.  

It would be compelling. And it would be wrong. 

I'm going to remember the wine-bottle escapade next time I think the little trailer of behavior I've glimpsed accurately provides me the plot to the whole two-reel film.

I hope. 

We're sense-making creatures, after all: We couldn't function if we didn't interpret what we see around us and make decisions based on that information, all day long. Those little snippets of life we observe offer us value.

But when I'm trying to discern something more significant than, say, when the stoplight will turn green, when I'm trying to understand another person's heart, then I need to watch the whole film first. It's so tempting to think I understand more than I do. 

Right now, I've watched a trailer and I need to load up the whole film before I respond. If I've interpreted the trailer properly, I need to do something about a significant wrong. But maybe, just maybe, that film I've glimpsed is a comedy, not a dark drama. It's hard, sometimes, to be patient, to wait for understanding before I act. 

It challenges me because I think I know.

My friend Glynn Young wrote just last week about how our eyes can deceive us--or rather, how our hearts can mislead us when we rush to conclusions. His patience stands as a model for me as I watch to see how this plot unfolds.

Please pass the popcorn. 

24 Do not judge according to appearance, but judge with righteous judgment. 

John 7:24 (NASB)

I'm linking with Ann Kroeker at Food on Fridays. Please stop by to see what's cooking!

The Incredible Sweetness of Being, Part Two

Cadence Spots a Ladybug

The Ladybug Lounge

"Lala," my grandson Cadence says. "I see a beetle in the window."

I'm sitting on the loveseat, sipping water and sorting grocery coupons. Movement at the window has drawn his eye away from the colossal battle he's staging between army men, Lego guys, a T. Rex and a few Transformers.

"Is it inside or outside?"

I'm thinking I'll finish sorting my coupons--I'm almost done--then I remember.

My word for 2012 is be. 

One of my goals for this vacation week is to be with my grandsons. Papa Rich has left to drive Ayden home; we're keeping Cadence longer because he'll return to his home in Hawaii in just a few days. He and I are alone in the house. This beetle in my window? It's another chance to be with the child before his parents arrive to take him away, later today.

I set aside my stack of coupons. "Where is it?" 

"Right there! Look, Lala!"

I rummage in the pantry, return with an empty jar. A minute later we've gently swept two ladybugs from the window. We crimp a piece of foil over the mouth of the jar. I jab holes with a toothpick. "When Papa Rich comes home, he'll help you poke holes in the jar's lid."

"What do they eat?"

We step outside to examine my roses. Haphazard gardener that I am, odds are good we can find a few aphids lurking somewhere. We find them on the only bud this January has brought to my rosebushes.

"See those little green bugs on the rosebud? That's what they eat. If we cut the bud off to feed the ladybugs, we'll have to give up that flower," I tell him.

Cadence considers. "It'll grow more, won't it?"

"Yes," I say. 

And so we sacrifice the rosebud for the ladybugs' sake. 

"Lala, don't poke your finger," he cautions me, pointing to thorns. Cadence's concern for my finger melts me a little. He removes the foil from the jar.

Minding my grandson's warning, I drop the buggy rosebud into the jar.

With our small captives fed in their makeshift lounge, I propose that it's time for our lunch.

And because I'm being with my grandson, I serve both our portions of macaroni and cheese on the special cow plates.

My grandson hands me his tangerine, asks me to unwrap it. Papa Rich phones to report he's at the grocery store, just minutes from home.

"Hurry home!" I urge. "We've made a ladybug house and Cadence needs you to help him poke air holes in the lid."

Papa Rich is better at being than I am. Poking holes is his first priority when he returns.

I slip away while the menfolk punch holes, leaving them to their manly work.

They install the lid, and our ladybug lounge is complete.

Later, I finish sorting my coupons. 

Cadence never returns to the desperate battle between the Lego guys and the T. Rex. The army men lost their allure when he found the ladybugs; he's moved on to other explorations. This afternoon, every afternoon, overflows with possibilities.

My grandson is an expert at being. 

Maybe that's why Jesus tells us, in three of the Gospels, that His kingdom belongs to those who become like children.

13 Then some children were brought to Him so that He might lay His hands on them and pray; and the disciples rebuked them.  14 But Jesus said, “Let the children alone, and do not hinder them from coming to Me; for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.”
Matthew 19:13-14 (NASB) 

13 And they were bringing children to Him so that He might touch them; but the disciples rebuked them. 14 But when Jesus saw this, He was indignant and said to them, “Permit the children to come to Me; do not hinder them; for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. 15 Truly I say to you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God like a child will not enter it at all.”
Mark 10:13-15 (NASB) 

15 And they were bringing even their babies to Him so that He would touch them, but when the disciples saw it, they began rebuking them. 16 But Jesus called for them, saying, “Permit the children to come to Me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. 17 Truly I say to you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God like a child will not enter it at all.”
Luke 18:15-17 (NASB)

I'm sharing with Laura Boggess today at The Wellspring for Playdates with God. Please come and play!

The Incredible Sweetness of Being, Part One

Cuties and Bananas.

A Taste of Tangerines

It's the first "real" day of my vacation. It's Monday. And I'm not going to work.

I've scheduled this break from my routine to come after the holiday season, right at the beginning of the new year.

I have two goals for this vacation.

My grandsons are coming to visit for a few days in the middle of the week. One goal is to be truly in that time with them, to fully dwell in our visit.

My other goal is to get comfortable with be. I spend too much time in do mode. Be is something for me to learn.

My one word for 2012 is be.

But today is Monday. Tomorrow I pick up Cadence; Wednesday I pick up Ayden. I have clothes to launder and groceries to buy so that when the boys get here, I'm free of the to-do list and can be with them.

I spend the day abustle, tidying, washing, hanging, folding. It's two in the afternoon before I leave for the grocery store. I'm feeling behind schedule as I take command of a cart and make my way for the produce aisle. I consult my list: lettuce, bananas, potatoes, an onion, tomatoes, carrots.

I rush past the greengrocer and make my way to the banana display. As I'm examining my choices, I hear a voice at my side: "Would you like a sample?"

Turning, I see the grocer standing beside me in his green apron, tall and smiling. He holds out a tangerine. Before I can decline, because I'm in a hurry, you see, he cuts it into quarters, extends the offering to me. "Somebody asked me if they were good," he tells me. "So let's find out."

I smile and reach for the fruit. Its skin slips off easily as a sweatshirt; the flesh is cold, tangy, and sweet. "Mmmm," I say to the kind grocer. "This is delicious! Thank you."

I turn to continue the banana selection process and a little voice inside says Stop.

Just stand here, the voice says. Enjoy the tangerine. Be.


And so I stop. Juice runs over my fingers as I bite into another section of the fruit. Because I'm going to eat it slowly, one section at a time. It's velvety in my mouth. How had I never noticed the texture of tangerine fruit before?

Seeing that I'm standing, not walking away, the grocer shares a tip. "Take that tangerine peel, saute it in some olive oil, stir in a little brown sugar and some ginger if you have it. Add some chicken, then eat it with rice. Tangerine peel gets really tender when you cook it. It's way better than orange peel for making orange chicken."

"Really? I'll have to try that." Then, "I cooked pork chops in an orange juice and brown sugar sauce the other night. With onions. It was good."

He agrees. "That would be good. You can do shrimp that way too. Shrimp, chicken, pork--it's all good. Would you like a sample?" He's turned to the man in khaki shorts and an Angels ball cap who is stopped in front of the oranges.

"Thanks," the orange-buying man says. "The Caras have been really good this year."
"So are these," a voice says.

It's me. I'm standing here, still, enjoying this gift of a fresh, cold, sweet, juicy, velvety tangerine, chatting with the grocer and the orange-buying man.

I'm being.


"You can toss the peel in that empty box on the bottom shelf of my cart," the grocer says. "I have paper towels hanging right up there."

"Thanks!" I select a bunch of bananas. Then point my cart towards the potatoes, stop, do a u-turn. I add a bag of tangerines to my basket. I smile at the grocer, nod to the orange-buying man, and go on my way.

I'm choosing an onion when I notice something odd.

I'm still smiling.

10 Be still, and know that I am God: I will be exalted among the heathen, I will be exalted in the earth. 11 The LORD of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our refuge. Selah.
Psalm 46:10-11 (KJV)

I'm linking up with Ann Kroeker today for Food on Fridays. Please stop in! 

The Christmas that Won't Go Away

Ornament Boxes. January 2, 2012

Christmas Won't Fit in the Box


A photo essay in honor of my friend Nancy Owen Franson, who loves Christmas more than anyone I know.

The day after New Year's Day is a good day to undress the tree, box up Christmas, hide it away until next year. But this year, Christmas won't fit in the box. Here's one reason:

Sawyer and Elaine Investigate His Stocking. Christmas Day, 2011. 

For the first time ever, a grandchild awoke under our roof on Christmas morning. I bought unbreakable ornaments and hung them on our tree's lower limbs, just to be safe. He never went near the tree.

My Nifty Silicone-Tipped Kitchen Tongs Don't Interest Sawyer. 

Those extra ornaments meant we needed more storage for our Christmas stuff. My husband proposed buying red-and-green storage bins to pack Christmas into, so he could easily identify the boxes in the basement next year. 

The unbreakables weren't the only addition to my Christmas collection this year. After Thanksgiving, my dad asked my siblings and me to choose some of my mother's treasures for ourselves. Mom loved Christmas more than anyone I know--except Nancy--and she loved angels, too. I brought home several of Mom's angels for our Christmas tree. 

Mom's Raffia Angels and Porcelain Cherubs, Alongside Unbreakable Stars and Snowflakes that Don't Fit in Their Box. 

One raffia angel and one porcelain cherub played fugitive as I hunted among the tree's boughs, removing ornaments, wrapping them in paper. 

 The Mostly-Undressed Tree, Harboring  Fugitive Angels.

Mom needed order less than I do. Maybe that's because she raised three children to my one. In any event, I could imagine her giggling over my need to have all the raffia angels in their long gold box, and all the porcelain cherubs together in their red package. 

Raffia Angels Rounded Up. Mismatched Cherubs.

I finally found the last of the raffia angels. To my consternation, I had five porcelain cherubs and the box had space for only four. It troubled me until I looked closely, saw that three cherubs matched, and two cherubs matched, but there were not four of a kind. I imagine one of us three kids, the ones who freed my mother from her need for strict order, broke the fourth one, some long-ago Christmastime. 

Grandma Seiler's Cardboard Box.

We did buy new storage bins, but I kept a few of the old pieces. I had to save this box. That writing? It's my grandmother's hand. I wept a bit as I wound the twine around the tabs. Those tabs are over thirty years old now. Grandma, she loved Christmas too. But not quite as much as my friend Nancy does.

Ornaments, Ready for Storage Bins. 

Once I'd removed the ornaments, Rich unwound the lights.

Rich Tangling with Strings of Lights.

Then he hauled the tree outside, onto our back deck. It was to meet a gruesome fate the next day.

Doomed Tree.

The spot where the tree had stood, gracing our home with the smell of Christmas, reminding our hearts to give thanks for the Savior, looked particularly empty. 

Where the Tree Stood, After.

Once I'd removed, wrapped, and tucked  the ornaments into boxes, It was time to pack them away. The new bins will hold our room decor, things like stocking hangers and the trees Rich's children made, many Christmases ago. The ornaments, tree skirt, angel-on-top and tree lights will go into my tin tea chest.

Because that's where they belong.

Tree Trimmings Tucked into Tin Tea Chest.

We enjoy one bit of Christmas year-round in our home. Rich spent hours stringing these lights back in 2007, so they stay up all year. But the neighbors don't complain.

Our 365-Day Christmas Lights.

Christmas of 2011 won't fit in its box. Rich has toted the bins down to the basement, stacked the decorations away until December. But the holiday refuses to leave my heart. It's stuck there like the residue from an overzealous price tag clinging to a gift. 

As I told my five-year-old grandson, Cadence, "It's Jesus' birthday! So the whole world throws a party, and that's Christmas!"

How do you fit that in a box? 

Three years after my mother's death, I thought I had completed all the steps of truly understanding that she's absent from this earth. Hanging my mother's beloved Christmas angels on our tree was yet another reality check. 

How do you fit that in a box? 

A month ago I would have told you that baking cinnamon rolls with my daughter is the best part of Christmas.  Now I'd have to say that watching my grandchild open gifts in our living room on Christmas morning tops even the cinnamon roll event. 

How do you fit that in a box? 

Like Mary, I have gathered many treasures to ponder. And we don't store those in the basement. 

16 So they came in a hurry and found their way to Mary and Joseph, and the baby as He lay in the manger. 17 When they had seen this, they made known the statement which had been told them about this Child. 18 And all who heard it wondered at the things which were told them by the shepherds. 19 But Mary treasured all these things, pondering them in her heart.
Luke 2:16-19 (NASB)

New Year, New Me?

Psalm 25

Square One

As I drive to church on New Year's Day I reflect on the previous year, asking myself, "Am I closer to God today than I was a year ago?" I consider our new church home and the meaty teaching our pastor offers. I think of my deepening friendships with fellow Christians. I muse over more time spent in the Word.

Finally I conclude that 2011 was a faithfully productive year. I allow myself a little pat on the spiritual back as I wind up the road that leads to our hilltop church. 

Now the service begins and we sing How Firm a Foundation. We reach the third verse:

Fear not, I am with thee, oh, be not dismayed,
For I am thy God and will still give thee aid;
I'll strengthen thee, help thee, and cause thee to stand,
Upheld by My righteous, omnipotent hand.

Suddenly I'm overcome with joy. I'm talking to myself:

I am upheld by by the righteous, omnipotent hand of God, Creator of the universe! I will go forth with confidence in 2012, proclaiming my King. I have nothing, absolutely nothing, to fear. 


Three minutes later the pastor announces we're doing communion differently on this day. Typically the elders and deacons pass the elements, pew-by-pew. Today, we'll each approach the chancel, take our morsel of bread and cup of wine, and return to our seats, where we'll partake together. 


Anxiety gnaws at my gut. Do something I've never done before? Here, in church, in front of all my friends? What if I do it wrong? 


Almost instantly, I begin to rebuke myself. Nobody came here to watch me take communion. No team with scorecards waits on the sidelines of the chancel to gauge my performance. 


Now an argument breaks out in my head. 

Performance? Ack. Communion isn't performance, you dimwit. Just get in line and follow. It'll be fine.


And while we're at it, weren't you just A.Few.Minutes.Ago rejoicing over God's righteous, omnipotent hand? And not long before that, weren't you thinking you'd actually grown in faith this year?


You poser.


Just a minute. Hold on. You're in church. Preparing to take communion. Give yourself a break!


Now I'm at the chancel and Pastor Robert is standing behind the trays holding the bread--the figurative flesh of Christ--and the wine, symbolizing His blood. "The body of Christ was broken for you, Sheila," my pastor says, as I reach for the bread. "The blood of Christ was spilled for you," he says, as I take the cup. 


The bickering in my head ceases as I return to my seat and share in the wonder of communion. I look around as together, we eat the bread, sip from our cups.

I'm not the only one in tears, as we repeat this ritual--the only repetitive ritual prescribed in the New Testament--on New Year's Day.


Driving home, I'm thinking. Yes, you did grow in 2011. And you have a lot more growing to look forward to in 2012.


And I rejoice all over again. 

It's going to be a great year.

20 They brought the boy to Him. When he saw Him, immediately the spirit threw him into a convulsion, and falling to the ground, he began rolling around and foaming at the mouth. 21 And He asked his father, “How long has this been happening to him?” And he said, “From childhood. 22 It has often thrown him both into the fire and into the water to destroy him. But if You can do anything, take pity on us and help us!” 23 And Jesus said to him, “ ‘If You can?’ All things are possible to him who believes.” 24 Immediately the boy’s father cried out and said, “I do believe; help my unbelief.”
Mark 9:20-24 (NASB)

I'm linking with my friend Michelle DeRusha at Graceful  for Hear it on Sunday, Use it on Monday. I hope you'll stop by. 

The Half-Baked Corn Pudding Caper

Grandma's Casserole

Finding Grace in the Church Kitchen


"Our next potluck is November 20. Use it as your lab to try out the dishes you plan to serve on Thanksgiving."

The invitation in our church bulletin a few months ago enticed me to finally try to reproduce my grandmother's corn pudding. She'd often served it at family gatherings. Those meals were always special--while she'd lived, I'd figured it was the food that made them so memorable.

Her corn pudding was smooth and full of the flavor of sweet corn, with  both a substance and lightness about it.  Tucked away in my kitchen sat the blue Pyrex casserole dish she'd always served it in. I've never used it, because I don't have her recipe. I'd asked around.

Nobody has her recipe.

I'd have to trust my imagination and my tastebuds' collective memory to recreate the dish. That task had always intimidated me. The pastor's invitation to use our monthly potluck as a proving ground spurred me to finally act. I pulled out my vintage cookbooks. I cruised various recipe sites on the internet. Finally I settled on a recipe that sounded like it might recreate the flavor and texture I remembered.

My co-grandma Judi was driving from San Diego that Sunday morning to join us for worship and the potluck. Before I began cooking the corn pudding, I baked a batch of blueberry muffins for us to enjoy before church.

Then I turned to the recipe. I doubled it so I'd be sure to have enough to feed many mouths at the church potluck. Almost immediately I realized I had a problem: That blue Pyrex casserole, which had sat waiting in my kitchen cabinet for so long, would not contain the quantity of pudding that was accumulating as I prepared the ingredients.

I sighed and pulled out a bigger casserole dish.

I popped my creation into the oven. Judi arrived. We sat and munched on the muffins. Periodically I checked my pudding.

It wasn't setting up. I cranked up the heat another 25 degrees and waited. I checked it again. Still soupy.

And now it was time to go to church. "Well, hopefully it'll taste good," I mumbled, as I pulled the too-thin pudding from the oven and strapped my casserole dish into its insulated carrier.

We hurried to church, as I'd waited until the last minute, hoping for a miracle right there in my GE oven that morning. My husband Rich carried the casserole dish to the church kitchen while Judi and I took our seats in the sanctuary.

I blotted my failed pudding attempt from my mind as I tried to refocus, preparing my heart for worship. Rich joined us and the music began. My embarrassment over the failed pudding experiment receded from my mind as we sang praises to God.

Halfway through the second song Judi began to cough. A tickle had lodged itself in her throat, refusing to move on. "Would you like a glass of water?" I whispered. She nodded. I slipped out of the pew and made my way to the church kitchen.

I found a handful of ladies from the church gathered there, making ready for the feast we'd share after the service. As I entered, Margie held my casserole carrier. "I wonder what's in here?"

"It's corn pudding," I said. "I don't think it's very good. I've never made it before and it didn't bake long enough. It's still runny."

"Oh! Well, we'll just put it in the oven for awhile," Margie said. Gara nodded. "Yup."

"That would be awesome," I said. "Thank you!"

I fetched a glass of water for Judi and returned to the sanctuary.

After worship, we made our way to the fellowship hall. With considerable trepidation, I scanned the buffet. There sat the corn pudding casserole. Several people had already helped themselves.

And I could see that the texture was just right. The top was delicately browned, the inside looked light. And it wasn't soupy.

It hadn't occurred to me to ask for help with the half-baked casserole. But my sisters in Christ redeemed my mess. They turned it into something marvelous.

 9 Two are better than one because they have a good return for their labor. 10 For if either of them falls, the one will lift up his companion. But woe to the one who falls when there is not another to lift him up. 11 Furthermore, if two lie down together they keep warm, but how can one be warm alone? 12 And if one can overpower him who is alone, two can resist him. A cord of three strands is not quickly torn apart.
Ecclesiastes 4: 9-12 (NASB)

Corn Pudding

Recipe notes: This quantity feeds 14. Halve it for a smaller gathering. Some recipes I reviewed called for a lot of added sugar. What I remembered about Grandma's corn pudding was the corn's sweetness shining through. 

4 15-ounce cans creamed corn

1/2 cup butter, melted

2/3 cup flour

scant 1/4 cup sugar

2 teaspoons salt

1/4 teaspoon pepper

6 eggs, separated

2 cups milk

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease a big, deep casserole dish. Set aside. 

In a large mixing bowl, mix the corn and butter. Add the flour, sugar, salt and pepper. Stir.

Heat milk to just steaming. Beat the egg yolks. Remove milk from the heat and stir in the egg yolks. Add to the corn mixture. 

Beat the egg whites until stiff. Stir 1/4 of the stiff whites into the corn mixture. Fold the remaining whites into the mixture. Pour into prepared casserole dish. 

Bake for 1 hour and 30 minutes (more or less. If you halve the recipe, 1 hour should be about right.) After 20 minutes, stir the crust forming on top into the pudding. Stir it down again after 40 minutes.

The pudding is done when it's set and golden on top.

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

Are You Asking For It?

Skillet and Stockpot

Speak up!

I am not, by nature, acquisitive. So I was startled to realize that I was lusting after a new set of cookware. It just wasn't me.

But sure enough, each day I'd pull up the images of the pots and pans on the Macy's website. I'd check the price. I'd admire the graceful shape of the stockpot and curve of the skillets. The shimmer of their bronze color entranced me. I longed for their heatproof handles.

I had it bad. I wanted those pots and pans.


But here's the thing: How do you wear out a pan? I've never cooked in a skillet until it sprouted a hole like a used-up shoe. Pots don't disappear, magically vaporizing from the cupboard like a favorite pen goes missing from my handbag.

My pots and pans weren't perfect. Chicken breasts were always more golden when cooked on the side nearer the big skillet's handle. Their exteriors had faded to a chalky black color. The  small saucepan wobbled just a bit under its lid. But they were still serviceable.

I don't generally replace things that are serviceable.

So I spent some time contemplating why, exactly, I so wanted new cookware. And once I figured it out, I bought them. I lugged the big box home and tenderly unpacked all the perfect new pieces, washing them in soapy water and wiping them dry.

Then I set to packing up the old, unloved pots and pans. I hadn't figured out what I'd do with them, yet, but they were still useful.

The next morning I found a note from a friend in my email: "I hope I'm not being too bold or forward, but do you have plans for your old pots and pans?"

I chuckled. With one simple message, my problem was solved. I could pass my pots and pans on to my friend. I tapped back: "Yup. I'm giving them to you. I'll bring them when I see you on Wednesday."

Later, I got to thinking about her message, about the "bold" and "forward" parts. She'd done me a service, letting me know she could use the objects that I no longer wanted. I gave thanks for her candor, grateful that she didn't trip over her pride on her way to requesting them, grateful that my pots could bless her kitchen.

Considering it further, I realized that her asking had pleased me. I had something she could use, and she'd let me know.

My friend's simple request was remarkable for its rarity.  We all hesitate to ask for what we need, don't we? It implies a state of lacking. It tells the world, "I can't take care of everything all by myself." It demonstrates that we're not independent.

I don't know about you, but I'm troubled by the things I lack. I lack faith sometimes, and grace. And when I'm on deadline at work and the phone calls are all for me and the administrative assistant is reporting that the copier just died, well, I can't take care of everything all by myself. When I'm sitting in the parking lot at the grocery store with a dead battery, I'm reminded that I'm not independent. Unless someone comes to my aid, I'm either walking home while my groceries rot or sitting there a long, long time.

I have this Friend who knows even better than I about my state of lacking, my inability to handle everything, my dependence. And nothing pleases Him more than when I come to Him and ask for His help with my struggles.

This year, I'm asking for it.

I'm asking for Him.

14 This is the confidence which we have before Him, that, if we ask anything according to His will, He hears us. 15 And if we know that He hears us in whatever we ask, we know that we have the requests which we have asked from Him.
1 John 5:14-15 (NASB)

I'm linking up with Jennifer Lee at Getting Down With Jesus for God-Bumps & God-Incidences. Please stop by!

Stalking the Elusive Bass Line

Donny, Sue, and Craig

How Listening Opened my Eyes

"So Donny," I said one Sunday in the fellowship hall, as he stood beside me contemplating the plates of cookies and banana bread set out for our post-worship refreshment, "I heard this song on The Fish yesterday that had this really awesome bass line in the bridge."

"Really?"

"Yup. Problem is, I can't for the life of me remember its name. But when I hear it again, I'll make a note and tell you."

"Cool!"

Donny is the kind of young man we all want to know. He's smart, he's talented, he's funny. He comes from a close-knit, godly family. He's courteous from deep inside, helpful, and kind.

And he plays a wicked bass guitar.

Back in the day, I played standup bass. So I know that sometimes--okay, almost always--the bass line is not the flashy part of the song. It adds needed foundation and rhythm, yes. But the truth is, bass lines can be boring. This song featured an awesome bass line. It had an Andy Rourke-esque lilt. You could even describe it as a riff.

I really wanted to hear the song again, so I could tell Donny its name. Every time I got into my truck, which doubles as an FM radio listening booth, I tuned to The Fish and waited to hear The Song.

I listened for weeks. And weeks.

I never heard it.


While I was listening for it, though, I noticed something. When I really devoted myself to listening only to the bass line, it's all I heard. While I listened to Chris August and Jeremy Camp and MercyMe, I wasn't hearing the vocals. I wasn't hearing the horns, or the Gospel choir on backup, or that beautiful little cello solo.

It was challenging, at times, to tune my ear for those deep notes. Sometimes I found myself distracted, wondering why that woman in the car next to me looked sad. Sometimes my mind drifted back to a conversation I'd had in the office, or forward to what I'd cook for our dinner once I arrived home. Sometimes I sang along with the song. I can't listen and sing at the same time.

I can't listen and think at the same time. Oh, but how I try! My husband is talking to me and I'm thinking about what to do next, instead of hearing the fatigue in his voice. In a meeting, I'm jotting notes, considering what I need to convey the next time I speak--and I miss the nuance of my coworker's comment.

When I focus on seeking just one thing, everything else fades in the background. I want to listen to my husband, our kids, my coworkers like I listened for the bass line.

I want to listen for God like I listened for the bass line. I want to devote myself to seeking His voice until all the worldly noise grows mute.

6 Whether it is pleasant or unpleasant, we will listen to the voice of the LORD our God to whom we are sending you, so that it may go well with us when we listen to the voice of the LORD our God.”
Jeremiah 42:6 (NASB)