proof positive

For those of you who read my last post and are feeling concerned about my qualifications for motherhood, I want to reassure you (if it were possible) with the following facts:


(First, I know I don't deserve them.  No one ever deserves the gifts they are given.)

I love to hug my children and they hug me back.  The feeling of one of my offspring snuggled up trustingly beside me is immeasurably precious.

They smile when I kiss them.

I enjoy working beside them, cooking, or sewing, or doing yardwork.  I even enjoy teaching them these things.

According to them (despite my offering proofs to the contrary), I am a kind, patient, and funny mother who is never selfish and always puts them first.  (Let's just chalk that up to the optimism of youth, shall we?)

I love giving them good things - a favorite meal, a sweet treat, a small gift picked up while I'm running errands - just to see their faces light up with pleased surprise.

They trust me.  Confide in me.  Offer their journals to me to read.

I ask for their opinions and preferences when we make schedule changes or plan family week (photos coming soon ... !).

They still call me Mommy, despite hearing their friends move on to "Mom."

Most of my waking hours are spent considering what is best for them.  They fill my prayer time; God has heard more from me about my children than about any. other. thing.

I trust them.  I regularly answer their "Should I ___ or ____ ?" with a confident "You may choose.  I trust your judgement."

It's true that I dearly love Quiet Time.  It's true that evenings, after the children are in bed and it's just me and my Farmer, are one of my favorite times of the day.  It's true that I look forward all month to the time when my own mom comes to spend the day with my children so that I can (one sweet day a month) meet a friend, or go shopping for fun, or walk in the park with just my thoughts and the birds to listen to.

I am wired for solitude.

And I am a mother.

And I love my children.



[I just don't love to play their games.]

Provider

Strawberries, warm from the sun, out-of-this-world flavor.
A bouquet of lettuces.
Kale, and collards, and an appetite to eat them.

The world's best cucumbers, thin-skinned and luscious.
Blueberries, picked after a long day's work!  (the big ones really do taste better.)
Fragrant ripe blackberries like only a connoisseur can pick.
Raspberries hastily snatched in the rain.
Ear after ear of corn on the cob.
Tomatoes in small round globes and large-lobed wonders.
Sweet slicing onions.
Knobby, crisp little bulbs of garlic.
Watermelons - golden, red, orange.
Potatoes, with the dirt still on them.
Golden peaches and sturdy little pears.
Grapes, fruiting after all these years.
A giant pumpkin, just because.
Carrots - who knew? - in purple, ivory, and magenta.
Asian cabbages for an evening of kimchi-making.
Red cabbages and green cabbages for our family's supper.
Silky white turnips so good we christen them "dessert turnips."

Hours on the tractor, burnt by sun and wind.
Sweat from fighting mechanical beasts.
Muscles sore from digging.
Grimy knees and shorts, kneeling by a stubborn rototiller.
Chunks of dirt fallen from his shoes.
Thinking, and thinking, and thinking some more, to solve the problem in front of him.
Weed-flecked socks in a heap, memorial to weeds tamed, again and again.
Furrows in his brow from frustrations sculpted into solutions.

A smile for me, home weary from shopping, when I left in a snit.
Hugs when I am stiff with resentment.
"Thank you for breakfast," every morning.
Unspoken forgiveness, over and over and over.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Some men bring home flowers.


Mine brings me sacrifices.

pre-victory

I'm in one of those dry, battle-y spots where I keep waiting for the win,
so I can write about it.

But it doesn't come.

And here's what I decided to do:  write anyway.

There's been sickness.  Weariness.  Irrational irritability.  Hormones are suspect.  Flu viruses may play a part.  Brokenness, woundedness, yes.  And at the bottom of it all is the wondering, can I do this??  Really?

Love, I know, is a choice.  Someone told me that, once.  Or maybe I read it somewhere.  Poetic, isn't it?  Bracing in a pleasant, theoretical way.

But then there I am, folding his underwear when I am furious at him for being himself and not the implausibly perfect version of himself I've invented.  Cooking his breakfast when his touch makes me bristle.  Looking at him in the bathroom mirror, trying to smile ....

But look!  Just typing this is tilting the balance.  I can hardly think of what annoys me for the shaming flood of things I realize he does for me.  {And so, once again, the victory comes through a step into mid-air, by faith.  And gratitude, the footing for it all, shows up sturdy.}

He fills the pellet stove daily, to keep me warm.  

(and keeps it set higher for me than he would for himself).

He feeds the chickens in all kinds of weather, trading my kitchen scraps for their eggs.

He faithfully goes to work - on days when he's excited about his job, and on days when he'd rather be anywhere but there - to provide for us.

He prays for me.

He thanks me for breakfast, every day.

He snuggles close at my request, to keep me warm.

He purchased, cleaned, assembled & cleaned again, prepped & re-prepped a site, and cleaned yet again a pool "for the children" (when it was really me, maybe, all along, who so wanted a place to swim).

And he put it in the greenhouse so we could swim pre-season.

He comforts me when I am sad.

He counsels me when I ask his advice.

He encourages me to try new things.

He fixes my washing machine, my kitchen faucet, the wiring in the space heater, and whatever else needs to be fixed - not because he's experienced,

but because he loves us and can learn.

He loves me enough to let me grow, even by making mistakes.

Even when they affect him.

He forgives me.  And keeps loving me.

And there's the win I sought.  Gratitude brings it, as usual.

"Love never fails."

separated? never!

It had been one of those days:  Sugar, Spice, and Everything Nice at each other's throats like wild dogs, bickering and blaming and outright brawling, and under and around and through it all, Lil' Snip's grating whine - when did he become a whiner?! - insisting that someone hold him, that someone read to him, read to him, read to him, again!, that someone play with him - nooooo, this way!!

I was ready to die.  [sorry, I know it's dramatic, but that's the way it was.]  Actually - by God's grace alone - I had died, over and over, to my self that day.  And as naptime mercifully approached, and I tucked the loudly protesting toddler under my arm and carried him, struggling violently, up to his cage, I mean crib, God shone His light on my heart, and taught me something beautiful about His own.

I still loved that Lil' Snip.  He had been purely intolerable that morning, and somehow I had not only tolerated him, but I still loved that inharmonious, recalcitrant bundle of muscled will.  All his discordant belligerence, his complete lack of courtesy and grace had done nothing - nothing - to separate him from my love for him.  I was happy to be separated from him for a few hours, it's true, but at my core, my heart still beat love, love, love, love toward him.

And that's God's heart toward me, toward you:  nothing, nothing, can separate us from His love.  Sin keeps us from intimacy from Him, but even sin does not change His love for us.

When Lil' Snip awoke, cheerful and compliant (actually, his snit lasted a few days, but let's compress that for the sake of brevity), ready again to receive my love, I forgave* him his obstinance and accepted him gladly back into my arms.

Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? 

Shall trouble or hardship or persecution or famine

or nakedness or danger or sword?

For I am convinced that neither death nor life, 

neither angels nor demons,

neither the present nor the future, nor any powers,

neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, 

will be able to separate us from the love of God 

that is in Christ Jesus our Lord. 

Romans 8:35, 38-39

-------------------------------------------------

* a difference here is that my toddler does not confess his sin; when we, however, "confess our sins, [God] is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness" (I John 1:8-10).  Needless to say, another difference is that I, unlike God, am powerless to cleanse Lil' Snip from his unrighteousness, much as I would like to be able to!

house of cards

I've been hiding in a house made of cards.

I've mentioned before, I believe, how much I dread fellowship meals:  crowds are not my thing.  Yesterday we had another one at church.  We stayed; there was a meeting afterward that we wanted to be part of.  And things went fine, mostly, until the food was finished and I started to look around .... at the people talking, laughing, enjoying each other's company ...

... and all I could think was "no one's talking to me."

I'm ashamed, of course.  So "poor me" I blush to write it.  But since I know I'm not the only one, I take a risk and publish my awkwardness for both of you - the ones who feel it, too, and the ones who can't imagine.

A friend and I were talking recently about high school, and how lonely it was for us, and how startled we've been, sometimes, to find out that others were lonely, too - even some we thought so self-assured.  We all hide, maybe.  At the fellowship meal, my inner ache tells me I'm unwanted, superfluous, unseen.  Look at all the others, talking to each other, laughing, sought-out.  And on the periphery (where I usually choose to sit), alone stand I.

So many things you could say to me, to convince me that I'm wrong.  I've heard it all.  It does not penetrate my armor of alone-ness.

But yesterday, a gift:

At the meeting (again sitting at the fringes), I looked at all the heads in front of me, and like Paul's light on the road to Damascus, epiphany struck:  this is my family.  These are my people, and they love me.  Hardly a soul there that hasn't said a kind word to me at one time or another, exchanged a smile.  They are for me.  We are one.

As a group, they overwhelm me to the point of intimidation, yes; but one by one - I love them, too.

Fear fled, as the house of cards crumbled.

I am safe.  I am loved.

This is my Body.

[now, let's see if I can remember that at next month's fellowship meal....]

"so in Christ we who are many form one body,
and each member belongs to all the others."

Romans 12:5

sometimes, love

Sometimes, at our house, we snap and shove and use mean outside voices.  Sometimes, we are irritated and selfish and resentful.  Sometimes we scheme and exclude and brush each other off.  Sometimes brows are furrowed in discouragement and books are closed too firmly and pencils are sharpened longer than necessary. Sometimes we frown when we could smile, and don't make eye contact, when we could.  Sometimes we cry, and love is hard to see.

Sometimes.

Sometimes, though, I hear a toddler call his sister sweetly, and she leaps up gladly to run to him.

Sometimes the two warring ones sit with heads together, reading fairy poems or "making" cat food.

Sometimes, unexpected, a sister offers to take her cranky brother outside so my Farmer and I can have a whine-less chat.

Sometimes, my eyes are opened, if only for a moment, to see the eternal reality at work in my family.  Training lasts only for a season; love endures forever.

[note to older mothers:  if I am deluded, somehow, please allow me my momentary delusion.  I need it today.]

a big, big, house

I've got some new wheels turning in my head and I wanted to share them with you.  I haven't done anything about them yet, and it's always a danger with me to think exciting new thoughts and then, satisfied with just the thoughts, leave the accompanying actions languishing on the mental back burner .... indefinitely.

Here goes.

This morning our moms' group met.  We'd each brought an anonymous gift for an exchange, and while we sat around them in a circle of metal chairs, we had a time of sharing and prayer:  first things first.

One mom shared about a cousin, homeless, coming with her young daughter to stay with them till she gets back on her feet.  I mentally raised my eyebrows and thought "wow, didn't this mom let some other friends stay with her till they got back on their feet?!  She must have the patience of Job!"  I pictured the chaos, loss of privacy, and interrupted routine, and shook my head at the thought of doing what she had courage to do.

And then I remembered my aunt, who, having raised her own multitude and fostering many others, has recently taken in a family of nine (9!) children on a "temporary" basis.  Two months later, their lives turned inside out with loving nine extra souls, they are still giving.  And giving.  And giving.

The home of a woman I know (whose decorating skills and budget have often tempted me to envy) flashed through my mind, flawlessly decorated room by flawlessly decorated room, and I wondered what the houses of my friend and my aunt look like while they provide a home for the homeless.

I realized that I have equated beauty with success.  I thought that that was my purpose in my home.  That order and cleanliness were the goals.  A sort of visual peace is what I have sought after - in direct conflict, sometimes, with the living that necessarily goes on, since I share "my" home with five others.

But that's not the point at all, is it?

The point of a home is to be a place of belonging for people.  Somewhere to come to, out of the storm.  Somewhere that, as they say, "if you go there, they have to take you in."

A place of love.

I am broken, again.  "You are not your own; you are bought with a price."  The very air I breathe is on loan from above.  There is nothing, nothing, I can truly call my own.

Not even my house, "my" sanctuary.

True sanctuary is within, in the meeting with my Lord and my God in the inner places of my heart.  To arrange my home to feel peaceful can be a gift to those who dwell within its walls.  But to house in my very being a peace which passes all understanding is a far greater gift, and can be given whether the floors are clean and the knick-knacks dusted, or not.

Now, those are my thoughts.  Who are you going to send, Lord, to give me a chance to live them out?

[and in case you're thinking, but my house is too small for even the family that lives in it!!  here's a link to a related article, on small-house hospitality]

love goes on

It's cold outside.  The road looks wet from my window, when cars go by.  My Farmer is out there in a field somewhere, playing a shepherd.

Earlier today I was angry with him.  Very.  Angry.  Big stuff angry.  If you had told me, then, that six hours later I would be wondering if he's warm enough, I probably would have laughed - you know, that bitter bark that passes for a laugh when you're angry.

But I am.  I hope his feet aren't too cold, and I wonder if his nose is running, and whether his caps are covering his ears and if one layer of long underwear was enough and if anyone brought them hot coffee in between showings.

We didn't have time to work things out this afternoon.  In fact, it could take days.  But I've been waking up beside this man for thirteen years and tomorrow morning will be no different.

On our wedding day, that glorious warm evening in September so many memories ago, I recited my vows to this man, ones I'd written myself, fashioned after a much-memorized portion of Scripture.

Love is patient 

[an argument can wait], 

love is kind 

[even in between "discussions"].  

It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.  

It is not rude [even when hurt], 

it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered,

it keeps no record of wrongs.  

Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth.  

It always protects, 

always trusts, 

always hopes, 

always perseveres.  

Love never fails.

I Corinthians 13:4-8

How'm I doing?  Living up to my promises?

Not nearly so well as I'd like.  We both know that I've fallen again and again.

But love never fails.

Love picks me up, sets me on my feet, and I go at it again, trying to love him even through the storm.

When he comes home tonight, cold and wet, I'll get him dry socks and make him hot tea and do what I can.  My Farmer needs me; the argument can wait.

lessons learned from children's lit

A couple of weeks ago I worried five pounds off my body.

While the weight loss was satisfying (although not a method I'd recommend), the worrying was wearying.  Confessing my sin began the grace process of being cleansed from it, and along the way, my gracious God sent me a book to help me see myself a little more clearly.

Understood Betsy, by Dorothy Canfield, is the story of a nine-year-old orphan girl raised by a spinster aunt whose worrying makes mine look meager.  Merely by worrying aloud about her niece's poor appetite, the dangers of doggies one meets on the streets, the frights certain to be found in the schoolyard, the aunt managed to create a coddled, fearful, weak child.

A few turns of events later, the poor child finds herself out from under the protective wing of her aunt and transferred to the libertarian care of another set of relatives (of whom she has heard horror stories from the cradle upwards).

Thrust into the confident bosom of a family uneducated about her fears and inabilities, the orphan girl is unsurpassingly astonished to discover that she is capable of remarkable feats:  caring for a kitten, dressing herself, rising without being called, walking alone to school, helping with household chores, and even .... thinking for herself!!

As I read the chapters aloud to my own little flock, it's gratifying to watch the orphan girl unfurl her wings and learn to fly.  I see my cautiousness in their upbringing from a new angle, and am determined to change.

It's not meant (I suppose) to be a manual on childrearing ... but Understood Betsy is challenging me to let go of my worries and quit hovering, to let my children begin to soar.

The best books always do leave us standing taller.

diamond in the rough

Did you ever have a day when you needed a little shot of victory, even if it was someone else's?  Well, today was like that for me, and if you read on, it may be your lucky day, too.

I want to introduce you to a family who lives near me.  They have accomplished much just in raising their own family with love, but recently they took on something much, much larger - so large that God alone could bring success.

And He did.

They adopted a precious, desperately mal-nourished and under-developed little girl with Down's syndrome from another country, which was a miraculous journey in and of itself.  They are now trying to love her back to health.  I watch eagerly as the story unfolds, and this child of God is enfolded in the arms of God Himself through the loving care of this family.

Katerina is nine and a half.  Years, not months.  And this family has already, in a short, short time, loved her from this:














to this:


I hope their story blesses you as it has me.

Click here for Katerina's Story...

5 minutes on remembering

Linking up with the Gypsy Mama this morning, a few days late, to keep the writing part of my brain from getting rusty.  Every week she cues us with a subject, to write unedited for five minutes flat, to "just write" without worrying about whether or not it's "just right."

(If you're thinking about sharpening your skills again, join us some Friday ... or any day ... )

This week's cueword:  remembering ...


GO


I'm remembering, alright, but I'm remembering anew.

When I was 18 months old (my mother told me later, dating it by how pregnant she remembers being with my brother), I was dropped off in a basement childcare arrangement while my mother worshipped with some neighbors up above.  There were toys and kind ladies, I remember.  But what haunted me for decades was the stairs.

I remember climbing those stairs, crying (loudly, my mother said) in the dark, hearing my mother's voice soaring with the others, unreachable.

The stairs went on and on; I never reached the top.  I suppose one of the kind ladies took me in hand.  All I remember is the climbing and the crying.  For years, all I knew was that I wanted Mommy and she wouldn't come.

Rejection.  Abandonment.

I wrote about it in college for an "earliest memory" assignment.  I got an A.

Later, much later, I asked my mom about it.  I could have saved myself so much hurt by asking sooner.  She'd heard me and ached with me.  She'd tried, sometimes, to have me with her, but I was wiggly and restless.

Her love for me spoke volumes.  I heard it in her eyes, her voice.  The hurts were healed.

So now, when I remember, I see more than just the stairs.  I see my mother hearing me, distracted from the singing, wondering what to do with that beloved child, what's best ....

STOP




p.s.  Mom, I love you.  And now that I've got "one of those" I understand, better.  Thanks for being patient with me while you waited.  You're still doing a great job.

all I have needed...

I'm writing tonight from my throne, a pale pink peony tucked behind my ear and a pearl bracelet cool on my wrist.  I've discovered a taste for being fanned, and sung to.

It all started with supper.

Roast chicken pretty much equals feast night at our house, and I suppose we were all in an expansive mood.  Sugar, Spice, and Everything Nice hovered hungrily as I separated the meat onto a dish for supper, the bones and skin into the crockpot for stock.  I fed them each a token taste; Lil' Snip got more perhaps than he was strictly due.

But Spice lingered after the others had dispersed, wanting desperately to help.  She whisked the gravy on the stove and wondered aloud how hard it was to pick meat from a chicken.  Oh to be a grownup, she mused wistfully, and privileged to pick the chicken.

Finally all was ready, and my Farmer home bearing peppers, tomatoes, sweet onions and a fresh gallon jar of milk.  Too hungry even to use his bounty, we blessed the food and dove right in - baked potatoes, roast chicken, gravy and green beans.

Somewhere along the way, Spice's daydream of cleaning the chicken herself grew larger.  "For your birthday (when I'm older)," she declared, happy at the thought, "I'll do all the cooking and washing for you, all day!"  I fed Lil' Snip another bite and said I'd like that.  Her sisters joined the theme.  They'd all conspire to pamper me, they said, and wait on me like maids.

Supper ended, and was cleared; dishes washed away.  Imaginations soared, and soon I was invited to a royal seat, festooned with blankets and red pillows.  Sugar handed me a note:  "Ideas:" it said.  "1)  Work on a sewing project.  2) Read a book.  3) Just relax.  4)  Have somebody fan you.  5) Write in your private journal."

Naturally number four caught my eye, and sure enough, a fan materialized, and happy fights erupted over who would get to wave it.  While Spice, the victor, fanned me, Sugar brought me chocolate and Nice, on my request for a raisin (to let her join the fun), brought me a giant handful and a plastic cup of almonds.  Lil' Snip sat on my royal lap, paging through his ladybug book.


In such estate, it was a small step to order entertainment.  I suggested a small girls choir.  Three assembled, and took requests.  A handful of hymns later, they ended with "Like a River Glorious."  I closed my eyes to listen.

The choir broke up.  Sugar searched for gifts (a peony barrette and beaded white bracelet) while Spice sang to me, lullaby after soothing lullaby.

"When I am very, very old," I told my daughters, overwhelmed with blessing, "and it's time for me to go home to Jesus, and you are gathered round me singing, like you did now, I will close my eyes and not be sure whether I'm in heaven yet, or here."


"...blessings all mine, and ten thousand beside....."

an ounce of prevention .... yet again

Am I preventing Joy?

"A common but futile strategy for achieving joy is trying to eliminate things that hurt:  get rid of pain by numbing the nerve ends, get rid of insecurity by eliminating risks, get rid of disappointments by depersonalizing your relationships.  And then try to lighten the boredom of such a life by buying joy in the form of vacations and entertainment."  Eugene Peterson, A Long Obedience in the Same Direction.

Oh, he cuts us so close.  We try to achieve joy by eliminating (or preventing?) pain, and then, Prozacked to dullness, we resort to buying disposable thrills.   To prevent dirty clothes, we miss the joy of playing in the puddles.  Empty, then - lacking the natural joys of life (messy though they sometimes be) - we turn to entertainment:  novels, movies, shopping, facebook.  We listen to music instead of making it, watch sports instead of playing, tune in to sitcoms instead of living, text instead of talking, :lol: instead of laughing.  

We give ourselves lousy gifts when we turn down those our Father offers.

"Which of you, if his son asks for bread, will give him a stone?  Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake?  If you, then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him!"  Matthew 7:9-11

Our Father gives us life, from the air we breathe and the sun that lights our days to the landmark joys of life, and what He gives is good.  Joy comes not because of our circumstances, but in the midst of them.  It would be a small god indeed who could only make us happy by making us comfortable.  It takes a God who named the stars and threw them singing into place, the ultimate Source of Love, to well up joy in a cancer patient, an amputee, a sleep-deprived mom, a work-weary father. 

"Ask and you will receive, and your joy will be complete."  John 16:24

 "I am coming to [the Father] now, but I say these things while I am still in the world, so that they may have the full measure of my joy within them."  John 17:13 

Before Jesus goes to his death, he has a final heartfelt talk with his twelve closest followers, and prays for them.  What does he want to tell them one last time?  To abide in him, obeying his commands by loving each other.  How?  By the strength of his Spirit, who Jesus will send after his return to the Father.  Why?  For the completion of their joy.

"I have told you this so that my joy may be in you and that your joy may be complete.  My command is this:  Love each other as I have loved you."  John 15:11-12

The key to our joy is our interactions with each other.  Perhaps this is the messiest gift our Father offers us.  Loving each other is dangerous, and often appears to blow up in our faces.  "Love is patient, love is kind..." and we are none of that!  Love anyway, because no matter what it looks like, "love never fails."

What it comes down to is this:  do I want to prevent pain ....?

Or .... (oh risky love) jump into joy?

(first two posts on this subject here and here)

Richard Paul Evans & the meaning of life

A quote from A Perfect Day, which is, in my humble opinion, a book every aspiring writer should read, and an excellent read for anyone at all, at least as far as page 197, where this quote occurs:

“... The simple truth is that we don't come to earth to make a name for ourselves just so time can erase it. That's not what it's about.”

“Then what is it about?”

Michael smiled. “Finally you're asking the right question. But you already know the answer. You've always known.” He looked into my eyes and his gaze pierced me. “It's about learning how to love.”

Get the book in your hands if you can.  Our local library system has it, and I bet yours does, too.  If you've ever wanted "success" in any form, this book may clear your vision a bit.

am I doing anything important?!

"There are no great things; only small things done with great love."  ~ Mother Teresa

Just last night I was wondering if I am doing anything at all important with my life.

The days and months feel like they're moving so quickly right now, and so easily get away from me.  I look back on my day and think, what did I do that mattered?  

There's nothing too impressive on my to-do list (not that got crossed off anyway)....... 

but you know, 

I fed my family, 

washed their clothes, 

kissed their boo-boos, 

taught my children, 

encouraged my husband, and

if I did those things with love, then what I did was important.  

a cry

down here, together but alone,

we're a wandering, restless, uncertain people,

selfish, stubborn, hurting and deceived.

intent on little things

we strive, stubbornly, to hold on to control,

manipulating minutia for the moment:  blind.

greedy, wasting time on trifles

grasping ugly clutter to hide from our thoughts,

from our God,

from our sin that keeps us from love.

aching, O God!

we are achingly desperate for the Savior we scoff at

and turn from, choosing wretched placebos

in place of redemption.

forgive us, O God,

our smallness, our blindness,

our sad, dumb attention to staleness and filth.

fill us, we cry,

with a longing, persistent,

insistent on You.

we're done with the darkness, God,

done with the smallness,

done with the clutter,

done hiding from you.

save us, O God,

from our selfishness, stubbornness.

save us, O God, from our hurting,

ourselves.

free us from darkness, God,

free us to see You; show us each other

and teach us to love.

open our eyes, God,

to see you, to hear you,

to feel

all Your love pouring down over us.

tip up our chins, God,

to look in your face

and know we are loved,

and know we're forgiven.

your bigness, O God, is an infinite mercy,

your goodness so good

that the overflow covers our lack 

and restores us to you.

simply satisfying

If you follow my "what's for supper?" list on the sidebar (which exists to help my faulty memory), you've probably taken note that we eat a lot of simple foods.  Tonight was no exception:  cornbread, black beans, tomato slices.  It was a feast (whether because of the recipe or the love grown into the ingredients, I can't tell).

My daughters ground the dried corn that my husband grew and shelled for my jar; the milk comes from a nearby family's cow; the eggs are laid by our chickens, which range over green grass following bugs; the tomatoes are grown and picked and even sliced by my husband, and he gets credit for growing the garlic as well.

I know that "fresh and local" is popular amongst the crunchy folk, and it's a worthy pursuit, all other things being equal.  The flavor really is better, and it makes good sense, too.

But I think what turns this simple meal from food to feast is its soul.  It's not just grown nearby, it's grown and processed by people I know and love.  Their sweat adds the savor, maybe.  I hope that if you try it, it turns out just as well for you.

Cornbread

Melt:
1 cup butter; stir in
1 1/3 cup sugar.

Add and beat well:
4 eggs
2 cups buttermilk (or substitute 2 cups milk + 2 T lemon juice)
1 tsp. baking soda

Stir in till well-blended:
2 cups cornmeal (if you don't have access to freshly ground, and you live nearby, I'll give you some)
2 cups white flour
1 tsp. salt
1 cup grated cheddar

Pour into greased 9x13" pan.  Bake 40 minutes at 375 F.  Serve hot or warm.


Black Beans


Soak overnight OR bring to a boil and then let set an hour.
2 cups black (turtle) beans & water to cover an inch or so higher than the beans

Bring beans to boil and add:
3 bay leaves
1 T ground cumin
1 tsp. ground coriander
3 cloves garlic, minced

Simmer till soft (an hour, give or take).  Serve with grated cheddar and sour cream.

my guys

There go my guys, mowing the grass.....

My Farmer, dark from his hours in the fields, one muscled forearm wrapped securely around his boy, the other steering one-handed around flowerbeds and fruit trees, campfire and clothesline and picnic table. He finishes one day of work and comes home to another - children and homecare.  When he heard, this afternoon, that our son was more intractable than usual, he told me "I'll fix him."  Needless to say, he is my hero, again, always.

Lil' Snip (who's got his finger in his mouth and his shirt pulled up to expose his tummy to the air) wiggles his toes and stretches out one arm, feeling the breeze, maybe, or maybe trying to anticipate the direction of the mower.  He is on the cusp of toddlerhood, leaving behind the days of innocent impetuous babyhood, and embarking full-throttle into all the glories of conscious (and thwarted) desires.  I love him; I pity him.

There go my guys, mowing the grass......

[.....thud....thud.....thud.....  There goes my heart, watching them out the window.....]