That Word of His

A word, a phrase, a thought, a truth. Day after day I come again to the ancient text that molds and shapes me - looking, searching.

In my closet are boxes of journals, outlining and unraveling the mysteries of Jesus in loopy teenage scrawl, and tight collegiate script, and hurried adult handwriting. Pages full of truth copied, paraphrased, understood, and wrestled with. The words sometimes reflecting transformation in this life, sometimes stagnation.

Over the years, I've come to God's word with a plan - reading those books in an annual progression. I've come to God's word with an idea - searching those pages for a theme. I've come with pain - seeking comfort. I've come with questions - looking for answers.

And I've come to this book looking for Jesus, and most of the time, I find him. Though sometimes, when I come to those pages so proud and demanding, "show me Jesus!" I leave alone, isolated by my own sinfulness. But the holy book reveals that to me as well.

I've been a student of this book, a teacher of this book, an observer, a critic, an analyst, and an audience.

During the dark days of chemotherapy and the few months just after, I had a hard time focusing, so I spent very little time reading in general, even this Word. But that Living Book wouldn't let me go. A verse would emerge from the depths of my foggy memory; the pages would open to the right Psalm at the right time . . . efficiently for a brain that couldn't linger; and these words came from the mouths of friends, saints who knew my struggles and my need for truth.

I would like a more nuanced spirituality, if you'd really like to know. One in which I connect with Jesus most fully through silence or simplicity. But the one spiritual practice that has most deeply affected my relationship with Jesus is engaging with that Word of His. Day after day, year after year.

I am writing today by blogging invitation of A Holy Experience. Each Wednesday, Ann Voskamp and friends "Walk with Him," posting a spiritual practice that draws us nearer to His heart.

Today, we are writing about the one spiritual practice that has most deeply effected our relationship with Jesus.

You Can't Have One Without the Other

You can't have this . . . 

Without a lot of these . . .

 

to rake up off of here.

 

 

 

Twenty bags of leaves and counting! I LOVE FALL!

 

Repay No One Evil for Evil

I'm not usually one for revenge.

Oh sure, I do the usual mumbling under my breath when someone cuts me off in traffic or takes the parking spot I was signaling for. But true offenses, like being lied to or stolen from, haven't typically evoked a deep need for vengeance in me.

Until recently, that is.

It started sometime in September when I planted a pot full of fall lettuce. After taking into consideration the predicted weather, the decreasing daylight, and the hardiness of my seed, I determined that I had just enough time for another crop. After an easy planting and the perfect germination weather, my crop was off to a good start. Until one day, I noticed that most of the seedlings had been dug up and strewn across the patio. 

A quick investigation revealed the several of my other planters had evidence of digging, as well, and the only culprit could be one of the many squirrels that have been loping around my yard. I was mad; I'll admit it. But I didn't wish harm to the squirrels. At least not at that point.

So, I rearranged pots, added some twirling yard art and flowing streamers where I could to try to create the illusion of unpredictability. As skiddish as squirrels are, I figured they would be deterred. 

And they were for a while, until I showed up with a fresh pot of mums and a home grown pumpkin from my dad's garden.  Within a day or two, there was evidence of more digging, and a hole in my pumpkin with the slightest hint of squirrel-sized teeth marks. 

But the real offense came a few days later when I brought home another pumpkin, this one with beautifully carved bats in the front. In just a day or two, the squirrel had eaten enough of the bats that they were now just sagging orange strips. And the original pumpkin, the one my dad had grown with his own hands, was beginning to look like it was carved from swiss cheese. Now I was ready for revenge.

The next day, I sprinkled cayenne pepper all over the pumpkin, especially in the chewed up pock marks where I knew the squirrel would start again the next time he came. I wasn't sure what might happen to the furry little guy if he got a mouthful of fire, but by this time I didn't care.

The plan worked for a few days until the rain washed away all the pepper, and once again it was eating season for my pumpkin. Eventually, I gave up. The squirrels won. I carried the pumpkin out next to the tree as a final act of surrender. "Enough, already. You can HAVE the pumpkin," I thought, with vengeance still in my heart.

--

A few days later, as I was raking my front yard, I found the remains of a dead little squirrel nestled among the fallen leaves. At first I was horrified, then disgusted, then shameful. Was this my enemy, mortally wounded by my peppery weapon?

Whoever said, "Vengeance is sweet," has never had to remove the remains of their enemy with a shovel and garbage bag. In vengeance, nobody wins. When God says, "Vengeance is mine," he's not just protecting our enemy. He's protecting us from the shame and defeat that follows.

I don't know for sure that my cayenne killed the squirrel, but I do know that my vengeful words and actions bring a slow death to both me and my human enemies when I seek to repay evil with evil. From now on, God can have the vengeance. It should have been His, anyway.

Another Year, Another Dress

Saturday was my birthday. Though throughout that day I celebrated 39 years of life, this whole month has been a celebration to me. I am a two-year cancer survivor.

It felt more tragic at the time to be diagnosed with cancer so close to my birthday. I remember October 2007 as a month of flowers and greeting cards. There were piles and piles of Get Well AND birthday cards, and my house looked like a florist shop with bouquets and baskets of roses, hydrangeas, and mums: some celebrating the life I've had, some wishing me more life.

Last year, I morphed my cancer anniversary and 38th birthday into a celebration of life: my own, as well as those of the people who helped me through a year of illness. It felt important to do it big last year, to rejoice with lots of people over what God had done in our lives together because of cancer.

This year, there were no parties, only a few quiet meals with friends and family, a handful of cards and calls, just a couple of flower arrangements. And that felt exactly right for now. Cancer is still part of my everyday life (at least in my thoughts), but it's not all my life is about. I have taken this month to reflect and be thankful. Jesus has also given me some more dreams back, and I continue to imagine a future again. A future BEFORE heaven, that is.

My future life IN heaven continues to be the greatest gift, however. And I pray that this coming year finds me more and more in love with Jesus.

--

A few days before my birthday, I was at my friend Kelly's house for dinner. When I arrived, her two sons popped out of their bedroom with a gift and shouts of "surprise"! After dinner, we had chocolate cheesecake in honor of my special day; I got to blow out the candle AND have the first bite, though my four-year-old and six-year-old buddies could hardly resist the dessert on their plates.

Later, I even got to pick which Wii game to play, and Jensen insists that my victory in boxing (his specialty) was a gift as well. (Even if I DID when fair and square, I'm not sure I should brag about beating a four-year-old in boxing!)

The whole evening was special and fun, but one bit I will carry with me for a while. The gift I opened was Alex's idea. When Kelly asked the boys what they should get me, he immediately said, "I think we should get her a dress." And with no other thoughts prevailing, that's what I got.

The dress itself was certainly nice; I wore it on Sunday to church. But the whole time I was wearing it, the greater gift was that a six-year-old would look at my life and see reason enough to celebrate with a new dress. A perspective I can learn a lot from, especially on the days when the memory of cancer seems a little too close.

--

Speaking of the memory of cancer, I will have my three-month blood tests in early November. If you think of it, will you pray that I would walk closely with the Lord as I anticipate both the test and the results?

Horses, Not Zebras

I recently gave my mom the perfect set up for an "I told you so." (She was gracious and didn't take it, by the way.)

It started when the sink in my bathroom was suddenly clogged, and each time I washed my hands or brushed my teeth, the water would back up. Gross.

I am no plumbing professional, but after taking care of a few drain clogs in the bathtub over the last couple of years, I thought I knew how to handle it. My mom suggested it was probably just a hair ball in the trap that could be remedied with a small plunger, but that seemed WAY too obvious. My mind was traveling to far more exotic solutions.

First, I tried the plumbing snake I had recently purchased.

When that failed, I decided to resort to a relatively "safe" drain cleaner I found during my last bathtub clog incident. But when I could no longer find it at the hardware, I opted for another safe (READ "ineffective") enzyme product.

One round of the enzymes had no effect on the situation. So I decided to try again the next day. When I got home, turned on the water, and still found no improvement, I was just about to give in and buy the really powerful cleaner that came with its own protective gear.

But in the back of my mind, I heard my mom suggesting the plunger again. I only have one size of plunger, and it's on the large side. But I was feeling desperate. So, I covered the ventilation hole, plunged twice, and immediately the drain released. My joy lasted only a minute until I realized I could have saved myself time and money by just trying the obvious solution first.

The philosophical community would likely recognize a classic Occam's Razor in my clog dilemma: when multiple explanations are available for a phenomenon, the simplest version is preferred. (Likewise, the simplest remedy would be in order). In the medical community, this is acknowledged through the axiom, “When you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras."

For some reason, keeping life simple seems really hard in these early years of the 21st century. For one, my schedule becomes so complicated as I layer activities on top of activities and rush from one event to the next. Also, social media and communication technology makes relationships more, not less, complicated as I can be interacting with multiple people at the same time. And then there's all the information and entertainment and products and ideas and services all just waiting for me 24 hours a day if I just lay down a little time and money.

But it's not just the 21st century that creates complexity. It's my heart, always wanting more, more, more. More stuff, more friends, more information, more recognition, more tools, more projects, just more. And never being satisfied with the simple.

Simplicity comes in and out of vogue. Leonardo da Vinci apparently saw simplicity as the ultimate sophisication. And the past couple of years, especially during this recession, seem to be an especially GOOD time for simplicity; there's even a magazine called Real Simple (which is ironically full of adverts for all kinds of things none of us really need!).

But real simplicity, the biblical kind that encompasses contentment and gratitude and generosity, isn't just a passing fad. In fact, it's a hard discipline that Christians have been "practicing" at for years. It's about looking at our lives, our relationships, our stuff and coming up with the simplest version possible. Not making assumptions or creating too many possibilities, though not taking short cuts or doing it the easy way, either.

Mostly, keeping it simple means taking each breath, doing the next thing, and loving my neighbor one at a time with the strength God gives me.

And it never hurts to have a plunger on hand, either.

Green Striped Seats and Three Things Wrong

Three years after buying my house, I'm finally getting around to some interior decorating. I've hung a some paintings here and there, and I have curtains in two rooms. But really, if you didn't know better, you might think I've just moved in.

I've been meaning to paint the walls since I moved in and have been talking about it ever since. But talk is cheap. And it certainly doesn't get paint on the walls. Now, I'm putting my money where my mouth is and am going for it. I even bought the paint.

But decorating a home is more than just slapping some paint on the walls. It's about creating a living space that reflects the personality of the place. For some people, that means minimalism: white walls, empty shelves, streamlined furniture. For me, it means crowded book cases, sketches and water color pieces in frames that don't match, and spruced up furniture passed down through the family.

Recently, I spent a Sunday afternoon refurbishing a couple of old chairs given to me by my dad, who also had gotten them second hand. Though they probably once sat around a dining room table with four others just like them, in my home they have always just been extra seating in the living room or office.

These chairs are very sturdy, but they've never been much to look at since I got them. The legs and back of the chair were stained to look like a luxurious dark cherry, but since they been schlepped around my various apartments and house over the past several years, the scuffs have revealed a wood of a different sort. And the seats had been obviously RE-upholstered with a material that looked more like a shower curtain. In my undecorated home, they were fine. But now that I'm in the process of an upgrade, they needed a change.

I decided that I would put new fabric over the seats and paint the rest black. I bought some fabric I could afford, and decided to use the rest of a can of black spray paint left over from another project. Though I am not really skilled a furniture restoration, I figured I couldn't mess them up too badly.

I began stripping off the fabric from the seats. When I finished with the first chair, I found an amazing green striped upholstered fabric underneath in perfect condition. Little did I know that this beautiful material had been under there all this time.

After the luck with the seats, I was very excited about continuing the project. I took the chairs outside to refinish the wood. But soon, the project took a turn for the worse. As I was sanding, I realized the sandpaper I was using was too coarse and was leaving grooves all over the wood. Then, when I began spray painting, I remembered that the paint was a flat finish, and I really wanted glossy. But the real problem came as I was running out of paint I realized there were patches that I had not gotten covered completely. Apparently furniture restoration isn't as easy as I thought.

Later, when the paint had dried and I went out to assess the damage, I had a renewed spark of hope. Through I had done three things wrong, they seemed to be working together to produce a finish I couldn't have achieved even if I tried. What I found were trendy, distressed chairs that I would actually have paid money for. Especially after I reattached the seats, I couldn't believe how well they turned out after all.

I marvelled at my three things wrong, no two of which could have produced the same result. But by finishing the project even while making a third mistake, I ended up with a treasure.

Now, when I look at those chairs, I see a picture of redemption in those distressed legs and surprisingly beautiful seats. Life isn't about a single disappointment or a single success. It's about what God can do with the sum of all our experiences, both our failures and our feats. And it's also about moving on, even if the next thing we know to do doesn't seem much better than what we have just finished.

Deep freeze, please . . . and don't double the recipe

This week, I'm in the market for a small deep freezer. I've actually been looking at them for a couple of months now, but with the smaller ice box atop my refrigerator completely full, and bags and bags of tomatoes, squash and green beans that need to be preserved, now's the time.

I don't ever remember a time during my growing up years when we didn't have a "deep freeze," as we called it. Hidden in back bedrooms, on front porches, or in the corner of garages, our freezers were always full of sides of beef or whole hogs, raspberry jam and cut corn from the garden, frozen pizzas and ice cream, and loaves and loaves of bread on sale from the grocery.

Having a deep freeze full of food wasn't just about the storage space, though. It was about having plenty. Though the cabinets and refrigerator might be running a little low - not to mention the checkbook - there was always something from a season gone by that was still out in the freezer. It might take a little planning to go from 0 degrees to the dinner table, but we always knew there would be something to eat.

Though most of us don't give a second thought to squirreling away food for leaner times, we are just a generation or two away from the times when it meant survival. Though earlier generations took advantage of cold winters for preserving food, freezing is a relatively new method of preserving food. Drying, smoking, pickling, and canning were much more suitable options. And though they are a dying art, you can still buy the supplies for these projects at your local hardware or grocery store.

Just this week, in fact, my dad canned 14 quarts of tomato juice, and sent me home with a couple of jars of his homemade pickles. Though we may be beyond the "need" for preserving our own food, the art of it is still alive and well.

Preserving home grown food also is a way to eat local during the "long" winter months when you're lucky to find even some left over winter squash or green house lettuce at the farmers' market. For the last couple of years, I've made soups, stews, and stir frys by pulling out tomatoes, green peppers, and squash from my freezer all winter long.

I've been doing my freezer shopping homework, I've lined up some friends to help transport it, and I've narrowed in on a GE model at Home Depot. Though the freezing will begin tomorrow, the real reward will be home grown corn in January!

--

Knowing I was planning to purchase a freezer at some point this summer, I recently starting making my own freezer jam. My first attempt involved two quarts of strawberries I picked from my step-dad's patch, two boxes of Sur-Jel fruit pectin, a 4-lb bag of sugar, and 10 jars in various sizes. I was making a double batch.

I had been warned by both my mom and my dad that making jam required following the instructions precisely. I need to measure everything exactly, I need to stir for the entire three minutes as directed, and I must leave 1/4 inch at the top of the jar so that it won't explode when the jam freezes.

When I completed my double batch, I was thrilled with myself. It seemed a little runny, but then again it was supposed to sit for 24 hours to firm up. I called my mom to brag a bit about my luck, and as I told her that I had just made my first two batches of jelly because I doubled the recipe, she audibly gasped. My heart sunk.

"What?" I asked. "I followed the directions exactly."

"You're not supposed to double the recipe," she said in a slowly recovering whisper.

"Nobody told me!" I protested.

"I said to follow the recipe EXACTLY," my mom reminded.

"It's not in the recipe. I promise! I read it through all the way before I started," I said, since she knows I usually consider recipes more of a "suggestion" or a "place to start" rather than actual instructions for cooking.

Though the runny (and tasty!) jam was all the proof we really needed, my mom still sat down and read through the entire instruction booklet. When it came right down to it, we discovered that in fact the recipe does not say you can't double the recipe, apparently because it is such a well-known fact.

Later, when I asked my dad if he knew that you aren't supposed to double the recipe when making jam, his reply was, "Of course, everyone knows that." But since I am proof that it is possible to go a good part of one's life and still miss out on this universally known truth, my dad told me it was now up to me to tell the next generation.

And so, dear blog readers, we come to the real point of this post. It's not a motivational essay about eating locally or being good stewards of your food. I'm not going to get sentimental about being grateful for the plenty in my life or my renewed interest in the domestic arts. No, this post isn't even about shopping around for a deep freeze or choosing to pay a little more for the one with wire baskets and compartments.

It's all about the jam, people! Do not, under any circumstance, double the recipe when you make jelly or jam. (There, now it's up to you!)

--

Ruining a double batch of jam didn't keep me from sharing it with friends. When one particular friend and her two sons (ages 3 and 5 at the time) were bragging on it, I took the opportunity to pass along my new-found wisdom about recipe-doubling. I ended the whole store with a dramatic pause, then "Never double the recipe!"

Little did I know just how seriously those little guys were taking in my advice. When I arrived the following week with a plate of muffins, the three-year-old immediately asked, "Did you double the recipe?" Come to find out, he also had been passing the advice along to his grandmother!

The torch has been passed.

--

On a different note, last week I received word that I am still cancer free after 14 months, and that there is no evidence of any genetic condition that would predispose to other cancers. Thank God for his mercy.

--

Finally, I just wanted to say that Wide Open Spaces has one less reader today. My dear friend, Peggy McLahlan, went to be with the Lord on Monday after a journey through cancer over the past year. Peggy was a devoted mother and grandmother, and will be missed most by those who knew her as such. But Peggy also was a brilliant painter, particularly in watercolors, and it is with sadness that I note also that the world has one less artist today.

Though I have known Peggy for just a few short years, we shared a bond through our disease that became very special to us both. I already feel your absence, Peggy.

Vacating

This morning, I am leaving with my friend Kelly and her two sons for a vacation in North Carolina. It will be nice to get away.

Interesting thing about vacations, though . . . preparing for a vacation takes a lot of work. I have spent the entire week at work and home arranging, organizing, planning, and packing to get ready to leave. In some ways, it would be easier to just stay home.

But despite all the effort, I suspect that vacating the premises of my life for a few days will make it worth it in a couple of ways.

For one, I need the reminder that life is about more than my home and my job. When life is focused so much on what I do at work and at home, it's easy to think that I AM my work and my home. Take away my computer and my kitchen, my cubicle and my garden, and what's left? The truth is, the tasks I do and the stuff I have are not me. And everything will go on just fine without me. I hope this vacation will remind me of that.

On the other hand, though, I am hoping that some time away will remind me how grateful I am for my home and my job. Some days, life feels burdensome spending so much time and energy on these two places. I leave home undone to go to work, and then I leave work undone to come home. Yet, a few days away, and I am hoping to have a renewed vision of the gifts God has given me through home and work.

I am vacating the premises today. I am confident that life will continue on without me. But Lord willing, I will return in a few days, and I can continue on with that life. This life I love.