Who Am I a Family To?

Why I chose that particular night for that particular icebreaker, I’ll never know. It was the first session of a new semester of Bible study, and the request hung out there, spoken and awkward, in the middle of our circle:

“Let’s go around the room and say our names and something about our families.”

As a single woman, never married and no children, it was the worst of all possible introductions. I would now be defined by the “un” part of my life to a whole new group of people.

No matter how many times I am asked about family, I always struggle with a response. Should I go with quirky and mention my dog? No, pathetic. Sentimental and bring up a memory of my grandmother? No, irrelevant. Typical and talk about my nieces and nephews? No, too predictable. Spiritual and say that God is my husband? No, it would sound like I was trying too hard.

Why, of all people, did I use this topic as an ice breaker? {click to continue}

OR to read the whole story. . . 

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You Don't Own Me

"Can I take this home?" my nephew would often ask when he was little. He would be at my house spending the night, or at his grandma's, and something there would capture his attention. He would play hard with it, REALLY enjoying, except for that little part of him that knew it was eventually going to end, and he would have to leave it. Unless . . .

"Can I take this to my house?" he would plead, longingly. He wouldn't really be able to enjoy it, not fully, unless he knew that he could have it, that it could go with him and be his.

"No, that's just something you will play with here," I would tell him about a ball or a coloring book. My mom told him the same thing about the toy cars she kept at her house, or the small farm set. He would whine a little, some times staging more of a protest than others, but eventually he would submit, letting the hold that little "something" had over him weaken and die. 

But I know he didn't enjoy playing with those toys nearly as much as he would have if they had been his own. I could see it in his eyes.

I thought about my nephew recently as I sped down US 40 on the way to see my family. I passed by a huge patch of black-eyed Susans that were growing along the shoulder of the road. One black-eyed Susan is cute. But hundreds of them growing in a patch took my breath away. Their golden color was vivid, and they were dancing in unison there in the breeze.

My first thought was pleasure, my second thought was gratitude.

My third thought was, "I should pull over and pick some so that I can take them home." 

It only took a fourth thought to realize the absurdity. Parking along the shoulder would be dangerous; I had a full day ahead of me, and if the flowers even made it home, they would be wilted. Not to mention, it was probably illegal. Those flowers looked "wild," but they were probably owned by the US Department of Transportation. Just like the road I was driving on.

I continued on with no flowers.

Even before I was a mile down the road, I made the connection back to my nephew and his deep desire to take things home. Had I become a grown up version of him, never able to enjoy things unless I possessed them? And more importantly, when was I going to learn that when I put so much value on owning "stuff," that stuff is actually possessing me?

The God who owns me knew I wouldn't be content playing with His stuff and just leaving it. He knew I would want to take it home. So, not taking stuff that is not mine is at the heart of God's command not to steal. Not wanting stuff that is not mine is at the heart of God's command not to covet. Being thankful for the stuff I do have is called "gratitude." Giving away my stuff, even the good stuff, is called "generosity."

Following Jesus along the path from stealing to generosity often means living counter-culturally and disciplining ourselves to get by on less than we normally would. Sometimes, it means sharing the part we were saving for ourselves. For me, it means I don't shop at Target very often.

But as we grow in grace, the journey gradually equips us to say to stuff, "I will not take you from others or want you if you are not mine, rather I be thankful for you and share you with others."

In other words, "You don't own me."

"He does."

Pool Rules and the Cafe of Sadness

Saturday, as I was having dinner with friends, the two little ones among us were remarking that the their older cousins were lucky because they get to do whatever they want.

Their assessment might have been slightly exaggerated, but the point was true. As children get older, they get to be the boss of themselves. And this was especially appealing to my 4- and 6-year-old friends.

Of course, the discussion followed an afternoon in the backyard swimming pool in which they were forced to endure a whole bevy of rules. When they were sitting on the side of the pool falling in backwards, their mom had to make a rule. "No falling in backwards." When they were starting all the way at the other side of the yard and running and jumping into the pool, their grandma made another rule. "No running and jumping into the pool."

When their grandma and mom were in the house getting dinner ready, and they started sitting on top of each other in the pool, I had to make another rule. "No sitting on each other."

So, by the time we were discussing the merits of getting to do whatever you want over dinner, they were all for it. No amount of motherly and grandmotherly and friendly philosophizing about the pitfalls of self-indulgence could convince them otherwise. 

--

The next evening, I was at church, leading a workshop on lamenting to high school students. With four other workshops to choose from, only two teenagers and one leader chose mine. I didn't blame them. I was being advertised as, "Sadness, suffering, and worship in the cafe."

As I was explaining the concept of lament, unfolding for them a picture of worshiping from within our suffering, and connecting it back to sin and its effects on the world, I was disappointed that more of the students hadn't had the chance to learn ahead of time how to reach out to God in their pain. To be honest, my pride was a little bruised, too, after all the effort I had put into the presentation. I had even thrown in the rap song, "A Dream," as an example.

--

Today, as I reflected back on the two different experiences, however, it dawned on me that they were connected in an important way. These teenagers were finally able to do whatever they wanted, the explicit goal of my two little friends from Saturday, and they had not yet discovered that it only leads to pain. To them, they were finally leaving behind the "pool rules," and it was blue skies ahead. Lamenting was the last thing on their minds.

But it won't be too many years from now, when they discover that doing it "my way," or being the victim of someone else doing it their way, doesn't work. When they are at the end of themselves and decide to stop looking for meaning in every other direction, I am thankful that they can cry out to God in pain and sorrow. And He will meet them there, just like he has met me so many times. 

Whether they met me in the cafe for "Sadness, Suffering, and Worship" or not.

--

UPDATE: For a completely different take on "rules," visit Mel's "Follow the Magic" over at Mental Post-its.

Cooking for Two (or more)

"What are those?" Clara asked, peeking into the drawer as I pulled out the measuring cups.

My dear friend's six-year-old daughter was spending the evening with me for one of our "cooking classes." Once every couple of months, Clara comes to my house with her apron my mom made for her, a step stool to stand on, and the desire for an evening away from "the monsters," her term of affection for her brothers.

It was my little cup full of corncob holders she had her eye on. I pulled one out.

"These are to stick into the end of an ear of corn so you can eat it easier," I said, demonstrating.

"Oh, but why do you have so many?" she asked. "There's only one of you."

"Well, that's true, there is only one of me," I said, "but sometimes I like to have people over to eat with me. Like you."

What Clara didn't realize was that her practical question about cooking for one was something I had been thinking about myself a lot lately. Because I enjoy being in the kitchen, chopping, sauteing, baking, I have never minded going to the trouble for "just me." Besides, I like leftovers.

But whether or not it's too much trouble to cook for one, the idea of eating alone is more difficult. Food is not just a source of nourishment; it's a conversation starter, a way of life, a political statement, a form of entertainment, a hobby, a spiritual landmark. When I eat alone, there's no one to talk to about it, no one to take home leftovers or swap recipes with, no one to sit lazily with long after the food is gone sharing memories of past meals or dreams of future ones.

So while Clara was here, making pancakes and bacon with me for "Breakfast Night," as she dubbed it, I resolved again to quit eating alone so often. Just because I am single doesn't mean I can't share more of my meals with others. It may take more time to invite people over, but if I had a family it would be an easy decision to make meal time a priority.

And eating with others doesn't mean special shopping lists or fancy napkins. It means inviting someone to my home, even if she's only six, and eating pancakes together.

--

If you find yourself eating alone a little too often, invite a friend, or even your husband and kids if it's been a while since you sat at the table together, and enjoy some pancakes. Here's my favorite pancake recipe from my well-worn Pillsbury Cookbook.

Pancakes
2 eggs
2 cups buttermilk
1/4 cup oil
1 3/4 cups all purpose flour
2 tablespoons sugar
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt

Heat griddle to medium-high heat. In large bowl, beat eggs; stir in buttermilk and oil. Add remaining ingredients; stir just until large lumps disappear. For thicker pancakes, thicken with additional flour; for thinner pancakes, thin with additional milk. Lightly grease heated griddle. A few drops of water sprinkled on griddle sizzle and bounce when heat is just right. Pour batter, about 1/4 cup at a time, onto hot griddle. Bake until bubbles form and edges start to dry; turn and bake other side. (I like to add blueberries or chocolate chips, too!)

-- 

Today, I am joining Ann Kroeker for Food on Fridays when she discusses all things food. Since I am a bit of a foodie myself, I plan to join her discussion often. Stop by and visit her yourself, too!

Worth It

It was a really hot day, as humid and sticky as they come around here. And I had been visiting with family all afternoon, celebrating Father's Day. I had lunched on the deck with my dad, looking out over his garden; I had laughed with my step-dad as he opened my card about farts (why can't I resist?); and I had taken a tour of the orchard with my grandpa on his golf cart.

I was ready to go home.

But at some point during the day, my step-dad had revealed a secret patch of wild black raspberries tucked away in the margins of the woods. And when he pulled off a handful and gave them to me to try, I just knew I had to pick at least enough for a pie. It was my favorite, after all.

It would be worth it.

So after the long day of visiting, and the promise from my mom that she would help me pick, we dressed in long pants and sleeves, despite the mocking thermometer that had pushed past 90, grabbed a couple of buckets, and headed for the brambles. I had really hoped to be heading home by then, but those berries. That pie.

It would be worth it.

We drove back to the edge of the patch, finding a little bit of shade to park in. As soon as we pushed into the thick underbrush, we realized it was nearing the end of the picking season. The berries were sparser than we had hoped, and smaller. What I thought would be a 20-minute job for the two of us would now be double that. I glanced at the time, thought about my dog who had been home all day by herself, and decided to start picking anyway.

It wasn't going to be easy to come up with enough berries for a pie, but surely it would be worth it. Right?

Ten minutes into the task, I commented how cool it felt in the thicket, compared to directly out in the sun. My mom agreed. We each had picked about 1/2 a cup.

"This will be worth it," I said out loud, presumably to my mom. She didn't answer.

Ten minutes later, we had about 2 cups between us, and I felt the sweat start to run down the middle of my back.

"Let's just stop; I don't know if this is worth it," I said. My mom encouraged me to just pick a little while longer. We had nearly enough.

Ten minutes later, we had made our way far enough back into the patch where it hadn't been picked over as much. Now, we were making progress. I wiped the sweat from my forward with the end of my long sleeve, an old shirt from my uncle's closet after he died.

"I remember picking raspberries when we lived in the A-frame house," I told my mom, feeling a little more encouraged now that I could no longer see the bottom of the bucket. "I remember going there by myself."

I didn't say it out loud, but I thought about how much better it was to pick raspberries on a 90-degree day with someone else. Rather than alone.

"Thanks for helping me, Mom," I said, wiping the sweat away again. "I know you didn't really want to pick more berries." She and my aunt, who had given her the shirt I was wearing, had already picked 2-3 gallons apiece in the week before.

"It's ok, now that we're out here," she said. "Looks like you might have enough to freeze some."

Forty-five minutes after we left the car, we looked in our buckets and realized that I had more than enough for a pie, which is all I really wanted. In fact, now I would have enough for two pies.

We made our way back, stopping to pick a few berries we had missed and speculating on how long the patch had been there.

We got in the car. I wiped my forehead with my sleeve one last time. And we went home.

--

I measure out the Crisco, stirring in flour, salt, sugar, baking powder. A little at a time I add "ice cold water," stirring as little as possible. When the dough forms a ball, I take just a little more than half and begin patting it in my hands. The soft, buttery dough does whatever I ask of it. I lay it on a piece of waxed paper and slowly roll it this way, that way, back again, around. Within 30 seconds, it's big enough to lay it in the small glass pie pan. I roll out the other half of the dough, leaving it on the counter.

I rinse three cups of black raspberries, then mix them with flour and sugar--just a little. I dump them into the pastry-lined pan, pouring a little water over them, then dotting them with four pieces of butter. Then, I wield my knife to the second crust, creating three smiles to vent the crust before laying it on top of those sugared, floured, buttered berries. Using my fingers, I pinch the two crusts together, then scallop the edges. Then, I dress the pan in a foil cape and slider her into the oven.

The pie bakes, the house smells like a memory, and a friend soon arrives to share a piece, a la mode. We taste; we mmmm. She compliments; I brag.

It was worth it.

The Sound My Heart Makes: Finding My Voice

Fresh out of college and in my first job as a reporter, I took my role and my writing as a journalist very seriously. I spent hours doing an expose' of the local county jail (the sheriff's cooperation, I discovered later, was an attempt to get more money for his building project); I took copious notes at county commissioners meetings (while the commissioners bickered politics among themselves); and I wrote detailed analyses of the guest speakers at the local college, hoping to unveil the finer points of academia to my small town readers.

But the problem was, nobody ever mentioned those stories, or the hundreds like them when they would discuss my work at the paper. What caught their attention was the story I did on an eagle reintroduction program at a local park or the rescue diving practice by a nearby fire department. Or my most talked about story, the one a stranger actually quoted back to me at a wedding upon our introduction, was a story about a family who accidentally killed four cats trying to find one their son could show at the county fair.

Though my ambition told me that the local governmental and political stories would help me make a name for myself, it was the stories that had heart, that I actually cared about, that people remembered me for. And it was in the middle of this real writing that I started to find my voice.

According to Julia Cameron in The Right to Write, the voice of a writer is the sound her heart makes when it is doing the writing rather than her head. 

A writing voice is not a collection of ticks and tricks. A writing voice is a vehicle for communication. The individuality of a voice emerges not by falling in love with your own facility but by learning to move past it. Too much cleverness gets in the way of real writing and real thought . . . .Writing that is too 'heady' cuts us off from the heart.

My readers were the ones who recognized my voice first. As my bylines about Ag Week and Ladies Days accumulated, more and more readers began saying to me, "you write just like a normal person." I wasn't sure whether or not this was a compliment. And my fresh-out-of-college self would actually have much rather impressed them with my vocabulary or sentence structure.

It wasn't until a few of years later, long after my journalism career had fizzled over too many commissioner meetings and ambulance chases, that I also started recognizing my own writer's voice. I was a graduate student crossing over from the Journalism world into the English department, and the transition was brutal. I could no sooner write a literary analysis of a poem than I could sheer a sheep (though I did write about that for Ag Week).

But I liked to learn, and so each time my professor would return a paper with suggestions, I would rewrite it. My hybrid academic/journalistic style always surprised (if not annoyed) him, but he was willing to guide me. And he did not make me get rid of it altogether. And though most of my papers were in response to academic articles and research, I often used personal examples from my life to make my point. Another "no, no" in academia. My professor apparently found it refreshing. He let them go.

By the end of the class, I had rewritten every paper at least three times, but I received an "A." I also received the best gift my professor could have given me: the suggestion to quit graduate school and be a writer.

It took a few more years of playing in academia, working through the regret of leaving journalism, and finding a writing life that would allow me to continue eating, but those small town readers and that patient professor put me on the path of eventually finding my voice by taking time to really listen to it.

Cameron comments on this significance others play in helping writers find their voice.

Sometimes we do not know we have a writing voice because there has never been anyone to listen. When we begin to listen to ourselves, the inner voice grows stronger. Soon others can hear it as well and a circle of support can start to grow.

I don't have the perfect pitch of my writer's voice yet; I often revert to an overly academic analysis or the journalistic inverted pyramid and find the words stale and uninteresting. I also have not completely rid myself of the fresh-graduate approach that likes impressive sentences and big words.

But more and more, my heart says what's on its mind, and the voice it uses sounds more and more like me. 

--

Today I am writing in community with other bloggers from the High Calling Blogs blogging community. If you would like to read what others are saying about this week's chapters from Julia Cameron's book, click on the button above.

Culinary Slam Poetry

For the past few years, I have been making a homemade salad dressing that has become a real conversation starter around the dinner table. 

When I serve it to guests, they pour a little on the greens I've served, let it sit on their tongues for a minute or two, and eventually decide they like it. The creative among them guess at a "secret" ingredient or two. The more analytical ask for the recipe, then groan when they hear the answer they should have predicted.

"Well, I don't actually have a recipe. I just made it up."

Playing with my food has become a culinary paradigm in my kitchen over the years. Although I subscribe to several cooking magazines and enjoy finding new recipes, I really consider them more as a place to start than literal instructions. And this approach to food has become even more crucial as I try to eat seasonal and locally grown food.

Although I certainly can't boast a perfect record -- I have eaten my share of flops, I find that the more I experiment with textures and tastes, the more successes I have. And sometimes, I even try writing them down so that others can enjoy them!

Whether you are a "stick-by-the-book" kind of cook or a culinary slam poet mastering dishes on the fly, I challenge you to a little summer food frenzy. Find one or two fresh vegetables or herbs, either from your own garden, the local farmer's market, or a grocery store you trust, and create a new dish for you and your family.

Then, drop me a comment with your new creation, and I'll add a link on this blog during one of the summer "Food on Fridays."

And in case your interested, here are a couple of my favorite creations:

Four by Four Pizza 
1 premade crust (I bought a whole wheat one from the Farmer's Market, but Boboli would work)
Ricotta cheese (leftover from a recent lasagna)
Fresh mozzarrella
Aged Cheddar Cheese
Parmesan Cheese
Fresh Basil
Fresh Thyme
Fresh Oregano
Fresh Marjoram
Pizza Sauce

Spread some ricotta on the crust, then cover with a thin layer of sauce. Added herbs and cheese in layers, sprinkle on a little salt, pepper, and garlic powder, and bake in a 375 degree oven for about 20 minutes.

Curry Vinaigrette Salad Dressing 
Extra Virgin Olive Oil
Flavored vinegar of your choice (I prefer the Citrus Champaigne vinegar from Trader Joe's in the summer, and a pear or balsamic vinegar from Fresh Market in the winter)
Honey
Garlic Powder
Basil
Curry Powder
Salt
Pepper

The base of my dressing is usually close to 2 parts oil to 2 parts vinegar to 1 part honey. Adjust the amount of honey and vinegar to your taste, but stay pretty close to these proportions for proper consistency. Combine these in a shaker bottle or other container with a tight lid. Add the herbs and spices to taste (usually about a tsp of garlic powder, 1/2 tsp of curry, and a tsp of basil with the proportions of oil, vinegar and honey above), then shake, shake, shake. Taste and adjust the spices as needed. I store the dressing in the fridge so it will keep longer, but be sure to set it out at least 15 minutes before you are going to eat or it will be firm. (Olive oil doesn't prefer the fridge.)

--

I knew my friend had found the perfect cookbook for me when she gave me Simply in Season as a Christmas gift last year. I was delighted when I read in the preface . . .

Part of the fun of cooking with the seasons is learning to use what's locally available, and that often means taking recipes as starting points: a theme on which to playfully improvise rather than a blueprint to follow precisely. -- from Simply in Season: Recipes that celebrate fresh, local foods in the spirit of More-with-Less

The first recipe I made was a broccoli salad. Out of the nine ingredients listed, I substituted seven!

-- 

Today, I am joining Ann Kroeker for Food on Fridays when she discusses all things food, including recipes, tips, and discussion. Since I am a bit of a foodie myself, I plan to join her discussion often. Stop by and visit her yourself, too!

An Affair of the Art

Over the weekend, I fell in love with a married European man.

I guess he's not technically married, since he's been dead for 55 years. And I guess "love" might be strong word, since I didn't actually meet him. But when I saw his "SacreCouer de Montmarte" across the gallery at the Indianapolis Museum of Art on Friday, the appeal was real. Maybe it wasn't love, but it was at least an affair of the art.

Maurice Utrillo was the son of no one in particular. Oh sure, he had a mother, the artist Suzanne Valadon. But Utrillo's paternity was never substantiated. Valadon was an artist's model, posing for Toulouse-Lautrec, Degas, and others. These famous men of the canvas were all rumored to have been the father. And so was a young painter and alcoholic, Boissy.

But it was a friend of his mother, Spanish writer and art critic, Miguel Utrillo, who kindly lent his surname, Utrillo, to the child Maurice.

Though his story of lurid parentage, mental illness, and alcoholism tell us a lot about the man, Utrillo's work is the most revealing. His numerous paintings of the city he loved, Paris, and particularly the artist' quarter, Montmartre, reveal him to be a simple, though not simplistic, landscape artist. Yet, his style does not reflect any of the artistic movements of the day. And his paintings are said to have captured the imagination of both the critic and the commoner.

I was drawn to the colors and lines of his painting, which suggest both care and haste. They communicate the emotion and spirit of a place, as much as the physical details. His paintings are certainly not photographic, and yet were you to take me around the world with a blind-fold on and drop me off in Paris just down the street from the SacreCouer, I would know exactly where I was from his painting.

Utrillo's work captures Paris like Wendell Berry's words depict the fictional Port William, Kentucky. Even though I haven't been to either place, they are familiar. And both Utrillo's paintings and Berry's words are written at eye level. In my own work, both on canvas and page, I am always tempted to create from the all-knowing perspective--the narrator who can read minds or the spectator who can see all sides at once. But in Utrillo's paintings, like Berry's stories, we are often looking up or around. Never through. Never down.

In his old age, Utrillo's religious devotion equaled his commitment to his art, and I imagine that ultimately, they became one in the same. His obsession with painting the city where he lived may have sprung from a deeper desire to live eternally in the city of God. In the earthly home, he suffered from the consequences of questionable birth and wild living; in the heavenly city, he would enjoy all the privileges as an adopted child of the King.

Often, when I encounter magnificent art, I am awestruck and impressed, feeling a great distance between my abilities and the artist I am admiring. Not so with Utrillo. When I see his work and read his story, I want to pick up a brush and start mixing paint. It's what Madeline L'Engle says should be the response to truly great art.

A great painting, or symphony, or play, doesn't diminish us, but enlarges us, and we, too, want to make our own cry of affirmation to the power of creation behind the universe. This surge of creativity has nothing to do with competition, or degree of talent. When I hear a superb pianist, I can't wait to get to my own piano, and I play about as well now as I did when I was ten. A great novel, rather than discouraging me, simply makes me want to write. This response on the part of any artist is the need to make incarnate the new awareness we have been granted through the genius of someone else. -- from A Circle of Quiet

I hope I can go often to see "SacreCouer de Montmarte," observing those lines, memorizing those colors, imaging the boy with the borrowed name, and dreaming of the heavenly city where we will all paint to the glory of God.

Picture from the Indianapolis Museum of Art online collection. Original artwork on currently on view at the William L. & Jane H. Fortune Gallery at the Indianapolis Museum of Art.

Making It

Recently, as I was describing a picture I had painted, someone asked me if I was an "artist."

"Oh no," I said. "I'm not an artist. I just like to paint and draw."

"But I am a writer," I added as an afterthought.

It was a new acquaintance, someone unfamiliar with my personal psychoses about naming myself, so the significance of the moment passed right over him. But to me it was a bellwether. I was calling myself a writer again.

I have been writing poems since I was eight years old, and by the time I hit junior high, I knew I wanted to be a writer. I have written for a daily newspaper as a staff writer; I have published a few free-lance magazine articles; I have written two book manuscripts, fashioned dozens of short stories, posted hundreds of blogs posts, and crafted more newsletter articles than I can count for companies and organizations. But it took me about 15 years to call myself a writer.

Then, about three years ago, when I received one rejection too many, I stopped writing. And I also stopped calling myself a writer. During those months, I began to believe what I always feared would happen if I named myself: I didn't really have what it takes to make it as a writer.

In Julie Cameron's book The Right to Write: An Invitation and Initiation into the Writing Life, she talks about this idea of "making it" in writing.

It is interesting to me that we ask a question about the writing life that we do not ask about other professions. For example, we do not say, 'What are your odds of making it as an investment banker? As an elementary school teacher? As a chemist? In those, and most professions, we assume than an interest in pursuing the career implies a probable proclivity for it and a reasonable chance for success. Not so with writing.

So what exactly is the "it" we are trying to make as writers? And is it really all that different from what investment bankers and elementary school teachers are looking for?

For one, Cameron says writers write. 

The minute you start writing, your odds of being a writer start to run one hundred percent more in your favor.

Teachers teach, bankers bank, and writers write. If I am writing, I am making it as a writer.

Cameron also talks about the expectation of publication. And though the odds of getting published may seem slim, she said that they increase the more writers write, and not just in the numbers. 

First we must commit, then the universe follows the direction pointed by our commitment. Over and over in my teaching life, I hear stories of synchronicity: 'I just finished the short story, when I went to a party and met this guy who was starting a literary magazine,' or 'I just decided I would love writing about the arts, when I heard that the arts columnist at our local paper had moved back east . . .'

I wouldn't give credit like that to the universe, but I do see in my own life how God often rewards writing work with more work. And without warning, I find myself "making it" as a writer.

Which led to the issue we most often think of as writers when we think of making it: will I make any money at writing? According to Cameron, if I keep writing, I can't help but make money doing it.

Writers get paid just like other people get paid. A piece of writing is a piece of work. People pay to have it done the same way they pay to have a dress made or an architectural drawing rendered. And in much the same way that an architect loves to draw and draws things, paid or not, and a seamstress loves to sew and may occasionally whip up a dress for sheer love, a writer is someone who first of all writes and secondly happens to be paid for it.

And she's right. I have been paid for my writing from time to time. Not always, but then again, I haven't devoted the time to getting paid for my writing as I have the work I do 40 hours a week.

The chapter continued with the empowerment of self-publishing, the expectations others place on writers for making it, and the seeming self-indulgence of actually setting aside time to write when there are so many more "practical" things I could be doing. By before I even got to these points, she had me. 

I don't put words to paper full-time, I haven't published a book, and I certainly am not wealthy from my writing. 

But I am a writer, and I am making it.

--

Today I am writing in community with other bloggers from the High Calling Blogs blogging community. If you would like to read what others are saying about this week's chapters from Julia Cameron's book, click on the button above.

Food on Fridays: Strawberry Gratitude

I have written here occasionally about my habit of eating locally grown and produced food in season. And I still practice this as much as possible, especially during the seasons when I can grow and process some of my own food.

One of the difficulties of eating this way is that when some food is in season, there is A LOT of it. For the past month, I have had more spinach and lettuce than I could personally consume, and in about a week, I am going to have yellow summer squash coming out my ears. Eating, preserving, and sharing so much food can become a challenge. Even a burden.

This happened recently with strawberries. Who doesn't love strawberries? My own little patch was producing a handful every couple of days. But my step-dad's patch was producing about 15 quarts every other day. He and my mom needed help keeping up with them. So, when I mentioned I might like to try again to make a batch of strawberry freezer jam, they gladly shared.

Only instead of the quart I would need for jam, they insisted I take all seven quarts we picked together that afternoon.

"Oh, I don't think I can use that many," I told my mom.

"No, just take them. You can always share," she insisted.

Within a day or two, I had eaten strawberries with sugar a couple of times and made one very successful batch of jam without really putting a dent in them. Now what was I going to do? I didn't really have plans with anyone during those few days who might want to share, and strawberries take more time to prepare than, say, blueberries. I was starting to get bitter about the abundance in the fridge.

Then, on a Sunday afternoon when I was feeling more rested and had had my soul recalibrated in worship that morning, I realized my strawberry situation was suffering from the same excesses as other parts of my life. Growing bitter and complaining about it was one option; cultivating gratitude and making a plan was another.

It was more than just finding myself with lemons and making lemonade. It was about first realizing that lemons are a blessing and being thankful to God (or in this case strawberries).

So, I grabbed a knife, sat down for two hours to de-stem those little red cuties, and pronounced to myself over and over that this would be a summer of gratitude, a summer of counting my blessings instead of grumbling and complaining.


And I also whipped out my seasonal cookbooks and spent the afternoon making another batch of strawberry jam and a loaf of strawberry bread, freezing four cups of strawberries for future recipes or smoothies, cutting up another three cups to take to a friend's house that evening, and preparing the rest to make into homemade icecream the next day.

Abundance is only too much to the ungrateful.

--

Have a few too many strawberries yourself? Try this recipe below, or check out the cookbook mentioned for other recipes for strawberries and produce available in season over the next few months.

Strawberry Ice Cream

from Simply in Season by Mary Beth Lind and Cathleen Hockman-Wert

2-3 cups strawberries mashed (I used my Magic Bullet)

2 cups whipping cream (whipped to soft peaks)

1 1/4 cups sweetened condensed milk

1 cup cold water

6 tablespoons sugar

1/2 teaspoon vanilla

1/4 teaspoon salt

Chill all ingredients. In mixing bowl, beat all ingredients together with an electric mixer. Pour into a 9x13 inch pan and freeze until mushy, 3-4 hours. Remove from freezer and return to mixing bowl. Beat until smooth but not melted. Return to pan and freeze another 3 hours. (DELICIOUS!)

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Today, I am joining Ann Kroeker for Food on Fridays when she discusses all things food, including recipes, tips, and discussion. Since I am a bit of a foodie myself, I plan to join her discussion often. Stop by and visit her yourself, too! 

 --

Finally, my last summer book which I saved until now is Choosing Gratitude: Your Journey to Joy by Nancy Leigh DeMoss. I started reading it a month or two ago, but as I have dubbed the next few months of 2010 the Summer of Gratitude, I thought this would be an appropriate time. 

Summer is Time for . . . Reading?

We are just about to close the book on Spring, and Summer is about to fall off the shelf. (It felt like Summer already today -- hot and humid.) Now that the days are long and ice cream is plentiful, we are all making plans for long weekends, barbecues in the backyard, vacations to beaches and far-away family. And of course, READING!

Ann and LL both posted summer reading lists today and asked about what the rest of us would be curling up with during the busy months of fun and sun. I haven't actually thought about the fiction I might read, though a trip to the library is imminent.

But I couldn't help but laugh that I literally had ten books sitting on my dining room table, all begging for their turn in the palm of my hand. Some I have started and have been working on for weeks; others literally came in the mail this week. So, this summer, here's a little bit of what I will be considering.

Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe
I actually just finished this book tonight for the IAM Readers' Guild that meets here in Indianapolis on the third Thursday of each month. This book was raw and brutal and honest. I've never read anything like it . . . it supposedly defines "modern African literature." If you live in the Indianapolis area and are a fast reader, grab a copy of the book and join us in a week. Or check out other titles the group will be discussing later this summer.

Refractions: A Journey of Faith, Art, and Culture by Makoto Fujimura
I am nearly through this book, but will be thinking on it all summer. How do faith, art and culture intersect? And how does art help us find our way as peacemakers in the world? Fujimura writes as an artist and as a prophet. I also am hosting a conversation about this book later in the summer. If you are interested, drop me a comment, and I'll send you the details. Or if you are on Facebook, I can send you an event invitation.

The Right to Write by Julia Cameron
I went to my favorite coffee shop this morning with three pieces of 8 1/2 by 11 paper to do some free writing after reading the first chapter of this book. I am hoping to read this book in community with others at The High Calling Blog over the next few weeks. And I also am hoping to be spurred on to more and greater writing after reading this book.

Heaven is a Place on Earth by Michael Wittmer
I attended a conference at my church this past winter featuring Dr. Wittmer as the speaker. There, he presented his thoughts on the new heaven and new earth where things would look a little like they do now on this earth, only so much better. I was fascinated by his ideas, most straight from the Bible, and have slowly been revisiting them through his book. I hope to finish it this summer.

God is the Gospel by John Piper
There was a time in the past when I could say I had read everything John Piper had written. In the meantime, he has outpaced me and I have a hard time getting through some of his thick prose. His message is penetrating, however, and I am determined to take in all the truth of this book that God himself is the greatest news to us. 


Twelve Extraordinary Women by John MacArthur
I am expecting to receive this book any day and will be reading it in preparation for teaching one of our Fall/Spring Women's Bible Study sessions at College Park Church. (Plan to join us if you live in Indy and have Wednesday evenings free during the school year!) I am excited to get more in depth with the mothers of our faith and with the women of our church.


Two other books I've written about in an earlier post . . .
Inside Out and God in the Yard by LL Barkat 
Barbies at Communion by Marcus Goodyear

And finally, join me here at Wide Open Spaces tomorrow for a look at the tenth book on my list.

Happy Summer, and Happy Reading!

On Marriage: A Single Perspective

The words were spoken during a moment of quiet confession. We were gathered together, just the women, during a church prayer retreat, and around the room, women would tentatively lift a hand or slip from their chair and confess areas of weakness and sin.

One woman had tried to start several times, but in the awkwardness of silent waiting, another would start at the same time, and she would retreat. The leader, having understood her effort, called to her.

"You've been trying to speak a few times now. Tell us what's on your heart," the leader urged.

"I want my husband to meet all my needs, and he doesn't and then I get frustrated with him," she said, through tears. She went on to explain that she has a great husband, a good marriage, wonderful children, but she still feels empty sometimes.

She was confessing that she had looked to a wedding ring to meet her needs instead of God.

I was stunned. Not at the confession, but that it came from the lips of a married woman. Having been single my whole life, I have often held marriage up to the same high standard. No matter what difficulty was happening, I would conclude that it would be easier if only I were married. This happily betrothed woman's confession made me reel.

Others in the room, both married and single, seemed to respond similarly. We all knew what she was talking about, though we experienced it on different sides of the fulcrum. And in that moment, I felt a barrier drop between the women with husbands and the women without.

Marriage is a beautiful union of two; it was established in Paradise before sin and precisely depicts our relationship with God and his Son Jesus like no other metaphor. But marriage isn't the goal of our lives. In fact, marriage ends with this world. Paul tells us that marriage vows hold only in this life, and Jesus said that there will be no marriage in heaven.

I want to get married. And though we've all heard that a woman over a certain age has a better chance of being killed by a terrorist than getting married, I'm still nurturing this God-given desire.

But I am also standing with my sisters, both married and unmarried, in resisting the urge to make an idol out of the institution or the man. Jesus needs to be enough for me. For all of us.

For your Maker is your husband—

the LORD Almighty is his name—
the Holy One of Israel is your Redeemer;
he is called the God of all the earth.

--Isaiah 54:5

Today, I am writing in community with Ann Voskamp and friends, exploring the Spiritual Practice of Holy Matrimony. After hesitating a week or two on this four-week project, I decided to offer a single's perspective on the revered institution. I pray that it has been an encouragement. To see other's thoughts, click on the button above.

You might also be interested in an earlier post: "A Marriage-less Wife."

Green Beans, Again

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I just couldn't help myself! After seeing this quirky little bluegrass video over on The Simple Life, I just knew it would be the perfect follow up to yesterday's post on pole beans. Thanks Jenn! And enjoy the song, all!

Full Time

Today, I experienced one of life's greatest joys: coming home after a long day of work to find a box from Amazon.com. I felt my spirit lift a little as I opened the mailbox and saw the box wedged snugly in there.

What made this particular delivery even more delightful was that I knew it contained two books written by friends: LL Barkat's new book of spiritual practice, God in the Yard (excerpt or buy the book),  and Marcus Goodyear's book of poetry, Barbies at Communion (excerpt or buy the book).

I've been thinking about those books all evening, having hardly had a chance to flip through them. And they were still on my mind as I was paying bills and writing checks to a few missions agencies of friends I support. As I was sealing envelopes and praying for the work around the world,  I marvelled at the similarity between the books and the checks. Both the purchase from Amazon and the money sent to a missions agency help my friends carry out the work God has called them to do.

The comparison in no way diminishes the work and sacrifice of the families who live with their young children in third world countries and subject themselves to the leadership of corrupt governments in order to bring the gospel to unreached people. It does, however, shine a light on the work and sacrifice of my friends who are artists and carry out their calling with pen and keyboard.

Michael Wittmer, an associate professor of systematic theology at Grand Rapids Theological Seminary, writes about this equalization of vocation in his book Heaven is a Place on Earth. Placing all of life within the biblical metanarrative of creation, fall, and redemption, he understands the significance that all work has as we live out the image of God stamped on us.

"It is true that pastors and missionaries possess a particularly high calling from God. There is no greater privilege or responsibility than to lead Christ's church. [And Wittmer is writing this as a seminary professor who might lump himself loosely in this category.] However, as significant as this is, they are not the only full-time Christian workers. If we do our work as unto the Lord, then our work pleases God just as much as if we were preaching a sermon or evangelizing in a Third World nation. Whether we are a lawyer, engineer, entrepreneur, or janitor, we must recognize that our job, too, is a calling from God."

It's not so obvious how we can all support each other in our jobs. A lot of us aren't writing books OR moving to third world countries. But we can honor the work that each of us does, rather than comparing ourselves. And we can support those in their work by frequenting their stores or hiring their services. 

Mostly we can pray. For the writers and missionaries among us, as well as the teachers and nurses and engineers and stay-at-home moms.

We are all living out our God-calling, full time.

Charity and the Bean Plants

My dad had been trying to convince me for weeks that I would have to thin out my green bean plants if I wanted them to be productive. And I did want them to . . . be productive, that is. Thinning them out was another matter altogether. How would I pick among the healthy bean plants which ones would have to go and which ones would stay?

"So you really think six bean plants around each stake is too much?" I asked one last time recently. I have never successfully grown Kentucky Wonder pole beans, but my dad has many times. I decided to trust him.

"Yeah, you probably only need three plants around each stake or they will choke each other out," he said.

I felt a little choked up myself. This is not my first year to garden, but this is the first year of gardening in my new raised beds that I made myself. My dad and I were planning to build them together, but after his heart surgery back in February, we decided he should just play the role of consultant.

So by myself, I bought six 2x8x10 pieces of lumber, 16 L brackets, and a box of nails and constructed two 4x8 beds in the front yard. Then, I bought 1 and a fifth tons of organic dirt, peat, and composted manure and wheelbarrowed it, 120 pounds at a time, out to the little boxes. Needless to say, I have a vested interest in my garden this year. Every seed I planted in that dirt has a little of my sweat and tears in it. Pulling even a dozen spare bean plants up would only be done after careful deliberation.

My dad was right, of course. And the decision about which of the healthy plants to pull ended up being easy--I relied on symmetry and just pulled every other one so that they would evenly surround the four poles. After the thinning and staking, which my dad helped me with this weekend, my beans are thriving, even better than before.

I suspected that would be the case. Not only is my dad usually right, but this lesson holds true beyond the garden.

Recently, I've noticed that my otherwise healthy life is starting to get choked out by too many plants around the stake. It's all good stuff--Bible studies, prayer meetings, family gatherings, a television show or two, overtime at work, exercising at the gym, even gardening. And it's overwhelming to think of what might have to go. But something will, or my life will become unproductive and too busy to sit with Jesus.

This isn't the first time I've had to thin out my life, and it probably won't be the last. And you know, when it actually comes time to get rid of some things, symmetry usually does the trick there, too. Leaving my life thick in some areas and lean in others is not wise caretaking.

Come mid-July, I'm looking forward to picking a big batch of green beans out of the garden. And I'm also looking forward to having the unhurried time to sit and snap them and cook them without feeling overwhelmed by my life.

First, I've got some pulling to do.

"A farmer went out to sow his seed. As he was scattering the seed, some fell along the path, and the birds came and ate it up. Some fell on rocky places, where it did not have much soil. It sprang up quickly, because the soil was shallow. But when the sun came up, the plants were scorched, and they withered because they had no root. Other seed fell among thorns, which grew up and choked the plants. Still other seed fell on good soil, where it produced a crop—a hundred, sixty or thirty times what was sown . . .The one who received the seed that fell among the thorns is the man who hears the word, but the worries of this life and the deceitfulness of wealth choke it, making it unfruitful. But the one who received the seed that fell on good soil is the man who hears the word and understands it. He produces a crop, yielding a hundred, sixty or thirty times what was sown." -- Matthew 13:3-8, 22-23

Blood Stains and Speeding Cars

She was walking across the street several hundred feet in front of our car when she stopped. Right in the middle of the intersection.

My 16-year-old nephew was driving and, since he was still quite a ways away, hadn't yet reduced his speed, but we were gaining on her now. And she was still standing there, facing us in her long shorts, bikini top, and buzz cut hair.

My brother suggested slowing down as we got closer and closer, and so my nephew began to brake and change lanes. Apparently she had not seen us.

But as we changed lanes, so did she. Again, directly in front of the car. And though we were slowing, now we were very close. My nephew slammed on the brakes, changed back to the other lane, and narrowly missed taking down the young woman. As we passed, she look perturbed. She threw her hands up like we had just ticked her off, and the wild look in her eyes made us think we should keep our distance.

But then I noticed the blood. The wild-eyed pedestrian had dried blood smeared all over her abdomen between the top of her shorts and the bottom of her bikini. This woman needed help, but then, if we stopped, so might we.

After we passed her and made sure she was safely on the other side of the road, my nephew pulled over on the shoulder and we called 9-1-1. We were still not sure what we had witnessed. A dare, a suicide attempt, a drug-crazed high?

We followed her as she continued walking, giving the dispatcher a play by play. Another car pulled over also trying to help, but she continued walking. She had been smoking something during the whole incident, and when she pulled a pack of cigarettes out of her pocket, I had wondered whether there was also a knife in there. Where had the blood come from?

Before long, the police arrived and began talking with her, and when we swung back around to let them know we were the 9-1-1 callers, the police said we were right in calling. She had had WAY too much to drink. 

 --

I have thought a lot about that night and that woman since it happened. I couldn't help thinking about what a tragedy would have taken place had it been dark, had my nephew not been able to brake in time, had the woman quickly jumped back to the other lane at the last minute. It's more the stuff of movies than of real life to me, but not to her. And it would have marked us all for life.

I also was overwhelmed by the frenzied stream of emotions I felt within the space of a couple of minutes -- and then within the space of several days: curiosity, concern, fear, judgment, contempt, pity, relief. I certainly didn't want to be like the crowds who watched brutal attacks on women or homeless men dying without raising a hand. But I also couldn't tell what was going on behind those bloodshot eyes and in the life of that blood-smeared body. Had I missed an opportunity for compassion because of fear? Was it enough just to call the police and make sure she was safe?

And then I imagined Jesus running out into that street. Grabbing that blood-stained girl he loved, throwing her aside just before the car plowed over Him. That's what he does for us: finds us at our worst, steps into our lives, and accepts the full force of the speeding car of God's wrath. I pray we all have a second chance to see the truth of that.