From the Road: Eating Locally in a New Place

Being a locovore has it's advantages in the Pacific Northwest. The first night I arrived, we enjoyed dungeness crab caught by a neighbor and wild salmon snagged by my nephew.

We've also eaten Loganberry pie from a local farm, locally baked sour dough bread, Ranier cherries from Pike Place Market, and some pretty great caramel popcorn made at Popsies on Main Street.

It's always refreshing, however, to realize that even 1,800 miles away there are still tomatoes and peppers and potatoes. Some food just seems to be local everywhere.

It's Friday, and we're off to Friday Harbor in the San Juan Islands in Puget Sound. Looking forward to some more local fare.

--

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!

God's Voice on the Shore

Years ago during one of my college summers, I spent three months on the Atlantic Coast in Ogunquit, Maine. It was my first experience being so far away from home, and that, along with some interpersonal conflict and some money worries, made it a very difficult summer.

I was lonely and heart broken and in need of hearing from God. My time in the Word was helpful, but my time in His hand was where He whispered my name.

Of course, he didn't reach down with an actual hand, but there was a large rock along the path next to the coast that had an indent just like a palm. And if I laid in there kind of curled up, I fit exactly, listening to the water lapping against the shore in a rhythm that sounded like Jesus saying my name.

I remembered that rock and that rhythm this morning as I walked along the Pacific Coast, almost 20 years later. This time, I'm on vacation, and my time here with family is blissful. But it's been a busy summer, and when I get home there are decisions to make and a new season to enter, and I found myself again, as always, in need of hearing from God.

This shoreline is far away from the rock with the palm, and nothing like the open fields of home, but his voice is still audible here. He found me in Maine, he walks with me in Indiana, and he rests with me here in Washington.

--

Today, I am writing in community with Ann Voskamp and friends, discussing the spiritual practice of listening and hearing God. Follow the link above to read Ann's thoughtful post and then scroll to the bottom and see what others have written. 

Still on the Road: Pikes Place Market in Seattle

A Taste of Island Living

I wake up early this morning, my body used to a time zone more than 1,800 miles to the east. But in anticipation of some free time in the early hours just after sunrise, we mapped out a jogging route the night before.

I brush my teeth, lace up my running shoes, and hit the pavement.

Getting the feel of a new place is harder when you board an airplane in one city, then miraculously touch down in another. The subtle changes that happen to the landscape from the window of a car or train are condensed and magnified with air travel. I left corn fields and wide open spaces. I landed in coastline and mountains.

My run begins downhill for nearly half a mile. It doesn’t bode well for the end of my run, this half a mile I will have to ascend on the return home, but starting out, it gives me the momentum I need after a few busy weeks followed by a long day of travel.

The air is cool, a breeze in my face. I am prepared with a sweatshirt, but I can’t fairly judge the temperature after the high 90s we have been having at home. Is it 70 degrees this morning? Or 46? I can’t tell. I glance down at my iPhone and click on the Weather Channel app. Though I barely know where I am, the Weather Channel finds me in just seconds. Oak Harbor, Washington: 54 degrees.

I run past burly brambles of blackberries, majestic purple thistle, occasional mystic sea roses. The Queen Ann’s Lace stands sentry on each side of the road that I am on, property of the United States Navy. I am a welcome guest here.

On my right, off in the near distance, I hear the crows cawing from the cattails. The sound is quickly followed by the musty smell of stagnant water. These tide pools are active and busy during the storm season. For now, they rest and ferment.

I keep running, the sound of my shoes on the pavement beating along with the lapping water to my left, just beyond the piles of driftwood.

Eventually, I get to the one and a half mile mark, and turn around. Now the harbor is on my right. This place I’m running is actually an island, and a few other souls join me for a taste of island life. A father and son fish; a man and woman have brought their dog.

I am walking now, the temperature rising, the sun directly in my eyes. I try catching my breath, wondering how it could have grown so hot so quickly. The Weather Channel with its eye still on me says only 57. It’s I who have grown warmer, not the island.

My glasses steam up as the heat from my face rises too quickly in the cool morning. The same thing is happening to Mount Ranier in the distance. Only, the mountain is cool and air is warm in comparison. I can barely see it through the haze this morning.

I want to keep running, keep pushing myself, but I am tired. So I make my way from the road down to the beach. This is not a beach where tourists come with their margaritas and beach towels. This is where children make forts of driftwood, and dogs are the only ones brave enough to enter the 50 degree water.

 The tide is low, and I am thankful for this brief opening of time to walk here. The boundaries of ocean tide are firm, and there is comfort in knowing the swells and shrinkings of this beach follow a rhythm, are bound by the hands of a Maker.

I dip my hand into the clear, cool water and bring it to my face. I smooth it across my forehead and let it drip down my cheeks. I bring another handful, trying to cool myself down – not to 57 degrees, like the air. But to 97.

The water pools in the crease of my lips, and I lick it. Salty. My sweat mixed with the sweat of God.

I climb back over the driftwood to the road, run about fifty yards or so up the hill, then I walk the rest of the way to the house.

--

I write from a different place, and yet I write with others. I am joining LL for "On, In, and Around Mondays" to tell our stories from the places we find ourselves. Follow the link above to see where others are writing from.

On the Road

I'm hitting the road in a couple of hours.

First stop, my baby's sister's wedding. Tomorrow evening at 8 p.m. Sky will be married. Hard to believe.

Next stop, Seattle and Whidby Island to visit my brother Andy, his wife, Lisa, and their children, Dustin and Samantha. The weather looks to be beautiful -- highs in the 70s most days -- and I am looking forward to a relaxing week with family.

We may even cross the border into Canada if it works out. I'm taking my passport, just in case.

I'll be posting from the road --  pictures, vignettes. Stop by when you can.

If not, see you in August -- refreshed and inspired.

"We Are Real": From the Screen to Supper

Today, I am participating in the HighCallingBlogs' "We Are Real" project. My thoughts about online friendships and how they have impacted my life are being posted at Ann Kroeker's blog. And she, my new on- and off-line friend, is posting here. You're going to love meeting Ann. And when you're done reading her thoughts, jump over to her blog and visit me. Here's Ann . . .

--

I found Wide Open Spaces through High Calling Blogs (HCB), the online community of Christian bloggers to which Charity and I belong.

At High Calling Blogs, we explore the intersection of faith and work. As I scroll through the new blog posts written by HCB members, I might be reading an article written by the director of a bank or a poem composed by a mom of six. It’s a delight to “meet” people online who write well and think deeply, but with members from all over the world—Australia, Ireland, Holland, Canada, and all over the United States—I didn’t expect to meet another Hoosier.

What a surprise, then, to be cruising through the new HCB posts one day in February and find myself at a post that referenced morel mushrooms and Indiana “hollars.” I’m a Hoosier, and I know about morel mushroom hunts in Indiana “hollars.” Bloggers in Australia and Holland generally don’t.

After that, I tried to remember to stop by Wide Open Spaces now and then. Each time I found thoughtful ideas and excellent writing. But I didn’t really know Charity. Then L.L. Barkat, who had met Charity in person at a writing conference, suggested I follow Charity’s blog more closely and consider asking her to write for us at the main HCB site.

I did. I followed Charity’s blog, and I asked her to write for us. But something more grew from the invitation.

We started visiting each other’s blogs regularly and commenting. We’d see each other in the discussions over at High Calling Blogs. Or we’d spot a tweet on Twitter or a status update on Facebook. Via e-mail, we worked together on a post she was creating.

All of that “virtual” interaction…it seemed very real. Even though we’d never met in person—in “real” life—I felt like I was getting to know Charity.

But somewhere along the way, I discovered that she’s not only in Indiana but lives a mere 20 minutes away! All those bloggers from all over the world, and the one I was getting to know well ends up living practically in my back yard.

We decided to meet in real life.

We met for coffee, started talking and didn’t stop until 11:30 at night.

A few days later we met for dinner at my place and a week or so after that, she served me dessert at her place. She’s given me zucchini recipes and actual zucchini. Wednesday night she came over to my place and ate a piece of homemade bread and some cookies (I left them in too long—sorry they were so crispy, Charity). We continue discussing food online—she joins Food on Fridays, and the other day on Twitter, I posted a link to some pesto I made and it turned out to be the same recipe Charity uses as her base.

What started online has deepened in person, and what we’re enjoying in person is enhanced online.

And it often involves food.

Charity and I sipped tea with honey the other night around my kitchen table, observing how fast we’ve gotten to know each other. Charity pointed out how interesting it is that each time we’ve met there’s been food or drink. Even when we went jogging, she brought me the zucchini I forgot when I was at her house. We didn’t eat food that morning, but we shared it.

Food is tangible. It brings us together and nourishes, if we choose well. Considering we assimilate it at a cellular level, food is very real.

Charity and I are experiencing fresh food and rich friendship. We didn’t need the food in order to deepen the friendship, but what we’re enjoying is as real as the yellow squash I can pull out of the fridge and slice up for dinner.

We’ll continue to swap recipes in real-life and at Food on Fridays.

Won’t you join us?

 

 Charity and Ann’s Basic Pesto
Charity gets creative with it, but I still new and haven’t branched out. We both started with this basic recipe from Simply in Season.

 


1 cup basil leaves (packed)
3 cloves garlic
1/3 cup pine nuts
3 Tbs Parmesan cheese (grated)
1/2 tsp salt
1/3 cup olive oil

1. Place everything except olive oil in food processor until finely chopped.

2. While food processor is running, slowly add the olive oil until it becomes a thick paste.

Servings: 16
Yield: 1 cup (serving size 1 Tbsp)

Look at My Eyes: What It Takes to Really Hear

My brother was trying to get the attention of his two-year-old son, Kole.

They were at my mom's house, and she had pulled the kiddie pool from the rafters of the garage. The water had been warming in the sun all afternoon, and though it was evening, the temperature was still balmy and Kole was enjoying the splashing and the stomping and the sifting.

But then he started pouring the water out of the pool, and it wasn't time for that.

"Kole, don't dump the water out," my brother was saying.

Another bucketful sloshed over the side.

"Kole, you need to listen to daddy," he said, a little firmer.

More water landed on the grass.

"Kole, you need to look at my eyes," my brother said, taking his son's hand. The reverie was broken. Kole looked at his daddy.

"Don't dump the water out," he said into his son's eyes.

Kole stopped. 

Though our eyes aren't made for listening, they sure do help us hear when they are staring into the face of someone who loves us. I know lots of parents who use this trick when their children seem to be ignoring them.

Jesus uses it to.

In Mark 10, Jesus was warning his disciples about the threat of the Pharisees' brand of faith and of Herod's irreverent paganism, using the metaphor of yeast. The disciples, however, not really hearing him, think he is actually talking about bread.

"Why are you talking about having no bread," Jesus asks them. "Do you still not see or understand?"

And so he tells them to look at his eyes. Not in so many words, but by healing a blind man. And when the miracle is done, and he asks them in another way if they understand, Peter makes one of the greatest statements of faith ever told.

"You are the Christ."

Jesus often has to ask me to look into his eyes as well. 

I can go for weeks at a time, acting as though I am listening. I take good notes at church; I read my Bible before bed and study it over lunch; I read books about Jesus and his kingdom.

But when I continue to live in fear and sin, it's obvious to Jesus that I haven't really heard.

Sometimes, Jesus draws me to his eyes through suffering. Though I in no way felt punished, my cancer diagnosis came after a season of drifting and doubt. I wasn't listening. Jesus used my pain to help me look into his eyes and hear.

Sometimes, Jesus draws me to his eyes through blessing. Just before my second cancer surgery, when I was fearful of the future and specifically about my finances, I found $1,000 cash in my mailbox on a Sunday morning. I looked up into those eyes again and really heard him.

Of course, it's our ears that were given to us for listening. But it's our eyes that help us really hear. Especially when they are staring into the face of the One who loves us most.

--

"My ears had heard of you
but now my eyes have seen you."
Job 42:5 

Today, I am writing in community with Ann Voskamp and friends, discussing the spiritual practice of listening and hearing God. Follow the link above to read Ann's thoughtful post and then scroll to the bottom and see what others have written. 

Writing in Vein

Last week, on a writing prompt from Ann Voskamp at A Holy Experience, I wrote about resting in our disappointments, drawing from two very painful experiences from my past.

It was a risk to write like that. The stakes were high. And it showed. More people visited my blog and responded to that piece of writing than nearly any other I had published.

In her book The Right to Write, Julia Cameron says the level of writing and the height of the stakes go hand in hand.

When a writer writes from the heart of what matters to him personally, the writing is often both personal and powerful. When a writer writes to what he thinks the market needs--writes, in other words, without a personal investment--the standard of writing is often lowered along with the stakes.

She calls this kind of writing "finding your vein of gold" -- from the metaphor of mining. She says a writer needs to find his territory (that place where the stakes are high) and mine it.

I call this kind of writing "cutting open a vein and bleeding out on the page."

Not that I am opposed to a little bleeding for my art. In fact, in the not so distant past (as recent as the 1800s), practitioners of medicine used "bloodletting" as a way to cure or prevent illness. Draining the good out with the bad so that the good could rebuild itself. Writing does that for my soul, at times.

But I disagree with Julia that I always have to write with such high personal stakes or I am pandering to the market. Sometimes, I write about new things, posts like this in which I am writing about a topic in community. Sometimes I skirt the edges of my interests, trying out my writing in the form of poetry or essays about art. When I do those things, I'm not always writing from a deep passion, but I am writing out of curiosity. 

Julia says it's up to the writer to figure out what matters to her and write about it. Doing so "may take a certain amount of courage," she says. "This may mean that we do not meet with the immediate support from those who make decisions with an eye to the market."

For me, the stakes are almost as high by writing outside of what I'm passionate about, as they are when I discover a gem deep in my soul, because either way I might be rejected. By an editor, by my readers, by my community. By you, even.

But though this writing may not be my "vein of gold," it does give me time to heal from the blood letting. And who knows, I may find a new vein in the process, one that is equally rich for the mining. 

Today I am writing in community with other bloggers from the High Calling Blogs blogging community. This is our last week discussing Julia Cameron's The Right to Write. 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. The next book club selection will be posted in September at HighCallingBlogs.com. I'll post something here, too. Plan to join us, and if you are a blogger, read and post along!

The Obvious Choice

I invited a few friends over to my house earlier this week for an evening of conversation, and since it's the middle of summer and I am up to my eyeballs in zucchini, there was really only one thing I could possibly serve as a snack: zucchini bread.

Apparently my choice was just as obvious to others, too, because my aunt Barb and her friend Burma were cracking up when they walked into the house and saw the loaves of sweet bread just out of the oven.

"I knew it," Barb told me. "I said to Burma, 'If I know Charity, she'll have some kind of snack, and it will probably be zucchini bread.'"

Of course, the timing couldn't have been better for zucchini bread. But my aunt also knows that the apple didn't fall far from the tree in my family. My mom is legendary for her extensive use of zucchini back in the summers of my youth. One year we had zucchini scalloped, fried, pickled, baked, and sauteed. A different way every night.

I like knowing that what's on the menu at my house is predictable based on what's growing in the garden or what's in the bins at the farmer's market. (Actually, Barb wasn't the only one that guessed that zucchini bread would be on the menu that night). I also like that other people in my life are attuned to the same rhythm of the growing seasons. (My friend Ann wrote about baking up some zucchini treats herself, today). And I really like zucchini. Now.

My mom is surprised, and probably a little smug, when I call her with stories of all the different ways I am cooking zucchini now. I grill it, roast it, layer it in a strata, or combine with eggplant to make ratatouille.

She even asked me for the recipe when I told her about the zucchini brownies I had made.

--

Here's the recipe for Tuesday night's zucchini bread -- it's from Paula Deen's The Lady and Sons Savannah Country Cookbook.

Zucchini Bread
Yields 2 loaves
The flavor improves with age and the bread keeps well frozen. You can also substitute pumpkin for zucchini.

3 ¼ cups all-purpose flour
1 ½ teaspoons salt
1 teaspoon ground nutmeg
2 teaspoons baking soda
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
3 cups sugar
1 cup vegetable oil
4 eggs, beaten
2/3 cup water
2 cups grated zucchini
1 teaspoon lemon juice
1 cup chopped walnuts or pecans

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Mix dry ingredients except for nuts in a large bowl. In a separate bowl, mix wet ingredients; fold into dry, and add nuts. Bake in two loaf pans for 1 hour, or until done.

NOTES: I left out the nuts, and the recipe worked great. Also, I made six mini loaves with this recipe. I can’t remember how much I adjusted the time, but just set the timer for less and watch it. Sides should pull away and a toothpick inserted in the middle should come out clean.


For the zucchini brownie recipe, visit Ann's blog.

--

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!

Creeping Charlie and the Big Tent

 The real Creeping Charlie

Over the weekend, I spent about an hour stooped over flower beds, crouching into my garden, and kneeling next to fence rows pulling weeds. The recent mix of rain, sun, and heat has been the perfect combination for my zucchini and eggplant. But it's also been perfect for the weeds.

Especially the Creeping Charlie, which is what I labored over mostly that day. 

Five years ago if you had said the words "Creeping Charlie" to me, I might have thought you were talking about an Indie Punk band. My dad is the one who first introduced me to the phrase. We started talking about it during one of our many gardening/yard work conversations, which probably went something like this.

"What did you do today?" I probably asked.

"Oh, I spent most of the day weeding the garden. I can't keep up with the Creeping Charlie," he probably replied.

"Creeping Charlie . . . what's that? I think I have some of that growing around my patio," I said, curious.

"Oh, I call all of those little viney weeds Creeping Charlie," he informed me. And from that day, so do I.

It doesn't matter if what I'm really grabbing is overzealous crabgrass that's gone a little viney, wild purslane, or prostrate knotweed, if it's winding its way through my garden or flower bed, I think of it as Creeping Charlie.

 Wild Purslane that I "thought" was Creeping Charlie

This generous definition of weeds was on my mind over the weekend for another reason, too. I was planning a gathering of artistically minded friends a few days later, and one of the questions I was planning to ask was, "How do you define art?" Would I be able to apply such a generous definition to the world of creativity as I did in the world of gardening? 

Calling an entire compendium of plants by one name may seem a little reductionistic or simplistic. For instance, if I had carefully identified each weed, I might be able to more successfully eradicate them. Also, I could never really explain these weeds to others with such a broad definition, just like I never really knew what my dad had been pulling that day. And I could never be a horticulturalist and get away with a definition like that.

But the eventual art conversation we did have proved that the "Creeping Charlie" approach to defining art is not just more civil, it might be more Christian. 

Though there were a few professionals among us, most of us are trying to live an artistic life that includes a full-time job doing something else. So we worked through how to do other things "artistically." From color coordinating our closets to creating fusion dishes in the kitchen, the group gradually opened to a "Creeping Charlie" definition of "artistic."

Then, we stumbled around a more "traditional" definition of art and all shared a medium we regularly engage in: from singing to writing to quilting to painting. The group graciously made room for all the Creeping Charlies to join the conversation.

When it came down to imaging how our faith informed our art, however, the definition grew even larger. We discussed truth and beauty, creation and redemption. And then we started talking about humility.

Though my definition of art had never really included humility before, I thought about the Creeping Charlie and just kept taking notes. Several people around the circle spoke about artists they knew, maybe even better artists than them, who had given them room and opportunity to grow. Others talked about teaching children or encouraging coworkers in their art. We talked about collaboration and shared projects.

Then, my aunt Barb zeroed in on the biggest Creeping-Charlie-approach to art of all. 

"My goal is to have a critical eye, not a critical spirit," she said. And we all knew that surely this was at the heart of what it means to be an artist who loves Jesus.

We don't have to call everything that hangs on a wall or is performed on Broadway "art." We can be discerning and careful; we can study and analyze. We can even come to different conclusions.

But we can never forget our humble Creator who artfully designed all of the people of the whole world, and then brought them together under the big tent of the cross.

A big tent with Creeping Charlie growing around the edges, that is.

--

Would you like to join the conversation? Here were some questions we began asking . . .

1.) How do you define art? What role does faith play in your definition, practice, or appreciation of art? How has your definition changed over time?
2.) What are some ways that you currently incorporate art into your daily life? Daily, weekly, monthly?
3.) What are some ideas you have for incorporating more art and creativity into your life? Do you have any interest in collaboration, co-creating, or working in a shared space?

Other parts of our discussion began with some thoughts from Makoto Fujimura's book, Refractions: A Journey of Faith, Art, and Culture.

Look for more posts about art and our conversation over the next few weeks, along with suggestions for how YOU can join the conversation.

Resting in our Disappointments

I was out for a fun evening with friends when I saw him, just over a stranger's shoulder.

After a few furtive glances, then some downright rude staring, I determined that it really was him. One of my best friends from college. But the emotions that flooded over me weren't happiness and joy.

From deep inside, only pain welled up.

"Don't look," I whispered to the friends I was with. "What?" the one nearest me asked, looking around.

I grabbed her arm, eyes staring straight down at the ground. "Don't look now, but there's one of my best friends from college. I haven't seen him in years. We don't really talk anymore."

And then I felt the sting.

"Are you crying?" another friend asked, as my shoulders began to shake a little, and tears started dripping. I couldn't really explain.

The people closest to me now couldn't know the disappointment and heartache that I felt over this broken relationship from the past. When we were young, just out of college, moral choices began to separate this old friend and me. Eventually, we each drew lines in the sand. Deep lines.

Over time, the ebbing waters had washed those lines away, but now there was a tidal pool of distance between us. We would never find our way back to each other. Not like before.

Eventually, I worked up the nerve to go talk with him. Our last encounter eight years ago over my hospital bed had given us the opportunity to sort of smooth things over. But when our 5-minute review of the years since then ended that evening, there was a quick hug, but no plans for the future. No promises to keep in touch.

We knew we couldn't. No matter how hard I tried, there was nothing I could do with this disappointment.

It's similar to the disappointment I feel when I hear the name, "Aurora."

I don't know anyone by that name, but I had hoped to. Years ago, it was the name I picked out for a future daughter. It was celestial and mythical and beautiful . . . just like I suspected my little girl would be one day.

But no offers of marriage and a childless womb stolen from me by cancer three years ago have left me with no possibility of bearing children.

I'm thankful to be alive, thankful that I have lots of other people's children in my life, thankful that this too is in God's plan for me.

But still . . . the disappointment.

I guess we all experience disappointment from time to time. Plans are changed, expectations unmet, relationships strained. But usually we can do something about it. Make a new plan, change our expectations, work harder at the relationship.

Occasionally, though, there are disappointments that go much deeper. Circumstances that are out of control and final. And there's nothing we can do.

Jesus could do things about our disappointment if he wanted to. He could solve all our problems, meet our expectations, grant our dreams. And often he does.

But sometimes, his plan is different than that. And rather than fix what's broken, he meets us in our disappointment and sits with us there.

Like a disappointed child, I still kick and scream, even though Jesus is sitting there with me. I yell, I tell him his plan is stupid, I throw myself down on the ground and pound with my fists. And still he waits.

Eventually, exhausted from my ranting, I finally give in and rest there with Jesus. My disappointments have left me empty, but as I rest in Him, I once again find everything I need.

Though the fig tree does not bud
and there are no grapes on the vines,
though the olive crop fails
and the fields produce no food,
though there are no sheep in the pen
and no cattle in the stalls,

yet I will rejoice in the LORD,
I will be joyful in God my Savior

Habakkuk 3:17-18

Today, I am writing in community with Ann Voskamp and friends, discussing in three parts the spiritual practice of rest. Read Ann's thoughtful post "Three Ways to Really Enter into His Rest Right Now" and then scroll to the bottom of her post and read what others have written. 

You might also be interested in my post on rest from last week, "Just Lay There and Rest."

Writing Rooted in Life

When I was 13, I dreamed of being a writer. When I was 18, I decided to become a journalist. When I was 22, I landed my first job as a newspaper reporter. When I was 23, I realized the reporter's life was not for me, and I quit.

Being a writer has never been a question for me. It's who I am down deep. But what exactly a writing life might look like has been my life's quest since those days of self-discovery when I realized it wasn't the newspaper business.

For years, I assumed that in order to really be a writer, I had to find a way to write full-time. Julia Cameron, in The Right to Write, says lots of people think this way.

Very often, when people think about writing, they picture the writer's life being best when it contains vast savannahs of freedom, huge bolts of structureless, unused time.

So I saved money and made plans, and when I was 26, I quit a good and promising full-time job to be a writer. I bought a used laptop and spent afternoons on my balcony working on my novel. In the evenings, I pounded out query letters about everything I knew enough about to write on and mailed them out to magazines.  But very quickly, I was stuck in a plot that was moving too slow, I was out of ideas for queries, and I hadn't heard back from any I had mailed.

When I was 27, I took the first job offer that came along.

I learned something from my experience, however. The writing life wasn't going to look like my ideal vision. Julia says lots of people figure that out, too.

Those long sabbaticals everyone lusts after so they can be truly productive seldom yield the promised result. Too often the yawning vistas of time yield self-involved work that yawns on the page. Writers writing about what to write are writers for whom something isn't right.

So, when I was 28, I decided to find a full-time job that would be conducive to part-time writing. Because as Julia says, "Writing benefits from other commitments." I began with what seemed most obvious.

I worked in full-time vocational ministry at a church, then a Christian college, and found that the same part of me that was energized to spend time with people was what I would normally draw from to write. And after a day with people, there was nothing left for putting words on the page.

Then, I began a graduate program so that I could teach writing, imaging holidays and summers filled with productive writing time. But again, the schedule and pace of the academic calendar left me empty and dull by the end of a rigorous semester. It would take the entire break just to recover and be ready for another semester.

When I was 32, I ended up back at the company I had left six years earlier to be a writer. I work with numbers and queries and formulas and lists all day for eight hours. Nothing at all to do with writing or people, really.

Yet, finally, I have found my writing "roots," as Julia calls them.

Just as a regular practice of writing roots us firmly in our lives, a regular life roots us firmly in our writing.

Now, I am 39, and it doesn't look at all like what I imagined, but I am living a writing life at last.

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.

Hollywood Ending

Last night, a few of us went to an outdoor movie at the Indianapolis Museum of Art.

We arrived about three hours before the movie started, and after an evening of eating, drinking, and being merry, we settled in for a 9:30 showing of North by Northwest, an Alfred Hitchcock film starring Cary Grant and Eva Saint Marie. 

[SPOILER ALERT: I do reveal the ending ahead. Consider yourself warned.]

As you would expect in a Hitchcock flick, there were plenty of twists and turns from the start. It was my first time to see the movie, so I worked hard to stay awake and attentive to all the details, knowing they would all be significant.

But within minutes of the leading lady's appearance on the screen, I predicted that she was the undercover CIA agent who was being concealed according to the plot. Her initial role made her out to be an ally of Cary Grant. Since that would be too obvious, my friend predicted that she was working for the bad guys. I suggested my alternate undercover CIA theory.

Shortly after, a strange look on Eva Saint Marie's face, then a phone call she made to the kidnapper suggested my friend's prediction was right. But I was still holding out on my own theory. 

"I think that working for the bad guys is her CIA cover story," I whispered, trying not to ruin the movie for everyone.

As the movie came to an end, Cary Grant saved Eva Saint Marie from falling to her death off of Mount Rushmore after discovering that the woman he thought had betrayed him was indeed the agent he was trying to protect. The audience cheered. I was amazed. How could predicting the end of a Hitchcock film be so easy?

When a friend hinted that Alfred Hitchcock might not be the king of suspense after all if I was so easily able to decode his plot, I had to admit that it really wasn't my skills at solving mysteries that had helped me. It was my sense of romance.

"Cary Grant always gets the lady," I told her. "I just had to figure out a plot line that would allow the two of them to get together in the end."

There's something reassuring about the way Hollywood movies end. Though they don't always represent the way things go in my life, there's such hopefulness, such confidence.

There's also something kind of heavenly about those endings. Literally.

Though the comparison may be a little sacrilegious, I don't have to stretch my imagination too far to see how Jesus is a lot like Cary Grant. No matter how many twists and turns, despite the betrayal and the treachery, in the end, Jesus will get the girl--his leading lady, the church.

Today, I am filled with gratitude that this world has an ending I can predict.

Jesus wins, He gets the Bride, and they live happily ever after. 

Cupcake Love: Baking Up a Party

Making birthdays special is something my mom has always been good at.

From the time I was able to express my opinion, my mom let me choose the menu for my birthday. Dinner was usually either fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans, or as I grew older, lasagna, or some other Italian staple. But for dessert, the possibilities were as wide as my imagination.

And my mom's cut-up birthday cake book.

Though my memory is fading, I still remember blowing out candles over butterfly wings made of coconut dyed in pastel colors, puppy-dog lips and ears shaped with shoe-string licorice, and a clown hat decked out with gum drops.

As I got a little bit older, the cut-up cakes weren't nearly as appealing as the airbrushed bakery cakes with plastic decorations and neon frosting. And I'm sure picking up a cake at the bakery department of the local grocery would have been easier for my mom. But I don't think she ever regretted the time spent baking and cutting and frosting and decorating.

Those cakes were a labor of love.

Since I don't have children, I haven't had the chance to bake up a good birthday party for my own kids. But this past weekend, my little brother and his girlfriend gave me the best gift of all for my nephew's one year birthday: they let me bake the cupcakes.

They were having a beach party theme, and before Stacy even finished explaining it, I had a vision of beach ball cupcakes.

In the days before the party, I made three trips to the store, buying ingredients for three different recipes. I wanted everything to be perfect. The morning of the party, I carefully measured the ingredients, being careful to stir and mix and pour exactly as the recipe suggested. The batter looked perfect, and as I placed the loaded tins into the oven, I imagined all of the compliments I would receive.

Before the timer even went off, I knew something was wrong. Was that smoke I smelled? When I opened the oven and saw the batter rolling off the top of the pan onto the over floor, I knew my bread-flour substitution had been a mistake. Should I give up and just make a run to the bakery? I wondered.

When the cupcakes were finally done baking, I scraped off the edges and pieced together a few of the most deflated ones. After they had cooled and I spent two hours decorating with a frosting bag and tips, I prematurely ran out of cream-cheese frosting. Three cup cakes would have only white frosting rather than beach ball stripes. I was again close to calling it quits.

But throughout the process, I thought of those cut-out cakes of my childhood, and that beautiful little boy celebrating one year of life, and I realized that it wasn't really about the cupcakes. It was about the love.

I breathed a little easier after I arrived at the party with 23 decorated cupcakes, plenty for all the guests that were there. And Asher didn't disappoint, giving us the whole experience we were anticipating by smashing the cupcake with his hands, then stuffing the it in his face, before eventually finishing off the whole cupcake on his own.

Watching my little buddy sitting in the high chair with cupcake frosting stuck in his hair, I was reminded that food really is about more than just eating. It's also about celebrating life and showing people how much we love them.

If you would like to bake up a party for someone you love, here is a link to the cupcake recipe I used for baby Asher's birthday party. (Do NOT substitute bread flour for the cake flour, however!)

--

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!

Next Summer's Garden

Sweet corns shucks lay piled in a heap

Just beneath the wilted greens –

Chard, sorrel, kale, lettuce.

Watermelon rind, shrinking,

Lies among the decaying leaves and stems,

Embattled, sunken hulls.

Beet tops bleed out the bottom

Onto pungent coffee grounds

A long way from their Hawaiin home.

Egg shells peek through,

Birthing nothing but

Forgotten whites, gnats and flies.

Snapped off ends of green beans

Lay scattered like confetti –

The party’s over.

The heat rises from within,

Through Autumn’s fallen leaves,

Spring’s discarded dandelions,

Summer’s grass clippings

And sugar snap pea plants,

Already pulled.

A pile of refuse . . .

Next year’s garden

In waiting.

This is my "Tablespoon of Summer," written in response to the Random Act of Poetry prompt over on High Calling Blogs. The challenge? This week, find a tablespoon of summer. Nothing big. A sound, a sight, something unimpressive. Give it to a poem, and let the poem give it life. Nothing more unimpressive than my rotting compost pile in the back yard.

Just Lay There and Rest

When I was a little girl, bed time always seemed to come around too early. I never felt tired, when dressed in night gown, still warm from the bath, I would climb into bed, waiting for my mom to tuck me in.

"But I'm not tired," I remember telling her, most nights.

"That's ok. Just lay there and rest," she always replied.

The day was over; I was young; my mom knew I had to be tired. If I got up and read a little or watched a few minutes of television, sleep would be delayed and I would be grouchy in the morning.

"But what if I don't go to sleep?" I would ask.

"I'll come in and check on you later," she assured me.

And so I would just lay there a little, letting the wiggles wind down and the giggle deflate. As the thoughts of my young mind started to wander and fade, the deep rest of sleep would settle in over me like a thick fog and wouldn't break again til morning.

As an adult, I still can't go straight to sleep when I hit the bed. So most nights, whether I like it or not, I find that I have to lay there.

That time between going to bed and going to sleep can feel like a curse when I am troubled or in trouble or causing trouble.

On those nights, I am restless and anxious, and rather than rest, I spend my time planning and worrying and trying to work things out.

On those nights I curl up into a ball on my left side, then my right side. Agitating the sheets like the heavy cycle on my washing machine.

On those nights, I stew and fret, sometimes arguing, sometimes bargaining, sometimes avoiding my Jesus.

On those nights, I might lay there for hours, not sleeping, worrying about not sleeping, or sometimes, not even laying there. I sit up or get up. Maybe there's something on TV.

At some point, the tiredness overtakes the tension, and I sleep. But I don't rest.

On other nights, though, those sweet minutes between laying down and sleeping are a blessing.

On those nights, no matter what has happened during the day, I know that there is nothing else I can do but lean on Jesus in faith. Tasks completed and tasks undone are all laid aside as He tucks me in.

On those nights, I let my head fall into the pillow, legs stretched long to the end of the bed and feel the tension release in the small of my back, my thoughts skipping lightly over the activities of the day. "I'm not tired yet," I might tell him.

On those nights, by faith I let my mind release from the worries, breathe prayers of gratitude and love, blink awake a time or two, and then begin to submit.  "Just rest," Jesus says.

On those nights, I feel the sweet trust of the night-gowned little girl as I begin to drift off. "But what if I don't go to sleep?" I think, yawning.

On those nights, I slip away into a deep sleep, and He whispers "I will watch over you."

And I rest.

PSALM 121

I lift up my eyes to the hills—
where does my help come from?

My help comes from the LORD,
the Maker of heaven and earth.

He will not let your foot slip—
he who watches over you will not slumber;

indeed, he who watches over Israel
will neither slumber nor sleep.

The LORD watches over you—
the LORD is your shade at your right hand;

the sun will not harm you by day,
nor the moon by night.

The LORD will keep you from all harm—
he will watch over your life;

the LORD will watch over your coming and going
both now and forevermore.

Today, I am writing in community with Ann Voskamp and friends, exploring the Spiritual Practice of Rest. To see other's thoughts, click on the button above.

Let Freedom Ring: One Fourth of July

I woke up late Sunday morning in my growing-up room. Late Saturday night family gatherings meant staying over at my mom's house. I couldn't stand the thought of setting another alarm, and with nothing else to wake me, I slept late. Too late to make the hour drive back to church. 

So, I decided to spend the morning in my mom's garden, picking green beans. As I bent and stooped and kneeled, grabbing hand fulls of beans and an occasional stem, my black Lab, Precious, panted rhythmically, laying in the row between the beans and the strawberries in the shadow of the sweet corn.

We were free. Free to come and go, to worship in church or in the garden.

It was the morning of the Fourth of July.

--

Later, I tried to hang a pot of impatiens from the big maple tree in my front yard. Wielding first a cordless screwdriver, then a hand-held phillips-head, then a hammer. It wasn't working; I felt tears sting my eyes. 

Though I have lived alone for years and should be able to do simple jobs like this by myself, I felt defeated when I had to leave the task less than perfect. Now, instead of hanging firmly next to the bark, the pot hanger sways in the breeze. 

I don't know what will happen when the next big storm comes.

I came in, hot and sweaty, and fed the dog.

Sometimes, independence just feels lonely and overwhelming.

--

Throughout the evening, the firecrackers around the neighbor exploded louder and closer and quicker. Bang, bang, bang from across the street. Kaboom from the house to the north.

Precious started panting and pacing. She jumped her front legs up on me as I sat in the recliner. She hid between my legs when I coaxed her outside. She scratched at my arms when I let her sit on the couch next to me as I read. 

Precious hates Independence Day.

By 9:30 I decided to go to bed, turning up the radio and the fan loud enough to try to drown out the minor explosions going on around us. Precious jumped on and off the bed, laid on one side of me then the other as I continued to try to read.

Music blaring, fan blowing, cracks and bangs coming quickly now, dog panting and drooling over my head. After a couple of hours, I had enough. I pulled the dog crate out of the laundry room into the hallway. I drug Precious into her little den, knowing that even though I was taking away her freedom, eventually the close quarters would bring her comfort.

Throughout my neighborhood, residents continued to freely detonate small explosives throughout the night while my dog and I hunkered down as though in a war zone.

Sometime around 2:30, I woke to silence, let Precious out of her crate, and went back to sleep.

--

I woke up late again this morning. Let Freedom Ring.


For a few other Fourth of July posts, visit . . . 

Laura at The Wellspring

Jennifer at  Getting Down with Jesus

LL at Seedlings in Stone  or at High Calling Blogs

Craver at CRAVER VII 

A Simple Country Girl at Aspire to Lead a Quiet Life 

Mel at Mental Post-Its

God Bless the CSAs

While I have been a farmers' market patron for a while now, last year I raised the bar on eating locally and bought a CSA (Community Supported Agriculture) subscription. I've written about that here in the past, how I make an "investment" in a local farmer in the winter, and then get my "returns" in the summer in the form of fresh, local produce. But three weeks into the CSA season, I am finding another benefit:

Every week, or at least many times throughout the season, I come home with a vegetable I have never tried, or never liked in the past.

Last year, I struggled with this, especially when I kept getting loads and loads of chard week after week. I didn't like it any more in the sixth week than I did in the first. And if it had been up to me to select it and purchase it myself, I would never have even tried chard. 

This year, however, I have embraced my CSA's role as a "mother," encouraging me, the reluctant child, to eat my vegetables. And so far, here's what I've discovered this year:

• I LIKE TURNIPS! Well, at least the Japanese salad turnips that I roasted with some new potatoes and squash.
• CURLY ENDIVE IS NOT BELGIAN ENDIVE! When I mentioned that I had received endive in my CSA box, my friend Ann offered me a recipe using Belgian endive. I went for it, even though something didn't seem quite right about the instructions. I later learned that even though it substituted fairly well for it's European cousin, curly endive don't even resemble Belgian endive, in looks or taste.
• KOHLRABI ISN'T FROM OUTERSPACE. Even though it looks like a spaceship with landing gear. Plus, it adds a nice crunch to stir fries and salads.
• DON'T CUT THE ENDS OFF BEETS BEFORE YOU BOIL THEM. Unless you want the water to turn to turn red and all the color to leech out. Oh yeah, did I mention that I like beets now? After 39 years?
• CHARD IS PRETTY, EVEN IF IT DOES TASTE LIKE DIRT. Ok, I'll keep trying it. Afterall, if it takes 15 times of offering a new food to a child before they will accept it, how many times do you think it will take me? Maybe 30?

You don't have to subscribe to a CSA to try something new this summer, but you do have to have a sense of adventure. Go on, try an eggplant or some pea shoots. Don't be afraid to buy that purple pepper or those yellow tomatoes. And, for sure, don't forget the greens!

--

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!