Wide Open Spaces

Merry Christmas

noreply@blogger.com (Charity Singleton) — Thu, 24 Dec 2009 12:55:00 +0000

Merry Christmas, friends! It has been a wonderful Christmas season, full of all the wonder and joy and difficulty and stress the holiday brings.

Jesus was kind to meet me each day as I considered His comings: past, present and future. If you weren't able to join me each day for Advent, the daily posts are available in the archives at The Space Between. The last post is written, but it is certainly not the end of waiting on Jesus.

I'm looking forward to exploring more Wide Open Spaces in 2010 as we consider this life of faith and hope and beauty. Blessings to you for the New Year. Stop by often!

Advent: Leading Me to Christ

noreply@blogger.com (Charity Singleton) — Wed, 02 Dec 2009 13:04:00 +0000

I barely remember how it started, now so far into making Advent a tradition of my own. But for the past several years, before I decorated the tree or baked the cookies, first, I dug out the wreath and prayer book, purchased the candles, and began preparing my heart.

What is it about Advent that makes Christmas a more meaningful celebration? Is it the purposeful progression through December leading up to the holiday? Partly. I think of all the trips I have taken in which the expectation and planning are as meaningful as the trip itself. So too with Advent and Christmas.

But I think the truer meaning of Advent is not that it leads me to Christmas, but that it leads me to Christ. The month of December has become a calibration for my life. Each year, I read and reflect anew, reminding myself who I am, Who I live for.

And taking the time to focus during the most distracting time of year is a discipline that helps me worship this way all year through.

This year, I am getting a late start in decorating; my house is still completely bare, and it's already December 2! But I am right on schedule in celebrating the true meaning of Christmas: seeking Jesus.

Join me each day for Advent Reflections on The Space Between.

Today, I am writing in community with Ann Voskamp and friends, sharing about Christmas as a Season of Seeking Christ. See what others have posted by clicking on the button below.

A New Season, a New Space

noreply@blogger.com (Charity Singleton) — Sun, 29 Nov 2009 00:02:00 +0000

A new season, a new space. Please join me for Advent over on The Space Between. I will be posting daily Advent reflections on this new blog. Advent starts tomorrow, and to get a head start, I just posted tomorrow's reflection.

Don't forget to stop by Wide Open Spaces from time to time as well. I will continue to post new content here from time to time throughout the month as well.

Blessings!

Only Five Shopping Days Left

noreply@blogger.com (Charity Singleton) — Tue, 24 Nov 2009 11:51:00 +0000

The past week and a half have been busy, busy, busy. While several of my regular weekly activities are closing down for the semester, holiday activity is picking up, not to mention, there's only five shopping days left.

Until Advent that is. Sunday, November 29, is the first Sunday of Advent this year, and though it has made the last few weeks a little busy, I am happy to report that my Christmas shopping is nearly complete.

It's a bit of a ridiculous proposition that I would create chaos in my life for one month so as to avoid chaos in my life another month. But you know how the holidays are. Even if you do everything you can to keep December low-key, it just doesn't turn out that way.

So this year, I am redoubling my efforts. Getting the Christmas shopping out of the way is just one tactic. I've also got about half of the wrapping done, and as long as I don't fritter away too much of the long Thanksgiving weekend, I'm hoping to have my Christmas cards addressed and ready to mail.

But still, the question. Why do it? What is is about December that's worth fighting for my time? It's not just maintaining the true meaning of Christmas. It's about more than that. It's more about the true menaing of Advent. Or, to put it another way, it's about longing for Jesus.

Though connecting with Jesus in this way shouldn't just happen in December, with all of the activity and distraction of the month, it's an important season to practice the quieter disciplines of quiet, simplicity, solitude, and reflection. To remind ourselves that this life, this world, isn't all we're made for. And to take courage in the promises of Jesus that He is coming again.

That's the mystery of Advent I find so compelling. Looking back at the expectation of Jesus from the past, before He came to earth, when every Jewish mother hoped the baby in her womb might be Messiah. And also looking ahead, when one day we'll see our Savior riding on the clouds returning for his bride.

And then the often overlooked aspect of Advent: longing for Jesus to come and meet with us each day.

Jesus has been with me in the workplace pitch-ins and the in the check-out lines of local retailers. He's been by my side as I finished up the fall semester Bible study and bounced around during my last water kickboxing class.

But now, I long to go with Him, into the inner room, next to the Great Throne, and renew that sense of longing again.

Will you come with me?

For the past several years, I have been posting daily reflections during Advent season as a way for us all to long for Jesus together. In the past, I have posted directly to my web-site; this year, to create a more accessible format, I am posting to a new blog which is getting some last minute design changes. Check back here, at www.charitysingleton.blogspot.com for the first post on Sunday.

Writing Words on my Heart

noreply@blogger.com (Charity Singleton) — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 12:43:00 +0000

A new believer in Jesus, a seasoned saint living by faith more than 20 years, and a 4-verse passage from Titus. A place to start.

I had read and remembered passages of the Bible before this time. Even before I knew Jesus, I had been instructed in bits of his Word and committed those to memory as part of a neighborhood children's program.

But now I was being led in a more meaningful discipline: writing these words on my heart.

That was more than 20 years ago, and still I can pull up those words and that truth from my heart.

For the grace of God has appeared, teaching us to say "no" to ungodliness and worldly desires, and to live sensibly, righteously, and godly in this present age, waiting for the blessed hope, the appearing of Jesus Christ our Savior, who redeemed us and purified us for himself, a people for his own possession, eager to do what is right. (Titus 2:11-14)

At this point, a few of the phrases have become a little fuzzy, and I can't remember which translation I am speaking. But these words have washed over me for many years, just when I needed the reminder to say "no" to sin, just when I wondered how I should be living, just when I had nearly lost my hope.

Since then, I have committed many passages of scripture to memory just long enough to be able to recite them to a partner or rehearse them in a class. And maybe a verse or a phrase is still floating through my subconscious mind, available for recall with a little prompting.

But those words I write on my heart -- the ones I mull over, synthesize with my daily life, and use to fight sin -- those are the words that Jesus most often uses to change me.

My son, do not forget my teaching, but let your heart keep my commands; for length of days and years of life and peace they will add to you. Do not let kindness and truth leave you; bind them around your neck, write them on the tablet of your heart. So you will find favor and good repute in the sight of God and man. (Proverbs 3:1-4)

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

Today, we are writing about the habit of memorizing scripture. Visit Ann's website using the link above for many different resources to help you.

A Wheelbarrow Full of Leaves on a Windy Day

noreply@blogger.com (Charity Singleton) — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 01:18:00 +0000

On Saturday, I decided to make one last push to get the fall yard work done . . . that meant finishing the enormous task of taking care of the leaves. I had already bagged 33 garbage bags full of leaves, and there seemed like at least 20 more on the ground (the final count ended up more like 60!).

At some point during the day, however, I realized that not all of these leaves should go in garbage bags. Some would serve me well by becoming winter mulch and eventually compost on my gardens. So I hauled out the wheelbarrow to begin making the move.

The problem was that it was a really windy day, and though the leaves had been rained on at some point, they were now completely dry and full of life in the breeze. Moving a wheelbarrow full of leaves on a windy day didn't feel like a very productive task.

As I hauled load after load to a couple of my vegetable garden beds, the futility of the moment felt frustrating, then comical. I imagined winning a couple thousand bucks on America's Home Videos as I started with a full load and ended up dumping out much less. Then, I began to imagine coining a new phrase for all the futile tasks we do in life. Now, when someone seemed like they were getting nowhere, instead of saying, "It's like emptying the ocean with a teaspoon," they would say, "It's like hauling a wheelbarrow full of leaves on a windy day." (I wonder if I can copyright that?)

But then, I realized that the job was really just like a lot of life. It wasn't neat and efficient -- there were as many leaves on the path as there was on either end. And it certainly wasn't exciting -- I can think of at least one hundred more exciting things to do than move leaves around the yard, like trying to empty the ocean with a teaspoon, for one. But the job was there for me to do, and in doing it, I will reap the benefits.

Not just the benefit of having better soil in my garden next spring, but also the character that comes from doing mundane jobs and finishing the work, of using my resources rather than buying a new and improved tool for the job, and in seeing the silliness in life and laughing at it rather than complaining.

There are lots of tasks that Jesus puts in front of me that seem like a wheelbarrow full of leaves on a windy day. But even if I leave a lot of leaves on the path along the way, I know there will be at least a little something left for the garden when I get there, and that can only mean new growth in the Spring.

That Word of His

noreply@blogger.com (Charity Singleton) — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 12:41:00 +0000

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You Can't Have One Without the Other

noreply@blogger.com (Charity Singleton) — Sat, 31 Oct 2009 19:21:00 +0000

You can't have this . . .

Without a lot of these . . .

to rake up off of here.

Twenty bags of leaves and counting! I LOVE FALL!

Repay No One Evil for Evil

noreply@blogger.com (Charity Singleton) — Sat, 31 Oct 2009 19:07:00 +0000

I'm not usually one for revenge.

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

Until recently, that is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another Year, Another Dress

noreply@blogger.com (Charity Singleton) — Mon, 26 Oct 2009 11:22:00 +0000

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Horses, Not Zebras

noreply@blogger.com (Charity Singleton) — Tue, 06 Oct 2009 23:51:00 +0000

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Green Striped Seats and Three Things Wrong

noreply@blogger.com (Charity Singleton) — Mon, 07 Sep 2009 23:17:00 +0000

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

noreply@blogger.com (Charity Singleton) — Wed, 19 Aug 2009 22:27:00 +0000

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nobody told me!" I protested.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The torch has been passed.

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

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

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

Vacating

noreply@blogger.com (Charity Singleton) — Fri, 31 Jul 2009 11:27:00 +0000

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

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

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

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

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

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

Saving Buttons

noreply@blogger.com (Charity Singleton) — Mon, 27 Jul 2009 22:42:00 +0000

One of my fondest memories of my childhood is playing with my Grandma Ruth's button box. She had an old Sunshine Biscuit tin with two little girls on the front filled with old buttons carefully removed from worn-out trowsers and thread-bare dresses.

Though I remember playing with the button box, taking out the buttons and marveling over their various colors and shapes, the button box was certainly not a toy. Even in the "modern age" of my youth, we often went to the button box to find a replacement for a buttonless shirt or a new vest.

Saving buttons was just a part of the thriftiness of homemaking that was so much a part of my heritage. Clothing was worn until it was worn out, and the buttons were saved to bring life to a new handmade piece of clothing.

Wendell Berry, in his novel Hannah Coulter, describes this aspect of domestic arts in the character of Hannah's Grandmam.

"She never gave up on her clothes until they were entirely worn out, and then she ripped them up, saving the buttons, and wore them out as rags. She was an old-fashioned housewife: determined and skillful and saving and sparing. She worked hard, provided much, bought little, and saved everything that might be of use, buttons and buckles and rages ans string and paper sacks from the store. She mended leaky pans, patched clothes, and darned socks. She used the end of a turkey's wing as a broom to sweep around the stove."

Because my grandmother saved buttons, my mom saved her buttons, too. She was part of the last generation who knew the necessity of excelling in the domestic arts. Though my mom now has a dishwasher and microwave, and buys all of her clothes at Kohl's, her early life began in a different time. She still saves her button.

And because my mother saves her buttons, I save mine, too. None of my buttons came from a piece of worn-out clothing. In fact, the buttons I have collected in my tiny ceramic dish each came in their own plastic bag. So far removed from the necessity of saving buttons, these little buttons are just "extras," attached to a new sweater or blouse just in case another one is lost.

But even though I may never need one of these treasured buttons, I think of my grandmother each time I carefully remove one from its plastic and place it in the dish. Saving my buttons reminds me that caring for the things I have, even down to the tiniest button, is a spiritual act of stewardship.

And when I see those buttons spilling over the edges of their tiny home, I am thankful.

Thanks to many of you who have been praying regarding the possible genetic testing. After meeting with the genetic counselor and spending the last couple of weeks in contact with my insurance company, I gave them permission today to begin the process of genetic testing. The first set of tests are conducted on samples of the original cancer tissue removed almost two years ago. If the find evidence of possible Lynch Syndrome there, then I will have further dna tests done on my blood. My medical and family history are suspicious for this syndrome, but the chances that I have this syndrome are still actually very small. If I do receive a positive result a few weeks down the road, then all this will mean for me now is more rigorous cancer screening.

Meanwhile, my next CA125 screening will be the second week of August.

Birds of a Feather

noreply@blogger.com (Charity Singleton) — Thu, 16 Jul 2009 00:15:00 +0000

Last week, as I was out in the yard picking up sticks, investigating new blooms on my flowers, and trying to figure out why my compost pile hasn't turned to dirt yet, I noticed something caught in the wire fencing around Precious' dog run. It looked like a dead leaf, sort of. Yet it also seemed to be fuzzy.

As I got closer, I realized that it was a little bird that had wedged itself into one of the cross sections of the fence and was holding on for dear life. I got fairly close to the bird, trying to determine if it was injured. It seemed to be able to move its wings ok, and it adjusted its legs from time to time. It even did a cute little hiss at me by opening its beak and sticking out its tongue. But under no circumstances did it seem remotely interested in flying away. I went on my way, assuming he would eventually go on his way, and I didn't really think another thing of it.

The next morning, when I peeked out the window, I saw the bird still there. It must have had a long night perching on that thin wire, I thought. But I had to get to work, and there just wasn't time to get involved any further.

When the bird was still there that evening, I began to get worried. I walked back out to have a closer look, but I still couldn't detect any injury. On this second examination, however, I realized that this was a very young bird, and if I had to guess, I would say that he had embarked on his first flight and gotten no further than my fence before he realized how terrified he was.

His terror was growing by the minute, however, as I began to talk to him and offer him a spoon full of bird food as a snack. He had been hanging onto my fence for more than 24 hours, and he was surely hungry. But when a giant tries to pour bird seed down your throat with a plastic stick, an empty stomach is not exactly the most pressing item on your list of concerns, I guess.

Later that evening and the next morning I went back out to the fence and tried to convince him that he was strong enough to continue his journey. I talked as soothingly as I could; I even tried threatening him into flying by letting my dog come out and sniff around him. Nothing worked. I couldn't persuade him to fly.

When I looked out the window to check on him in the evening of the third day, I noticed that he had moved slightly, though he was still on the fence. But even more importantly, he was no longer alone. A second bird now sat right next to him and was chirping encouragingly. I was relieved. It's one thing to be afraid during your first attempt at flying. It's entirely another to get left behind.

I walked outside to look at the birds to make sure they weren't both stuck on my fence, and immediately the new bird flew away, leaving my little friend alone again. But the new bird didn't go very far. After watching me for a minute or two to determine that I was not going to hurt them, the other bird came back. Still chirping excitedly.

Not wanting to interrupt what was obviously an important intervention, I came back inside, but I prayed for the little bird who didn't think he could go on. There's nothing worse than being stuck, so I asked the Lord to give him courage. And I thanked him for the brother or sister, or maybe it was his mother, who was there to see him through.

Amazingly (or maybe not so much), within a few minutes I looked back out the window and both birds were gone. I laughed out loud and thanked the Lord. Not only for being a caring creator who knows even when a sparrow is hanging on for dear life to the side of a wire fence, but especially for being a Father to a woman who too often feels stuck in the loneliness and fear of her own life.

What a God -- who chose not to be just a giant with a plastic spoon to us but a feathered friend who knew what it was like to learn how to fly.

Tomorrow morning, on the suggestion of my oncologist, I am meeting with a genetic counselor. Because endometrial cancer is a very unusual diagnosis for a young woman, I am being considered as a possible carrier of Lynch Syndrome, a genetic predisposition which will put me at a higher risk to develop colon cancer. Please pray that I will remember that I am fearfully and wonderfully made regardless of the outcome, and that no cancer is more powerful than my Jesus.

Fenced In?

noreply@blogger.com (Charity Singleton) — Mon, 22 Jun 2009 21:12:00 +0000

Recently, I've begun doing a little painting again. I have been slowly working on a watercolor of sparrows dining at a feeder since January -- my visual response to LL's poetry play over at Seedlings in Stone. She doesn't even know I started it back on January 26. I didn't want to tell her in case I never finished. So far, I haven't.

That's the problem with trying to live the creative life. It's risky. Projects get started and stopped like rush hour traffic. And sometimes, like we often hear on the 6 o'clock news, some of them never make it home. Casualties of the system.

Every time I pick up a paint brush, strap on my guitar, or sit down to the keyboard, it's like climbing onto a bus with no route number. I don't know where I'm going to end up. That's why all too often I just turn on the TV or go for a walk instead. It's safer that way.

So I wasn't surprised when last week, as I grabbed the paints and canvas, I skipped right over the sparrows and ended up painting a cow with a mind of its own, instead.

Months earlier, my mom had given me a copy of a photo she had taken of one member of their Angus herd basking in the glory of a flaming red tree on a beautiful fall day. She thought I might want to use it as the subject of a painting some day.

The colors were striking, the composition decent. If the painting turns out, I thought to myself, it would make a great Father's Day gift for my step-dad. So, mustering the creative courage required to begin something FOR someone, I set to work.

In the first sitting, I tackled the background, painstakingly mixing the colors for the chalky sky, the browning grass, the wheat field just beneath the horizon. I blocked in the fence posts, and added the receding tree line. And at that point, decided to call it a night.

A couple of nights later, I went back to the painting, still hoping to have it finished in time for Father's Day. I added the rest of the complex fencing system, added the smaller tree that had already lost most of its leaves, then spent a good deal of time trying to get the colors and scope and shading right on the red tree which was the focal point of the painting. By the time I had it just right, I realized I still needed to put the cow in, and it was already 11 p.m.

Painting animals has never really been part of my creative repertoire, so I proceeded carefully. I started with the head, and then outlined the body, working hard to keep the proportions right. Because the cow was all black, there was only very subtle shading, and so I carefully mixed a charcoal gray that would be slightly lighter than the black I was already using. I added in a few wisps of grass around the feet, and was amazed at how well I had done, all things considered.

But as I looked at the painting, I realized something was not right. The cow itself looked fine, but its addition into the composition was throwing something off. Suddenly it hit me. I had painted the cow a little bigger than I had intended, and it was now standing just OUTSIDE the fence.

By now, it was 11:20 p.m. on the night before Father's Day, and the paint wasn't even dry. I wasn't sure I could rework that section to move the cow back into the pasture without ruining the whole painting. So, in a moment of genius and to maintain the integrity of the composition, I decided to just repaint the wire of the fence as if the cow was pushing through it, trying to escape. Afterall, would anybody really look that closely at it anyway?

The next day, I slipped the painting into the house as a surprise for my step-dad. I had other stops to make, and by the time I ended up back at the house later that day, I was dying to know what he thought. When I found him on the porch, I asked him how he liked the painting, and he just smiled.

"It's good," he said. I was relieved. "But my cow's getting out."

We laughed over it; I tried to explain the problem with my technique; we agreed that the cows got through the fence in real life more than we'd like. And in the end, he said he liked it anyway.

But as I was driving home last night, I realized the truth that cow was teaching me. The truth about the creative process, that is. It's only risky when I think I'm in control. The sooner I realize that cows always get through the fence, the easier this creative life will be.

Surviving

noreply@blogger.com (Charity Singleton) — Tue, 09 Jun 2009 21:26:00 +0000

Recently, I participated in one of the American Cancer Society's Relays for Life. My mom and I have been walking together in the event since before my cancer; last year we walked in it while I was continuing to battle cancer. This year, I walked as a survivor.

It's only been recently that I have begun to refer to myself as a cancer survivor. Last year, after I had finished chemotherapy and before we found the new spot of cancer in a lymph node, I attended a series of workshops on the topic of cancer survivorship. I enjoyed meeting the other participants; I learned a lot about life after a cancer diagnosis; but I just couldn't think of myself as a survivor.

Then, I thought pretty narrowly about what it means to survive. It seemed like victims who live after a plane crash can be called survivors because there is no longer any threat that the plane crash will take their lives. But as for cancer, I still feel threatened by it. Until I die of something else, I didn't feel I could be called a cancer survivor.

But over time, something started to happen that changed my mind. I went on living despite my cancer. I didn't live as if it didn't happen; I just figured out how to live now that it has. It's true that if I want to go on living then I am not free from the threat of cancer. (Just like a plane crash survivor is always at risk of another crash if she decides to go on flying.) But even though I am threatened by it, I don't have to submit to it. For me, being a cancer survivor means living a better life because of cancer.

Every time I continue to be active though my surgery scars ache, every time I submit my arms to multiple needle sticks for blood draws and CT scan dye, every time I lay my head on the pillow and sleep while I am anxiously awaiting test results, every time I dig deep and try to encourage someone else with cancer, even though I'd rather avoid the topic altogether, every time I make plans for the future even though the future still feels uncertain, every time I write "cancer" on my list of thank you's to Jesus, I am surviving cancer.

I am a survivor.

Speaking of surviving, I have received lots of good news over the past couple of weeks. My tumor marker came back normal a couple of weeks back, and I just received the results of a CT scan yesterday. Everything looks completely normal there, too. As far as I'm concerned, normal is the new exciting. I'll take normal any day of the week!

Wounded Hand

noreply@blogger.com (Charity Singleton) — Wed, 06 May 2009 00:09:00 +0000

The goal: a lawn free of dandelions. The tools: a trowel and bucket. The schedule: a little each day.

This has been my anti-dandelion plan over the past several days. And today, if you drove past my house and peeked into my yard, you'd be hard-pressed to find a single dandelion. But even as I write, I can practically see the strong, persistent little plants spreading their roots, regenerating their stems, and reaching heavenward. Tomorrow, there will be more dandelions to dig.

Last week, as I put trowel to earth, extracting the hearty little plants one at a time with as much of their root intact as possible, I consciously thought of all the lessons I could learn from such a chore. Persistence, for one. Will I be dedicated to completely rid my lawn of dandelions by pulling them one at a time? Principle. Will I take the easy way out and just spray my lawn with chemicals, even though my conscience is pricked at just the thought of it? Perseverance. Will I continue on in the job even though my back hurts and I'm tired?

Then, after a few days into the job, the metaphor went deeper. Each dandelion became sin in my life, and if I didn't continue to rid the lawn of the parasites -- or my life of sin, then sin would take over. I thought about the implications of my neighbors' dandelions, even if my own lawn were clear. And about the consequences of letting just one dandelion going unchecked.

I continued each day, setting small goals, digging and thinking.

Yesterday, for the first time, my work seemed close to paying off. My lawn was beginning to look dandelion-free. But as I set to work, hoping to eradicate the last few plants, I got the news that my uncle had had a massive stroke and is fighting for his life. After hanging up the phone, I began digging with greater fervor, fighting the enemy in my lawn as I wish I could fight all of life's enemies.

I named some of the dandelions illness and suffering, and dug them up with intensity and grief. A few dandelions became cancer, and I felt personally affronted by their presence in my lawn. I sunk the shovel deeper and harder into the earth to get to the very bottom of their roots. I looked around and realized that after days of work, still I was surrounded by joblessness, death, broken relationships, shattered dreams, and capitalistic greed. I dug and dug, confronting problem after problem, becoming addicted to the power of the trowel in hand.

My bucket was overflowing; still I kept digging. Just digging and tossing, since there was no proper place to dispose of these sadnesses and sorrows. Then, I became aware that the sun was setting, and it was time to stop. As I began to clean up, I stooped and dug one more. When I started walking toward the garage, I found another to dig. It was hard to stop fighting until I realized that my hand was stinging. When I looked down, I nearly cried. I had wounded myself trying to save the world. But it wasn't enough.

All day today, my wounded hand has reminded me that my efforts are not only insufficient to save the world, they can't even save myself. My best efforts to persist and persevere will too often fail. I'll never be principled enough to rid my own heart of sin. And left to myself, the sorrows of the world will overwhelm me. All I can do is hurt myself.

But the wounded hands of my Jesus are entirely sufficient. He was wounded for my transgressions, and by his stripes we are healed.

Food-losophy

noreply@blogger.com (Charity Singleton) — Tue, 28 Apr 2009 23:43:00 +0000

I love food. Not just for consuming, though. I love everything about food. I love to read about food, shop for food, study food, grow food, talk about food, cook food, even give food as gifts. Some people might even call me a "foodie."

Most Saturdays year round I find myself at a farmers' market, shopping for the perfect tomato or discussing the benefits of sprouting wheat berries. I know many of the farmers by name, and can even make recommendations back to them on their products.

Food also is the basis of many of my discussions with friends and family. We share recipes, discuss gardening tips, cook for each other and then plan our next meal together. We don't just talk about nutritional content or taste, though those items often are part of the discussion. Food has become a way of life, a cultural phenomenon. We're all just a bunch of foodies, really.

Because food is so central to who I am, however, altering my food habits actually becomes a change in lifestyle. Both for me and those I love. This has been true over the past several years as I have moved toward organic, locally grown, and seasonal food. Making a change like this has taken food out of the primarily social realm and transformed it into a political statement. (If I buy local, am I anti-global?) It's also raised questions about the non-food areas of my life. (If I don't want chemicals on my food, what about my lawn, my clothing, or my hair?)

Then came cancer. In the past year and a half, I have received all kinds of recommendations about what I should and shouldn't eat. As a foodie, I believe in the power of food even in regards to my health. But cancer already has changed so much of my life, does it have to change my food identity too?

I have never believed that what I eat is "just food." There are some obvious reasons to believe that our dietary intake affects our health -- just eat lots of cookies and cake for a few weeks straight, and the scales will confirm that. But I believe there is much more to the effects and benefits of food than that. Not only for our physical health, either. Food is cultural and spiritual and political and social. What we have available and choose to eat defines us and connects us and empowers us and helps us to know Jesus better.

And at the same time, food can become a source of guilt and turned into a commodity and used as a weapon to divide us from those we love because it is so personal and necessary. If I choose local and organic does that mean I think less of you for buying a conventionally grown banana? Or do I need to feel guilty when I occasionally buy bananas for myself? How can I still spend time with friends but choose not to eat at fast food restaurants?

Because food is more than "just food," I want my decisions about food to mean something, not just reflect my passing appetites. So over the past few months, I have been developing my food-losophy. These are the driving values that shape my food choices.

I believe that food is spiritual. Not only did Paul say that I must do all things, even eating and drinking, to the glory of God (1 Corinthians 10:31), Jesus taught us to ask for the food we would eat each day -- "daily bread" -- and instituted a simple meal of bread and wine as a memorial ritual, to be practiced as we wait for His return. God used the manna and fowl in the wilderness to reveal the stubbornness and ingratitude of the Israelites, and Paul tells us in several of his letters that food is a way we can love one another through abstaining, sharing, and giving. If "what" I eat doesn't matter to God, then at the very least "how" I eat does.

I believe that food is social. As a single adult, I often eat alone. And really I don't mind. But even if I spend a few meals by myself at the table, more often than not food connects me with others. Not only do I go to the farmers' market most Saturdays, but it's an errand I share with friends. We have at times even gone to the grocery store together, and it's definitely more fun that way. But the choices I make about my food aren't made in a vacuum. I care what others think about my food choices, and I try to listen to their opinions. Thankfully, I usually don't have to choose between my food preferences and time with others, but when I am faced with the choice, I weigh the consequences carefully. I want food to connect me to others; not isolate me. There are enough things in the world that separate me from others. I certainly don't want food to. I love others, and food, too much.

I believe food is simple. Recently, I heard an NPR commentator turn the phrase, "You are what you eat," into, "You are what you eat eats." The phrase was used in a story about free-range, grass-fed chickens, but really, since most of our food starts out as a living thing, we ultimately are eating the product of what our food ate. If it's a free-range chicken, then we are eating the product of the grass and bugs. If it's a conventionally-grown vegetable, then very likely we are eating at least some chemical residue from fertilizers, pesticides, and insecticides that were taken in through the roots, stems, or leaves. But it's more than just how the food is grown. I also would rather not buy pre-processed food. As often as I can, I buy ingredients in their most natural state and go from there. Instead of pasta sauce, I'd rather buy tomatoes and garlic. Instead of bread, I'd rather buy flour and yeast. Instead of buying from a retailer who bought from the wholesaler, who bought from the farmer, I'd rather buy straight from the farmer. This way, I control my food from start to finish. Because I am what I eat, too.

I believe food is sustainable. By sustainable, I simply mean that my food habits must be reasonable over time and a variety of circumstances. This value stems primarily from my belief in God's sovereignty over my life. Because the Lord has planned that I would live in the Midwest, and work at a job with a modest salary, and have a love of gardening and cooking, I don't eat a diet primarily of seaweed and oily fish, like salmon. For one thing, seaweed and salmon aren't raised around here, and for another, I can't afford to have it shipped daily. Since I believe that God has me here at this time in this place, I believe that there is a healthful, affordable diet for me right here and now. It may require work and sacrifice. It's not cheap to eat a locally grown, seasonal, organic diet. And at times, I may have to bend on some of my food choices. But this is because my food choices have to be sustainable.

Finally, I believe food is a matter of stewardship. Oh, how easy it is to overspend on the beautiful, fresh food at the farmers market on Saturday, and then throw half of it away the following Thursday because I didn't plan my week or my menus well. Because our individual food purchases are relatively cheap, this is an area that can be full of waste. It's also easy to overlook the potential for growing our own food, or preserving excess through freezing and canning because of the time investment. I recently heard a chef describing his grandmother's habit of using her finger to wipe out every last bit of an egg white when she was baking. That image of an aproned woman gently caressing the inside of an egg shell has become a symbol for me of what it means to be frugal and careful in my food choices.

Sometimes, these values are at odds with each other. Sometimes I am at odds with them all. (It's not always easy to live up to our own beliefs, afterall.) But this is my food-losophy, why I eat the way I do.

Some Changes

noreply@blogger.com (Charity Singleton) — Mon, 20 Apr 2009 23:39:00 +0000

For months I have been observing all of the beautiful layouts of my talented blogging friends, yet I persisted in my own mediocrity. Formatting changes can be so cumbersome! Well, today, I finally took the plunge and created a look of my own. I hope this is not too disruptive.

Unfortunately, I redesigned instead of writing -- I am really making an effort to spend more time in front of my computer reaching out to you all. Tomorrow, perhaps.

I also wanted to point out a new friend I just found over at GettingDownWithJesus. We discovered we posted an almost identical picture with eerily similar thoughts (MINE -- HERS) very recently without ever having met. A quick email back and forth, and I know I have run across another kindred spirit. So glad to meet you, Jennifer!

Thanks to all who spend time with me here on these pages.

First Fruits

noreply@blogger.com (Charity Singleton) — Mon, 13 Apr 2009 23:28:00 +0000

Tonight, I ate the first fruits of my garden. The leafy greens pictured above have been quietly growing in a make-shift container for the past couple of months. First, I sowed the teensy lettuce seeds in a 12-inch deep cardboard box lined with a garbage bag in my garage back in mid-February. Eventually, I moved the box outside under my plastic tube "greenhouse" for about a month where the magnified sun really turned on the growth. For the past few weeks, the container sat outside under the southeast eave near my garage door thriving in the cool wetness that has characterized our Spring. And tonight, I took the first cutting and enjoyed a delicious salad.

If you've never grown any of your own food, you might not be familiar with the joy of first fruits. For someone like me who grows just a small part of my annual diet, the first fruits are more of a surprise than anything. I did it! I actually grew something I can eat! But in most agrarian cultures, the harvesting of the first fruits was so significant it was celebrated as a religious festival.

Typically, the first fruits were given as an offering, and either burned or eaten by the religious leaders. The harvesters didn't mind giving up the first fruits, however. They were just a sign of the bounty to follow. In fact, the first fruits aren't always the best tasting or high quality pickings of the harvest. Though a long winter of scraping by on last year's leftovers certainly makes them taste pretty good by comparison. (And compared to the shipped-in lettuce we've been eating here in Indiana for the past four months, my lettuce tasted pretty darn good tonight.) No, the value of the first fruits was not in the food itself, but the promise that more food was to come. This year, there will be enough to satisfy.

Though the tradition of the Jewish Festival of First Fruits actually is counted 50 days after Passover, the Apostle Paul links the concept with Resurrection Sunday, calling Jesus the First Fruits of the Resurrection Life to come in one of his letters to the Corinthians. When the pastor quoted this passage yesterday during the Easter service, and I thought of my flourishing box of lettuce growing at home, the message of Easter took on a whole new meaning for me.

After three days in the ground, the Resurrection of Jesus was glorious and victorious. And not only that, it's a promise of even more to come. Enough to satisfy us for eternity.

"For as in Adam all die, so also in Christ all will be made alive. But each in his own order: Christ the first fruits, after that those who are Christ's at His coming, then comes the end, when He hands over the kingdom to the God and Father, when He has abolished all rule and all authority and power." 1 Corinthians 15:22-24

Messy, beautiful life

noreply@blogger.com (Charity Singleton) — Mon, 06 Apr 2009 22:56:00 +0000

Over the past few weeks as Spring begins to take shape, I have been gradually cleaning up the debris of winter again.

I've written many times about collecting the various objects the earth spits out after a winter of freezing and the shifts of thawing, objects left behind in the past by acts of carelessness, forgetfulness, or even malice. This year, I've gathered a few more bottle gaps and pieces of broken glass and scraps of paper. I've also written about picking up sticks and the creative way God "prunes" and "tends" through the destruction of Spring storms. I collected about 10 bundles of sticks and branches so far.

But unlike previous Springs, this year I also found myself with a bunch of leaves to rake. Despite my best intentions and mediochre effort, I did not get the raking done last fall. The front yard was completed, but the flower beds were loaded with leaves and twigs of various sizes, and part of the back yard remained covered, even after five months of blowing around.

So, before the grass in the yard rotted under the wet cover of dead leaves, and before the young perrenials were intimidated by the darkness of that soggy blanket, I got the rake out and went to work. Out with the old; make way for the new. Without cleaning out the dead things, there would be no possibility for the new life.

And then one day I found myself laying on a bed of leaves in the middle of a forest. I was in a nearby state park attending a prayer summit hosted by my church. We were given an hour to spend by ourselves praying, and as I had had a very hectic week, I decided to just find a place in the forest to lie down. As I was marvelling at how tall and thick the trees were, it dawned on me that the forest seemed to be full of life despite an obvious lack of raking. Why did I have to rake my leaves at home to get life, but here, life seemed to come out of the leaves?

The difference is what I am growing. Most living things need the benefit of the sun, and if they are so small that a bed of leaves covers them up, then they get cut off from their source. A forest of massive trees, however, can still connect with the sun, even if the floor is covered with leaves. The leaves aren't bad; in fact, the decomposing leaves add a lot of nutrients to the soil that helps plants grow. But the soil is only part of the growing process.

I found this metaphor at work all over my life. It seems I too have seasons where life gets messy, and in order for anything new to grow, Jesus has to help me clean things up. The last few weeks have been a Spring for the spiritual part of me, too. The past year and a half since my cancer diagnosis have left some bad habits and paralyzing anxieties that Jesus is raking up so I can get a little more sun in my life. He has some new things to grow in me that are just taking root.

But there's also an aspect of my life and faith that is firm and established, and Jesus is leaving things a little messy. Things like my singleness and disappointments over relationships, financial burdens and some chronic pain are not preventing me from growing; the sun can still get through over them. Eventually, they'll return key nutrients to my life and actually help me grow.

Unlike the leaves in my yard and the leaves in the forest, it's not always so easy to know what parts of my life I need to work to clean up and what part I just need to rest in. Oh, that Jesus would give me the wisdom to know the difference.

I've heard from a few of you that you still check this blog every week, even though I haven't been very faithful to write regularly. My friends over on FaceBook are feeling similarly neglected. I found myself in an extremely busy season over the past couple of months. And now I am trying to find a way back to sanity. Hopefully, I'll be here at least a little more regularly soon. Bless you for still coming.

I am doing well physically. I continue to have some minor pain around the area of my second surgery. However, the doctors are pretty confident, given my good CA-125 levels over the past several months, the consistency of the pain, and how good I feel otherwise, that this pain is just adhesions or scar tissue. This is apparently pretty common after major abdominal surgeries like I have had.

My next round of tests will be in middle to late May.

It's Been a Long Time

noreply@blogger.com (Charity Singleton) — Mon, 23 Feb 2009 00:18:00 +0000

I can hardly believe when I sign on to my blog to post these days how much time passes between them. Was it really January 27 when I last sat down here to write about telling our stories to each other? So much has happened in my story since then, and I can't believe I haven't told you.

For one, I had my latest blood test this week to track my cancer tumor marker, and everything was normal again. I am so thankful to Jesus for this continued good news. I try very hard not to take this news for granted, knowing full well that many people did not receive good news that same day. In fact, just minutes after the nurse called to tell me my results, I got into the car with a friend to attend a funeral of a man my age who died of brain cancer.

Another good part of my story that I haven't yet shared is that I am going on a vacation this week -- a much needed vacation, to Texas to visit my friends, Jon, Shelly, and Tanner Bergeron.

Although the busyness of life makes carving out the time to sit here and type these posts a little challenging -- you all know how these things go, a bigger issue I have been wrestling with lately is technology overload. Having a blog, a website, two email accounts, and a Facebook page often leave me with something akin to media guilt. Some days, I feel like I'm on the computer too much, yet I still don't post blogs, update my status, or change my web content often enough. And I haven't even mentioned my cell phone or Ipod!

There are so many good things that happen as a result of all of this technology. I have received so much encouragement through your feedback on this blog; I've reconnected with many old friends and classmates through Facebook; and I don't know how I would ever arrange dinner plans or rides to the airport without email anymore. But to be honest, I'd rather meet you for tea and tell you about my life than deliver the message electronically.

Also, I don't want to fool myself with all of this techonology. Is it really reasonable to expect that I can keep up on the lives of 209 friends on Facebook? (Not to mention all of the other friends I have who don't even know what Facebook is.) Is all of life really so black and white that I can describe it in a one sentence status, or even a seven paragraph blog post? Do I really believe that a public forum is the best place to process my most intimate struggles?

Of course the answer is "no" to all of these questions. And I'm not REALLY planning to give up any of these technologies anytime soon. (I'm practically addicted to Facebook Scrabble, afterall).

Really, the point here is that I had this good news about my blood test and my vacation, and I didn't want my computer screen to be the first to know. I wanted YOU to.

Technology is important, but YOU are more important to me.

Telling our Stories

noreply@blogger.com (Charity Singleton) — Tue, 27 Jan 2009 22:31:00 +0000

Last night, I heard former child warrior, Ishmael Beah, tell his story about being conscripted into a rebel army as a 13-year-old during the civil wars in Sierra Leone in the early 90s. He was rescued, rehabilitated, and released to live a new life, eventually coming to the United States where he attended college, wrote a book, and now advocates for other young victims of war. His life seems like a harrowing adventure with a Hollywood ending.

But its a story that took years for him to tell. He still has nightmares and suffers from insomnia nearly 15 years later. For a long time after he was safe from the terror of war, he refused to talk about it, letting others sit with their assumptions rather than setting the record straight himself. Eventually, he realized that sharing the details of his own life, no matter how difficult, might possibly keep others from ever having a similar story to tell.

Last night, before he shared his own story, however, he recounted hearing the stories of his family and community back in Sierra Leone before the war. Adults and children would sit around the fire together, the elders passing on a shared history to the next generation. Because this village had limited resources to record such histories, it was encumbent upon the younger generation to get all the facts down in their memories. This required very careful listening. Otherwise, when one of the children was called on to recite a story he had heard, if he got any of the details wrong, he also got a playful whack on the head. The stories were important, and getting the details wrong meant losing the purpose of the story. Without a purpose, the story is no longer worth telling.

Maybe because we receive so many competing messages in our lives, or maybe because we don't sit around the fire with our elders much, we are not always such careful listeners to each others stories. Ironically, with more ways than ever to tell our stories to each other, through blogs, social networking sites, text messages, etc., we're often too distracted to really hear. The world is going too fast to sit around and pass on shared history. But if we aren't listening to each others stories carefully enough to get the details right, might we miss the purpose?

What IS the purpose of our stories? Why is it that we feel so compelled to share them? According to Kathleen Norris, in The Cloister Walk, telling our stories is the way we deal with crisis, listening to the stories of others is a way to minister grace, and the whole exchange is really nothing more than a way to worship the Author of the story.

Here's how Norris describes a typical Sunday morning at her small church on the plains of South Dakota:

Our worship sometimes goes into a kind of suspended animation, as people speak in great detail about the medical condition of their friends or relatives. We wince; we squirm; we sigh; and it's good for us. Moments like this are when the congregation is reminded of something that all pastors know; that listening is often the major part of ministry, that people in crisis need to tell their story, from beginning to end, and the best thing--often the only thing--that you can do is sit there and take it in. And we do that pretty well. I sometimes feel that those moments are the heart of our worship.

You all have been ministering to me so faithfully by listening to this story of mine; I pray that I am such a careful listener, such a caring minister. And may Jesus be honored through it all.