[When whatever ends up on my phone, ends up here.]
Friday, September 8, 2017
Friday, September 1, 2017
Friday, August 25, 2017
Today I am Writing: On Pens
In that space of time where my eyes open wide, I begin to notice:
There are pens, everywhere I tend to spend time.
Multiples of them.
On the table, there are three, at all angles, caps hanging off the backs.
On my desk, there are four, at all angles, caps hanging off the backs.
On the kitchen counter there is one, and on the little set of drawers just outside the bathroom door, another.
In the basket by the bed there are two, in the basket by the chair there are three, laying on the table next to the chair there are an un-counted more (right there on top of the books), and then there is one, laying on the bookshelf just on the other side. On top of the piano lies another (and I will spare you the count of splayed out pencils).
I grab my bag and go to work. The pens stick out of all the pockets, they roll along the bottom. I arrive in my office and there I see four, scattered along my U-shaped desk in strategic points, ready for whenever my hand steps out to reach.
I have come to a grand conclusion then:
I both have and use a lot of pens.
There are pens, everywhere I tend to spend time.
Multiples of them.
On the table, there are three, at all angles, caps hanging off the backs.
On my desk, there are four, at all angles, caps hanging off the backs.
On the kitchen counter there is one, and on the little set of drawers just outside the bathroom door, another.
In the basket by the bed there are two, in the basket by the chair there are three, laying on the table next to the chair there are an un-counted more (right there on top of the books), and then there is one, laying on the bookshelf just on the other side. On top of the piano lies another (and I will spare you the count of splayed out pencils).
I grab my bag and go to work. The pens stick out of all the pockets, they roll along the bottom. I arrive in my office and there I see four, scattered along my U-shaped desk in strategic points, ready for whenever my hand steps out to reach.
I have come to a grand conclusion then:
I both have and use a lot of pens.
Wednesday, August 23, 2017
Today I am Writing: On Transformation and Fig Jam
Every year around this time I walk into the local grocery and find myself face to face with stacks and stacks of figs. And ever since that Christmas where I bought every fig in town to make jam for some friends, I buy them up, with glee.
I don't like figs (I have always thought fig newtons to simply be a very bad idea) and I don't like jam, but this fig jam is a whole other ballpark in which to swing. (I don't like baseball either, so I hope I have made my point.) (However, if you are as tired as I am and do not want to think, here it is: This fig jam is so killer, I will even resort to baseball references.) Hence, on my list of "do" this past weekend was: transform figs into killer jam.
I made a plan, dreaming of restful and reflective time in my kitchen, the scent of bubbling goodness wafting through my nostrils. This worked fine for about 2 minutes before falling completely apart. I got stuck in other more necessary tasks, attending to other needs. And I ended up at meetings, on my calendar but completely forgotten in my make-jam fervor.
Sunday in the late afternoon found me just getting home, just getting to my jam. I was grumpy as heck about it all, but I talked myself down. I put on my shorts and my music. I cut up all the pretty little figs, and loaded them into the skillet, oohing and aahing as I went. I was moving slow, I noticed, but I thought it was fine: I might be starting later than I planned, but I had all night! I began to prepare the seasonings, juicing my lemon with great expertise. And then, with one fell swoop, over I knocked that little measuring cup full of precious liquid. Lemon juice, scurrying everywhere.
Now, I always have bags of lemons in my fridge, but wouldn't you know it: This one lemon was my last. So I called my friend who lives up the street. When she didn't answer, I called her husband. He answered on the last ring, with a concerned "everything ok?" I mumbled something completely incoherent about lemon juice and scurrying, finally spitting out "I need a lemon! Do you have one?!" They were at her parents, but yes! They had lemon juice! I could just go up the street to get it.
So, I did. I hopped in my car, drove the 60 seconds, let myself into their house, found the goods, and returned home, praising the Lord's provision of neighboring friends instead of a drive over to the store. Situation averted, sigh of relief. I chopped the rosemary and measured out the mustard seeds. Feeling ready for the next step, I poured out the balsamic vinegar and then went to add the sugar, at which point I discovered, I had hardly any sugar.
With my head down, I went out to my car. I drove to the grocery. I bought the dang sugar.
At this point, it was getting later, but still not late. When finally all of the ingredients were in the pan, I turned on the heat. I set the timer for 35 minutes. I stirred occasionally, as the directions said. But 35 minutes came and went, and that jam was not near done. It bubbled happily on, seemingly unaware that I was getting grumpier by the second, longing for my bed. I set the timer for 5 more minutes, then 5 more minutes again. I did this, over and over. Each time the timer chirped I popped back in to see how it was going, until finally I just turned the timer off. I stood at that stove and I watched that jam, stirring it to test.
And I thought: I have plans for you, dear fig jam. There are tarts and pizzas and yogurt-mix-ins in your future. We have been through a lot today, and I am not giving up on you. I will stand here, until I see transformation!!!
And that's when it hit me: I'm tired and moving slow these days because there is a God in Heaven who does not seem to care to rest, waking me up at all hours of the night to talk to me about these transforming things He wants to do. I was grumpy about the jam, and I'm grumpy about this so-called "transforming work," but as I stood there committed to the transformation of my jam, I understood it, for a moment--
He has plans for me, His dear one. There are all kinds of abundant things waiting to be accomplished in my future. We have been through a lot already, and He is not giving up on me. He will stand here (even if it involves waking me up repeatedly and with no apparent concern for being the object of my wrath) until He sees: the Transformation He has spoken for me.
So, this morning, I eat my yogurt mixed with killer fig jam, and I rest. His grace is sufficient for even grumpy old me, and transformation we (someday) shall see.
I don't like figs (I have always thought fig newtons to simply be a very bad idea) and I don't like jam, but this fig jam is a whole other ballpark in which to swing. (I don't like baseball either, so I hope I have made my point.) (However, if you are as tired as I am and do not want to think, here it is: This fig jam is so killer, I will even resort to baseball references.) Hence, on my list of "do" this past weekend was: transform figs into killer jam.
I made a plan, dreaming of restful and reflective time in my kitchen, the scent of bubbling goodness wafting through my nostrils. This worked fine for about 2 minutes before falling completely apart. I got stuck in other more necessary tasks, attending to other needs. And I ended up at meetings, on my calendar but completely forgotten in my make-jam fervor.
Sunday in the late afternoon found me just getting home, just getting to my jam. I was grumpy as heck about it all, but I talked myself down. I put on my shorts and my music. I cut up all the pretty little figs, and loaded them into the skillet, oohing and aahing as I went. I was moving slow, I noticed, but I thought it was fine: I might be starting later than I planned, but I had all night! I began to prepare the seasonings, juicing my lemon with great expertise. And then, with one fell swoop, over I knocked that little measuring cup full of precious liquid. Lemon juice, scurrying everywhere.
Now, I always have bags of lemons in my fridge, but wouldn't you know it: This one lemon was my last. So I called my friend who lives up the street. When she didn't answer, I called her husband. He answered on the last ring, with a concerned "everything ok?" I mumbled something completely incoherent about lemon juice and scurrying, finally spitting out "I need a lemon! Do you have one?!" They were at her parents, but yes! They had lemon juice! I could just go up the street to get it.
So, I did. I hopped in my car, drove the 60 seconds, let myself into their house, found the goods, and returned home, praising the Lord's provision of neighboring friends instead of a drive over to the store. Situation averted, sigh of relief. I chopped the rosemary and measured out the mustard seeds. Feeling ready for the next step, I poured out the balsamic vinegar and then went to add the sugar, at which point I discovered, I had hardly any sugar.
With my head down, I went out to my car. I drove to the grocery. I bought the dang sugar.
At this point, it was getting later, but still not late. When finally all of the ingredients were in the pan, I turned on the heat. I set the timer for 35 minutes. I stirred occasionally, as the directions said. But 35 minutes came and went, and that jam was not near done. It bubbled happily on, seemingly unaware that I was getting grumpier by the second, longing for my bed. I set the timer for 5 more minutes, then 5 more minutes again. I did this, over and over. Each time the timer chirped I popped back in to see how it was going, until finally I just turned the timer off. I stood at that stove and I watched that jam, stirring it to test.
And I thought: I have plans for you, dear fig jam. There are tarts and pizzas and yogurt-mix-ins in your future. We have been through a lot today, and I am not giving up on you. I will stand here, until I see transformation!!!
And that's when it hit me: I'm tired and moving slow these days because there is a God in Heaven who does not seem to care to rest, waking me up at all hours of the night to talk to me about these transforming things He wants to do. I was grumpy about the jam, and I'm grumpy about this so-called "transforming work," but as I stood there committed to the transformation of my jam, I understood it, for a moment--
He has plans for me, His dear one. There are all kinds of abundant things waiting to be accomplished in my future. We have been through a lot already, and He is not giving up on me. He will stand here (even if it involves waking me up repeatedly and with no apparent concern for being the object of my wrath) until He sees: the Transformation He has spoken for me.
So, this morning, I eat my yogurt mixed with killer fig jam, and I rest. His grace is sufficient for even grumpy old me, and transformation we (someday) shall see.
Friday, August 18, 2017
Friday, August 11, 2017
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