I’ve never been a connoisseur when it comes to culinary skills. My family can vouch for me in that regard. Years ago, my sister and I decided to take on the task of making an anniversary cake for my parents. You’d better believe we worked HARD to make it as unforgettable as we possibly could, and I know for a fact that cake is well-remembered today. I will be honest and say that I cannot remember whether or not the cake tasted good or if we even ate it. If we did, I am surprised one of us is not missing a tooth due to the many sprinkles and decorative silver balls and other such ornamental toppings covering the thick layer of frosting. However, despite not remembering how the cake tasted, I do remember making it. I remember how I laughed with my sister and how we “just knew it would be delicious” and that “Mom and Dad would love this cake”… right down to the bright orange frosting. How we concocted such a florescent color, I may never know.
Another one of my favorite cooking stories occurred when I attempted, please take note of the word “attempted”, to make brownies. Now, I know there are many individuals who would say, “You can’t go wrong with a mix from a box”, but I have always been the kind of girl who enjoyed going against the grain. So, of course, I went wrong. My brother enjoys telling the story of how we had to throw away the pan.
I am reminiscing because, over the past weekend, I have had a lot of time to be still, which of course leads to much thinking. I was pondering the events of the past few weeks, and how, so often, my life is very much like the previously mentioned stories. All the ingredients are present; they’ve all been tossed into the bowl, and yet nothing turns out quite like I expect. I ask myself, “Why? Everything is in place, and it seems so ‘right’. What now?”
Alas, the answer arrives... ever so slowly… and I shudder.
Patience. To put it bluntly, this attribute is NOT an area of strength for me. In fact, just the word is a loathsome expression within my vocabulary. So is the word “wait”. I try to avoid them both, but I have learned, and usually the hard way, that sometimes waiting is an unavoidable necessity. For example, *WARNING do NOT try this at home*, I tried to grill chicken faster by turning up the heat twice as high and cooking it for half the time needed at the lower temperature. The end result was a burnt chicken with a very cold and very pink center. All the ingredients were there. I had done my part. I just had to wait.
So, over the last few weeks, certain events have taken place. Things have appeared to seem “right”; all the ingredients were in the bowl and in just the right place at just the right time and in such a way that would never allow me to take responsibility or question the contents of the recipe... supposedly. Have you ever tasted something and thought it was delicious only to discover that once the “secret ingredient” was added, it was absolutely divine?
I seriously believe that God looks upon us and has a good chuckle to Himself at the pettiness of His humans. I’m not one to follow recipes to the “T”. In fact, I love a secret ingredient, and I rarely measure things at all; that’s what the “eye” is for, right? BUT, if I’m completely honest with myself, I must admit there are some things in life that have to be done “just so”, and I guess if I really want a delicious chicken, I’m going to have to wait. Afterall, what good is rushing things if all I’m going to get is raw chicken with a burnt “shell”?
“Let God grill your chicken. It’ll be the best you ever had.”
Oh yes, I know the comment was cheesy, but I am perfectly OK with “cheese” as long as it is intentional.
And preferably sharp-cheddar.
“The Lord is good to those who wait for Him, to the person who seeks Him.” –Lamentations 3:25
"Wait for the Lord; be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord." -Psalm 27:14
PS- I have come quite far in my culinary skills, and if you should so desire, will most willingly cook a delicious chicken for you.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Radical
I’ve been reading the book Radical by David Platt (2010). In the briefest of synopses, Platt asks his readers to consider what Jesus is worth to them. I will not even attempt to claim “everything” because, in doing so, I would most definitely be lying. Oh, how desperately I would like to say he is “everything to me”, but the hard truth is that if Jesus commanded me to “follow him” at the cost of losing my home, my family, my friends and having “no place to lay my head” and being told to not even return home to bury my father, I honestly am not sure I would be jumping up and down with enthusiasm (Luke 9:57-62). How often have I said, “I’ll be obedient if...” or “I’ll follow you, but first…” or even “I know Jesus wants obedience, but I don’t think He meant _______”.
There has been some debate as to whom Jesus was speaking in Luke 9 (specifically whether these men were believers or not). As a believer, the words “leave it all behind for Me” are terrifying; I can’t imagine the impact such words would have on someone who was encountering Jesus for one of the first times. In my opinion, it seems we make excuses for not following Jesus whole-heartedly. One of these reasons being “love”. For example, “It would be ‘unloving’ to follow Jesus without saying goodbye to family” or “It would be ‘unloving’ not to attend a family member’s funeral”, etc., etc.
Don’t get me wrong here. I’m not encouraging you to skip town and to follow Jesus… unless He gives you that specific direction. Not everyone is called to go overseas, and it’s ok if some of us are blessed with “much”. What I take from this passage has less to do with specific behaviors/possessions and more to do with a willingness to follow Christ at the risk of losing everything we ‘value’. Let’s pretend you do not live in America, and you have to travel 50 miles by foot each time you wanted to meet with believers, taking a different route each time, so the authorities would be less likely to follow due to suspicions. Then you would meet in an underground room infested with roaches, spiders, snakes, rats, and other such creepy-crawlies; there is no band or flashing lights. No heat or air-conditioner, and the only place to sit is on the jagged gravel floor that penetrates your flesh. Would you go? Would you still be willing if you knew that getting caught would mean the torture and execution of your entire family?
It’s easy to love Jesus in America. We have comfortable seats in our churches, air conditioning, heat, electricity, nice houses, and exterminators, and despite the fact that we might get teased every now and then, persecution is, comparatively, at a minimum. In our pictures Jesus is a handsome man with a halo casting a soft glow upon blond hair, blue eyes, and tiny drops of blood dripping from small holes in his hands and feet. He is almost always smiling. I never really “got” these pictures because 1) “He had no beauty of majesty to attract us to Him; nothing in His appearance that we should desire Him” (Isaiah 53:2b) and 2) I have a really hard time imagining Jesus experiencing enough delight to put a smile on His face as His Father turned His face away from Him. Yes, the crucifixion was horrific; however, I believe the real horror was in the separation. This is the hell from which Jesus’ death and resurrection saved us… quite a radical way to say “I love you”… and yet I still have difficulty responding with as much abandonment.
In David Platt’s book, he mentions a woman from India who actually thanked her persecutors as they skinned her alive! She thanked them for “tearing off [her] garment, for [she would] soon put on Christ’s garment of righteousness.” Years ago, I heard the testimony of a woman who served overseas with her family. While in a secretly held Bible study, she and her family, among other believers, were attacked, and as shrapnel flew, she threw her body over her child. This woman shared that a piece of shrapnel lodged itself in her back and remains there today because it was too close to her spinal cord to remove without further damage. I will never forget what she said after that. She said the pain she felt was joy. She experienced joy in being able to protect her child and joy in being able to experience the sufferings of Christ. She loved Jesus that much, and to think, I shudder when I stub my pinky toe.
Could I do it? Could I let go of anything and everything for the sake of One who sacrificed His life for me?
“Leave it ALL… for Me.”
Crazy?
Maybe a little; however, “the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God” (1 Corinthians 1:18).
There has been some debate as to whom Jesus was speaking in Luke 9 (specifically whether these men were believers or not). As a believer, the words “leave it all behind for Me” are terrifying; I can’t imagine the impact such words would have on someone who was encountering Jesus for one of the first times. In my opinion, it seems we make excuses for not following Jesus whole-heartedly. One of these reasons being “love”. For example, “It would be ‘unloving’ to follow Jesus without saying goodbye to family” or “It would be ‘unloving’ not to attend a family member’s funeral”, etc., etc.
Don’t get me wrong here. I’m not encouraging you to skip town and to follow Jesus… unless He gives you that specific direction. Not everyone is called to go overseas, and it’s ok if some of us are blessed with “much”. What I take from this passage has less to do with specific behaviors/possessions and more to do with a willingness to follow Christ at the risk of losing everything we ‘value’. Let’s pretend you do not live in America, and you have to travel 50 miles by foot each time you wanted to meet with believers, taking a different route each time, so the authorities would be less likely to follow due to suspicions. Then you would meet in an underground room infested with roaches, spiders, snakes, rats, and other such creepy-crawlies; there is no band or flashing lights. No heat or air-conditioner, and the only place to sit is on the jagged gravel floor that penetrates your flesh. Would you go? Would you still be willing if you knew that getting caught would mean the torture and execution of your entire family?
It’s easy to love Jesus in America. We have comfortable seats in our churches, air conditioning, heat, electricity, nice houses, and exterminators, and despite the fact that we might get teased every now and then, persecution is, comparatively, at a minimum. In our pictures Jesus is a handsome man with a halo casting a soft glow upon blond hair, blue eyes, and tiny drops of blood dripping from small holes in his hands and feet. He is almost always smiling. I never really “got” these pictures because 1) “He had no beauty of majesty to attract us to Him; nothing in His appearance that we should desire Him” (Isaiah 53:2b) and 2) I have a really hard time imagining Jesus experiencing enough delight to put a smile on His face as His Father turned His face away from Him. Yes, the crucifixion was horrific; however, I believe the real horror was in the separation. This is the hell from which Jesus’ death and resurrection saved us… quite a radical way to say “I love you”… and yet I still have difficulty responding with as much abandonment.
In David Platt’s book, he mentions a woman from India who actually thanked her persecutors as they skinned her alive! She thanked them for “tearing off [her] garment, for [she would] soon put on Christ’s garment of righteousness.” Years ago, I heard the testimony of a woman who served overseas with her family. While in a secretly held Bible study, she and her family, among other believers, were attacked, and as shrapnel flew, she threw her body over her child. This woman shared that a piece of shrapnel lodged itself in her back and remains there today because it was too close to her spinal cord to remove without further damage. I will never forget what she said after that. She said the pain she felt was joy. She experienced joy in being able to protect her child and joy in being able to experience the sufferings of Christ. She loved Jesus that much, and to think, I shudder when I stub my pinky toe.
Could I do it? Could I let go of anything and everything for the sake of One who sacrificed His life for me?
“Leave it ALL… for Me.”
Crazy?
Maybe a little; however, “the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God” (1 Corinthians 1:18).
Sunday, August 15, 2010
A Little Girl
There once was a little girl...
She sat looking out the window. She watched the sweethearts walk by and knew, even back then, that she would never have that... whatever it was. She knew she wasn't lovable.
Bobby said don't tell. It's our secret.
Daddy beat her.
Mommy forgot her.
Older sister laughed at her.
Her mirror mocked her.
Johnny said he loved her, but only after his fist blackened her eye. Tommy said the same thing, and so did Joey, James, and all the others.
The nurse said it was only tissue. The doctor didn't even look at her.
The dealer said it would make her feel better. All she had to do was sniff.
The bottle said it could solve her problems.
Pills on the floor screamed silence.
You're not pretty enough, good enough, thin enough, smart enough, funny enough, serious enough...
YOU'RE JUST NOT ENOUGH!!!!!!!!!!
She knew she was alone, and she was OK with that...
but no one told her she would cry. No one told her she could cry.
So, she didn't... not a tear.
And no one ever knew...
---
This is the story of the little girl who is on your daughter's cheer-leading squad and the little boy who is the star pitcher for your son's little league team. It is also the story of the quiet math-whiz, the honor-role valedictorian, and the most popular well-liked kid at school. They know how to smile and how to convince us that they are "fine", and those who don't, refuse to say anything at all. They are quiet so as not to draw attention to the pain. After-all, that would only make it real.
Do you have "eyes to see" the un-shed tears of the invisible broken? Do you have "ears to hear" the silent cries of the "least of these"? Maybe, just maybe, if we took a little time to look and listen just a little bit closer, we might not be the ones who "[n]ever knew".
She sat looking out the window. She watched the sweethearts walk by and knew, even back then, that she would never have that... whatever it was. She knew she wasn't lovable.
Bobby said don't tell. It's our secret.
Daddy beat her.
Mommy forgot her.
Older sister laughed at her.
Her mirror mocked her.
Johnny said he loved her, but only after his fist blackened her eye. Tommy said the same thing, and so did Joey, James, and all the others.
The nurse said it was only tissue. The doctor didn't even look at her.
The dealer said it would make her feel better. All she had to do was sniff.
The bottle said it could solve her problems.
Pills on the floor screamed silence.
You're not pretty enough, good enough, thin enough, smart enough, funny enough, serious enough...
YOU'RE JUST NOT ENOUGH!!!!!!!!!!
She knew she was alone, and she was OK with that...
but no one told her she would cry. No one told her she could cry.
So, she didn't... not a tear.
And no one ever knew...
---
This is the story of the little girl who is on your daughter's cheer-leading squad and the little boy who is the star pitcher for your son's little league team. It is also the story of the quiet math-whiz, the honor-role valedictorian, and the most popular well-liked kid at school. They know how to smile and how to convince us that they are "fine", and those who don't, refuse to say anything at all. They are quiet so as not to draw attention to the pain. After-all, that would only make it real.
Do you have "eyes to see" the un-shed tears of the invisible broken? Do you have "ears to hear" the silent cries of the "least of these"? Maybe, just maybe, if we took a little time to look and listen just a little bit closer, we might not be the ones who "[n]ever knew".
Ravaged
She had been ravaged... destroyed, invaded, broken, forgotten.
She used to think that there were things too sacred, too personal to be discussed. The "off-limits" subjects... the ones that make her think, or even worse, feel.
It was one thing to read about epidemic proportions in other countries, states, cities. It was another when the "devastating unfortunates" were within her arm's reach- the druggies, the prostitutes, the poor, the abused, etc... worse yet, when she realized she was one of "them."
One minute she was watching TV, listening to the "breaking news" about the latest world disaster. The next minute, she discovered contamination within her own flesh. She was no longer the observer, but rather a victim herself.
At first, she fought. With everything inside of her, and she hated anyone who wouldn't join that fight. But the drive to fight lessened, and she quit.
Her hopes are pinned upon the stories of other survivors. One year, two years, ten years of freedom. She faces a disease that can sometimes be "managed," but cannot be "cured."
In a general sense, the disease is sin. It manifests itself using drugs, alcohol, self-mutilation, denial, AIDS, eating disorders, cutting, cancer, and numerous other addictions and illnesses.
She would learn to savor moments... and reserve her hate for those who thought she should scream "unclean unclean" for the sake of those who viewed her as a leper.
Friends stopped dropping by. Others whispered when they thought she wasn't listening: "This 'disease' is a judgment upon the immoral. Damn them!!!!!"
She found new friends... who really weren't friends at all.
They say you can judge the soul by how it treats the unfortunate, the victims of the deadliest disease. At best, she'd been ignored. At worst, she'd been mocked, ridiculed, damned.
She found it difficult to remember how she used to be... playful, full of life, strong. She can only remember the relentless advance of such a ravaging disease, the melancholy warrior, the sunken eyes, the flesh hanging from bones. The helplessness. And ultimately the despair. The desire to die... She was broken, yet she did her best to smile, to try and convince everyone else she was "fine".
She used to think that there were things too sacred, too personal to be discussed. The "off-limits" subjects... the ones that make her think, or even worse, feel.
It was one thing to read about epidemic proportions in other countries, states, cities. It was another when the "devastating unfortunates" were within her arm's reach- the druggies, the prostitutes, the poor, the abused, etc... worse yet, when she realized she was one of "them."
One minute she was watching TV, listening to the "breaking news" about the latest world disaster. The next minute, she discovered contamination within her own flesh. She was no longer the observer, but rather a victim herself.
At first, she fought. With everything inside of her, and she hated anyone who wouldn't join that fight. But the drive to fight lessened, and she quit.
Her hopes are pinned upon the stories of other survivors. One year, two years, ten years of freedom. She faces a disease that can sometimes be "managed," but cannot be "cured."
In a general sense, the disease is sin. It manifests itself using drugs, alcohol, self-mutilation, denial, AIDS, eating disorders, cutting, cancer, and numerous other addictions and illnesses.
She would learn to savor moments... and reserve her hate for those who thought she should scream "unclean unclean" for the sake of those who viewed her as a leper.
Friends stopped dropping by. Others whispered when they thought she wasn't listening: "This 'disease' is a judgment upon the immoral. Damn them!!!!!"
She found new friends... who really weren't friends at all.
They say you can judge the soul by how it treats the unfortunate, the victims of the deadliest disease. At best, she'd been ignored. At worst, she'd been mocked, ridiculed, damned.
She found it difficult to remember how she used to be... playful, full of life, strong. She can only remember the relentless advance of such a ravaging disease, the melancholy warrior, the sunken eyes, the flesh hanging from bones. The helplessness. And ultimately the despair. The desire to die... She was broken, yet she did her best to smile, to try and convince everyone else she was "fine".
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