Category: Living In Community

Uncovering Imagination (in the post-dora age)

When Ruthie was just two months old, Bryan and I coordinated a babysitting co-op with friends. Every other week we would go on a date and have free babysitting, and on the opposite weeks it would be our turn to babysit. Various families have been a part of this co-op in the past, but for the last two years (at least) we’ve been trading with the same family, so our kids have grown very attached to each other. No more fussing at goodbyes, no more anxiety at bedtime – every Saturday is like a slumber party now, and we are literally pushed out the door by our kids.

One of the things I have loved about their time playing together, is the way their children influence ours. My children influence other children in the ways mothers whisper about when they hear you are invited to the same party. But these kids? They encourage my children to explore their imagination.

I walked into the room one night to find Ruthie and Olivia buried under a pile of blankets, then watched them dramatically stretch out from under the pile as they ‘hatched’ like chicks coming out of an egg. This moment was the first seed planted in our eventual decision to cut ourselves off from 642 HD channels, as Olivia and her siblings don’t watch conventional t.v., but enjoy a variety of videos from the library that teach them new and interesting things. My daughter previously had no idea where baby birds came from, and suddenly she was hatching like one – learning in community.

On another occasion this summer, during a daytime play date over lunch, I walked into Olivia’s room to find them performing ‘puppet’ shows for each other. It was beautiful and silly and creative, and it made me jealous that I am not a child anymore. I am so glad we don’t have cable anymore (shut up, Bryan), because I am looking forward to more moments like these:

Hospitality That Diverts Tragedy

I couldn’t resist this article about the gunman who raided a D.C. area party, only to be thwarted by kindness when one of the party-goers extended hospitality to him. An incident that started with a man holding a gun to a 14-year-old girl’s head, ended with hugs and bewilderment for both parties involved:

After the intruder left, the guests walked inside the house, locked the door and stared at one another. They didn’t say a word. Rabdau dialed 911.

The incident almost seems cartoonish and as far fetched as frogs raining from the sky. If a movie were made of this incident, I picture a comedy with Eddie Murphy or Adam Sandler as the robber.

“We were just finishing dinner,” Cristina “Cha Cha” Rowan, 43, blurted out. “Why don’t you have a glass of wine with us?”

The intruder took a sip of their Château Malescot St.-Exupéry and said, “Damn, that’s good wine.”

It makes me wonder what motivated one of the women to offer the gunman some wine. Did she sense hesitation? Did she sense he was more troubled than hardened? Whatever the reason, she in essence extended hospitality to an enemy, and her kindness diffused the situation.

The would-be robber, his hood now down, took another sip and had a bite of Camembert cheese that was on the table.

Then he tucked the gun into the pocket of his nylon sweatpants.

“I think I may have come to the wrong house,” he said, looking around the patio.

“I’m sorry,” he told the group. “Can I get a hug?”

I’m a fighter, and when faced with a grouchy cashier, or a road rage-er, or a stressed out husband I usually respond in kind with harsh words or a snippy attitude. After all, don’t I have a right to be pissy? I’m certainly not the one who started it.

“There was this degree of disbelief and terror at the same time,” Rabdau said. “Then it miraculously just changed. His whole emotional tone turned — like, we’re one big happy family now. I thought: Was it the wine? Was it the cheese?”

Recently my thoughts about forgiveness have collided with my thoughts on hospitality, as I recently found myself at the same party as someone who had hurt me. I practice what a friend calls ‘maintenance forgiveness’ everyday, fighting my demons of bitterness and working to put my trust in God over the situation, but this has largely been a battle I fought in my own mind. Seeing someone I felt betrayed by was a whole new battle.

I don’t know if how I acted at this party was the right thing to do – I was aloof and distant. I honestly didn’t know what to say, given the circumstances, but I probably didn’t make it easy for anything to be said to me. The anger in me believes that showing kindness toward a perceived enemy is caving in to the idea that he or she may have been right in offending me – that it is weakness on my part to say hello and have a welcoming attitude, that ignoring or avoiding is the just thing to do in order to stand up for myself.

In the midst of my mind-wrangling, a friend shared these verses with me from Colossians 3:

12Therefore, as God’s chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience. 13Bear with each other and forgive whatever grievances you may have against one another. Forgive as the Lord forgave you. 14And over all these virtues put on love, which binds them all together in perfect unity.

Forgive as the Lord forgave you. We offer kindness to a stranger or an enemy because kindness has been shown to us. This is the heart of hospitality. It’s like what it says in the book of Luke, what good is it if I love only those who love me in return? Anybody can do that. The challenge for me is to show kindness to someone who has not shown it to me.

Clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience. Even as I write this, anger swells in me. I want justice, and I don’t want to be nice until I see it. I want someone to apologize to me without any sort of excuse or reason why things happened they way they did. And sometimes I feel like I could set up camp on my tall cliff of self-righteousness until Christ returns… or until I received an apology. I don’t want to be the first one to extend kindness and humility because, dammit, I was the one who was hurt. I am the one who was wronged. I shouldn’t have to make the first move. I… I… I…

And over all these virtues put on love, which binds them all together in perfect unity. But I also want peace and reconciliation, because being a part of community is too stressful when there is discord. When the Body is torn, so is the soul. When I think too much about how someone else should be treating me, instead of submitting to how I ought to be treating others, the selfishness eats a hole in me, making me feel bitter and depressed.

So as I think about hospitality, and hospitality of the heart, I think also of forgiveness and kindness and humility, and whether I can look into the face of a gunman and offer him a glass of wine. But as Bryan said to me as I processed it all with him, “We may not all be brandishing guns, be we’re all packing heat in the form of unforgiveness, and justice, and the desire to separate the white hats from the black hats.”

Traveling Hospitality

[edited to further clarify this a quality I strive for, not something I have already achieved.]

Thinking more on the theme of hospitality, I made a connection that it doesn’t necessarily have to be something you practice within your home. The more I think on it, the more I’m understanding hospitality to be a state of mind, a way of life. I think some people just have hospitable personalities that make you want to take residence in the living room of their soul.

I don’t know that I have that sort of personality – though I believe I’m good at creating a hospitable environment – but I am challenging myself to be more warm and outgoing toward others, particularly strangers.

The other day I was sitting in my living room reading. It was quiet – Bryan and the kids were napping, and I had turned off my music to gain some peace of mind. In the quiet with my windows open, I heard the squealing of tires, then a crash. I paused to listen closer, and when I heard shouting I grabbed my cell phone and ran out the door.

As I trotted down to the main intersection at the corner where my wine bar is located, I saw three cars. I approached the first and asked if they were okay, but then I saw a car to my left, all the way up on the sidewalk. The woman inside was leaning back against her seat, her eyes closed and unmoving. Her window was open, so I leaned in to ask if she was okay. She pointed to her chest where the seat belt caught her, but nodded that she was okay.

A man was already on the phone calling for help, so I continued talking to this woman, who told me her name was Winnifred. I asked again if she was okay, and if there was anyone she needed to call. She told me she needed to be at work in the building down the street by 3:00, and did I think she could still make it. I checked my watch, which already read 3:08, and I asked her if I could call somebody to say she would be late.

She closed her eyes and teared up, and before I knew what I was doing I put a hand on her shoulder and told her I would stay with her until help arrived. Quietly, I prayed for her, as she seemed very shaken.

Thank you, she whispered.

It took me a minute to get down the street from my house. By the time I arrived there were many people standing around watching, but only myself and the man on the phone approached the woman in the car – and interestingly, when the man went to catch his bus, he shook my hand and said, “God bless you, sister,” and he didn’t say it lightly. I could tell it came from a place of Belief.

I once watched with curiosity as my friend stopped to talk to a homeless woman in my neighborhood and extended ways in which she could personally help her. I had no idea what made her capable of doing this, and chalked it up to just not being my thing. But as I am released from the prison of my own selfishness, I find there is more room in my heart to care for others and their well-being.

In this way I am learning that the practice of hospitality is more than just inviting people to my home on my terms. It extends into my community as I interact: I say hello to someone walking past me, I place a hand on the shoulder of someone in need, I make conversation with the barista. These are all acts of hospitality that invite people into community, that connect us together, that make it more than just about me.

Heaviness

I’m feeling weepy this morning, with a lump in my throat that is ready to burst into emotion at the first sign of lowered defenses. Perhaps I am hormonal this week, but on this Monday morning – the first time I have slowed down enough to process since returning from Minnesota – there is much weighing on my heart that I have pushed aside in the busyness of the weekend.

I feel for my mom, who was so sad to return to an empty, quiet house when we left, magnifying her loneliness for Gordy; I think about my own grieving process, and how it feels to spend time surrounded by all the things that Gordy once touched – there are memories everywhere in that house; I am sad for my friends who have a sick baby, and are tired, and ragged, and discouraged, and afraid; I am sad that my house mate left this morning for new adventures on a different coast – she has left a hole in our hearts and home; I am sad for a friend’s broken relationship, and for another friend’s loss of hope in life.

On Saturday evening, in the midst of hearing some of this news, I busied myself with a new purse I bought on clearance. I chattered on endlessly to Bryan about all the pockets and zippers and places to keep my things, as if the bliss of something trivial will stave off the tragedy of more important things. It was shallow of me, and I knew this, but somehow it was my way of not falling apart when there was no time to do so.

But today I seem to be falling apart, and I seem to have the space to allow that to happen, so I likely will.

If you pray, please remember those who grieve, those who are sick, those who are helpless, those who are giving up, and those who love each and every one of these people.

Hospitality as seen in Nehemiah

Our pastor is preaching through the book of Nehemiah, which is about the rebuilding of Jerusalem after the Jews had survived many years of exile.

This week I was particularly struck by the celebration that took place after the wall was completed and the city was rebuilt. All the people gathered in the center square and asked Ezra, the high priest, to preach the Word to them. After exile, after being separated from one another for I don’t know how long, it was not their desire to settle into their individual homes for a family meal. Rather, it was their desire to gather, to bump into one another, to touch and be touched, and to hear the Truth of their faith read to them.

They desired the community of God and of one another.

After they heard the word of God preached to them, the people began to weep. Perhaps theirs were tears of joy; perhaps of conviction; perhaps of awe in God’s provision. Whatever the reason, the leaders instructed them to stop crying and begin celebrating, for “this day is sacred to our Lord. Do not grieve, for the joy of the Lord is your strength” (Neh 8:10)…

10 Nehemiah said, “Go and enjoy choice food and sweet drinks, and send some to those who have nothing prepared. This day is sacred to our Lord. Do not grieve, for the joy of the LORD is your strength.”

11 The Levites calmed all the people, saying, “Be still, for this is a sacred day. Do not grieve.”

12 Then all the people went away to eat and drink, to send portions of food and to celebrate with great joy, because they now understood the words that had been made known to them.

Their response to the goodness of God was to have a party.

To this, I can relate.

After two years of depression and grieving a loss and working through my own inner demons, the Zug Haus has become All Party All the Time – to the point where people are showing up without even calling ahead. They just know their presence will be welcomed.

I don’t say this to boast in myself, so please do not hear this. I am not bragging about how popular I am. Rather, I thank God all the time for bringing me through a season of isolation into one in which I can celebrate his goodness with anyone who cares to roast marshmallows at my fire.

He is Good, and Faithful, and Steadfast, and that, my friends, is worth celebrating.

Hospitality

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about hospitality. In fact, I’ve been thinking about it so much that my mind is going in fourteen different directions, so I’m not sure how this post will turn out.

When Bryan and I were courting (nice old fashioned word, eh?), one of the main things we discussed was our desire to share our home with others. We talked about buying a home with rooms we could rent, in a neighborhood with plenty of parking so people could come over easily, near a town center so we could be out and about in our community.

Amazingly, our home currently meets all these needs, and we feel very blessed (though some might argue our kitchen needs a little enlarging. Can I hear an amen?).

We are both people who by nature prefer isolation and the familiar, so it seems odd that God would also instill in us a desire to live so openly among others – both online and face to face. True, we have our Peeps – those people so familiar to us we can host dinner parties for them in our pajamas (it’s happened), but I think it’s just this thing that compliments our calling to hospitality.

I am not a conversationalist – I despise the what do you do for a living small talk that must precede the real stuff of friendships, but I recognize that it’s necessary. For this reason it’s really difficult for me to become your friend – in fact I’ve had many friends confide that they used to think I hated them – but once we are friends, I am as faithful as a Labrador retriever.

I have to be, because now you have all the shit on me.

Perhaps this is why I prefer to travel in packs. In social settings I glue myself to someone familiar and let her start all the conversations. I can participate easily enough, but I never know where to start. And perhaps this is why I also like to mix up the social groups in my home, inviting new friends along with the old. We all get to meet new people, and I’m not the only one in charge of making the conversation happen.

So I guess I’ve basically taken a weakness – my propensity to isolate and ignore the unfamiliar – and used community to draw myself out and meet new people.

Chuck Palanhniuk, author of Fight Club (on which the movie was based), says in the introduction to his book, Stranger Than Fiction,

If you haven’t already noticed, all my books are about a lonely person looking for some way to connect with other people.

In a way, that is the opposite of the American Dream: to get so rich you can rise above the rabble, all those people on the freeway or, worse, the bus. No, the dream is a big house, off alone somewhere. A penthouse, like Howard Hughes. Or a mountaintop castle, like William Randolph Hearst. Some lovely isolated nest where you can invite only the rabble you like. An environment you can control, free from conflict and pain. Where you rule.

Whether it’s a ranch in Montana or basement apartment with ten thousand DVDs and high-speed internet access, it never fails. We get there, and we’re alone. And we’re lonely.

Occasionally I drive out into a neighborhood deep in the heart of the suburbs, the kind of neighborhood in which you must take a series of four lefts and three rights just to get to your destination, which is likely a cul-de-sac. I don’t know why I do this. Sometimes I’m picking something up I’ve purchased on Craig’s List. Sometimes I stalk a house that’s for sale, wondering if I might want to move there, where sirens and horn honking and door slamming and engines revving are a bit less frequent.

But about the time I’m taking my sixth turn off the main road I start to feel a tightness in my chest because the isolation from the heartbeat of community makes me claustrophobic. The thought of having to drive everywhere makes me queezy. The thought of never bumping into someone on the street as I walk with my children makes me sad.

So I guess I’m counter cultural to the so-called American Dream. I want to know you (though I’m a little awkward in making that happen), and I want you to know more about me than you probably care to. If you rent one of our rooms, you will likely hear Bryan and I screaming at each other, but you will also likely move out with our key still on your ring because you are now a part of our family and are welcomed back at any time.

Why?

I don’t know. At least, I don’t know well enough to explore in this essay. Perhaps I will turn this topic into a series of posts to help me flesh out my thoughts.

Jen on the air

On Monday evening (April 2) I will be participating in a round table discussion as a panelist with a group called The Kindlings. The topic is online community and whether it can be real and engaging to those involved. I’m very honored to be participating, and I hope it will help me flesh out some thoughts on the subject that I’ve been kicking around.

If you are local and would like to join the discussion, you need to make a reservation. However, the event will also be recorded for a podcast, and I will post that information as soon as I get it.

Meet-Up for local This Pile Readers!

I’ve heard of other blogging groups getting together for meet-ups in the area, and thought it might be fun for the Friends of This Pile (heretofore called FoTP) to have a local Meet-Up as well! Are you interested? I’d love to meet you in person (those I don’t know already), and I think it would be fun for some of you to meet each other.

Here’s the info:
Thursday, March 29, 5-7pm in the Renton area.
If you would like to come, please email jen (at) zugbot (dot) com for the location.

I wish I had the creative energy to make this sound more exciting, thereby luring you all in. But I’m working through an anti-computer/pro-Getting Things Done phase, so this is what you get. Just the facts. Trust me that it will be fun, and if you’re lucky I might do some interpretive dance.

My Very Own Truman Show

If you’re anything like me (read: narcissistic), The Truman Show was the movie that made you want to smoke a cigarette when it was over. I could have made millions had I capitalized on my vivid childhood imagination, for I had envisioned ‘reality tv’ long before it was even a whisper in the womb. There were cameras in every room of my house, in my car, at my school, following me down the street – I was the star of my own show, and EVERYONE wanted to watch it. I even NARRATED during the slow parts.

If you know me personally, perhaps this sheds a little light things.

Bryan has been raving about a new online tool called, Twitter. And like most things he raves about, I roll my eyes and ignore him for awhile, wait for one of my friends to say it’s cool, then I finally check it out. It drives him mad, but it’s good to keep him grounded.

Things I like about Twitter
Many use it in the work sector as a tool for workstreaming, but as a stay at home mom I have found value in the social aspects of Twitter – ambient intimacy, as one blogger called it. The tool limits you to only 140 characters – just a couple of lines – so it forces you to be quick and concise. You can use it through your IM client (I use gtalk), so it doesn’t add one more feed or blog or website to check into. I do many interesting and fun and mundane things throughout the day, but don’t have time to fashion a blog post, nor do I want to bore the masses with my Truman Show-like mentality. So I twitter, and only those who choose to ‘follow me’ will receive the updates. Also, if you are a more private person than I am you can set up twitter to be private, so only those you allow access to can read your updates.

I feel this tool could be a strong connector for moms who, at times, can feel isolated. One thing of value I have gleaned from writing at This Pile is the world of connectedness it has opened up – other women writing me to say, This is exactly how I feel, or I have struggled with the same thing, or I’m glad that’s working for you so maybe I’ll give it a try. My theory is that it can not only be a point of fellowship, but of accountability and networking. Did I make it to the gym? Am I eating bon bons while my children watch their fourth movie? Am I drunk blogging???

I personally feel that my online and offline communities can be enhanced by twitter, and that there is great value in connecting through simple, easy-to-use tools.

Please twitter me and make all my fantasies come true!

The Regular

This is what I love the most about living in a walkable community – being The Regular. I walk into the Coffee/Wine Bar near my house and Charlie the Customer greets me, asking me how the book is coming along. He says he admires me for my consistency in setting aside time to write.

The lovely barista is excited to tell me she has two more pours of that New Zealand Pinot I had last week, and would I like her to start my goat cheese plate?

It’s Peg’s birthday today (she’s another Regular) and we share stories as she drinks her birthday beer.

There are many things that I like about being spontaneous and adventurous, but community and familiarity is what grounds me. I am faithful to my little coffee shop on the corner, and it’s a comfortable place for me to write. I’m the fat guy at the end of the bar that everyone knows by name. I have arrived.

Peeps

My first JitterbugI know I’ve talked about my birthday FAR too much than anybody should on the internet, but it’s been celebrated in bits and pieces with various people – much like Christmas was for me with divorced parents and heaps of extended family.

As I stated last year, I like to spend my birthday with The Girls, because even though I’ve made many NEW friends in the sixteen years since landing in this city, the day still symbolizes the beginning of Steel Magnolias-type friendships in my life.

Previous to attending college I was the only girl amongst a pack of guy friends, finding that girlfriends were high maintenance and catty. But once I was dropped into the middle of a girls’ dorm for two years, I found a smattering of kindred spirits.

I’ve always thought it was Providence that brought me to Seattle, since I insisted to my parents that I move here, applied to only one college in the area, and had no logical reason for any of this to happen. I even dropped out of college eventually. But it was through my college experience that I met my lifelong friends, and subsequently began a journey of growing up in my Christian faith.

Over the years those first girlfriends have taught me how to be faithful through disagreements, compassionate through struggle, patient through wandering, and joyful through tears. And as I make new friends, I’ve learned that the pieces of me that I shared with only a few actually multiply like fishes and loaves as I offer them to others, and I become full in the bounty of friendship.

The other night I went out with many of The Girls (click on the photo above). Not all could make it, but I know they were there in spirit. Jenny wrote about it here, and for the record, mom – I was NOT drunk.

Mad Housewives Unite!

Mad Housewife WineMy friend, Jenny, and I both had commitments to watch someone else’s kids last night, so we decided to consolidate our tasks and hang out together in the process.

And, wow, what a night.

At one point we had seven toddlers under the age of four running around! I actually find this sort of thing fun, though exhausting. I actually went to bed before midnight last night (doesn’t happen often).

Jenny brought along a great wine for us to share after most of the kids were in bed, admittedly chosen only for the label: Mad Housewife! It wasn’t the smoothest red I’ve had, but it’s definitely worth buying just to display the bottle somewhere in your home! The back of the label reads:

Somewhere near the cool shadows of the laundry room.
Past the litter box and between the plastic yard toys.
This is your time.
Time to enjoy a moment to yourself.
A moment without the madness.
The dishes can wait.
Dinner be damned.

The Toddler WhispererWe had so much fun last night – changing diapers in shifts and taking turns as the tickle monster – that it got me thinking about other ways to share the burden of otherwise isolating or mundane tasks, making them a bit more fun.

For instance, before Thomas was born I had an ‘errand swap’ arrangement going with one of my friends – she watched Ruthie on Tuesday morning while I went grocery shopping or to my OB appointments, and I watched her kids on Thursday morning while she ran errands. It was a great way to run those multiple errands where you’re in and out of your car several times.

Several years ago when we were both first married, that same friend and I did a housecleaning swap. Every Friday we’d meet at someone’s house to clean the bathroom, kitchen, and do the vacuuming, and the next Friday we’d do the same at the other’s house. At the time, we both lived in small apartments, and working together we were able to clean an entire apartment in about an hour. It was fun, and motivating, and a great way to hang out when married life gets busy with other things.

My other friend and I have also talked about next Spring when our yards and gardens are overgrown from the Winter’s neglect. We’ve talked of taking turns on a couple of Saturdays helping each other weed, prune, and prepare our vegetable gardens – a job that may take all day alone, but much less time when working together. Plus our kids can play, and our husbands can make dinner for us, and there is so much fellowship that happens with sharing these kinds of tasks.

I think it’s easy for wives and mothers to feel isolated from others. As our lives become more complicated, our spare time is continually shrinking, and it becomes increasingly difficult to connect with other people. For many of us, our only friends are the people we work with, or if we stay home with preschoolers, we may not even have that luxury.

I think about the gal who baby sits all the children at my gym. She has a 10 month old, and almost every day that I’m in there she has another question for me – When did your kids start walking? Do your kids keep taking their shoes off? What do you do for teething pain? Is it hard having two kids so close in age? I just get the feeling that since she’s asking a complete stranger these questions, she must not have many other people in her life who understand her frustrations and insecurities.

I have a Shakespeare quote on a matted photo of me with several of my friends that says, “I am wealthy in my friends.” I think up until recently I’ve taken my life for granted, assuming that everybody has lots of people in their lives to share the emotional load of being a wife and mother. But as my world expands more and more outside of my home and my church, I’m meeting other women who are more isolated than me.

It has simultaneously caused me to invite them into my world, and become more grateful for the women in my life who influence and support me. Friendships are important to me – I’m a deeply loyal person. When life gets busy and I don’t see my friends for some time, I begin to feel isolated.

Why not multitask by hanging out together while Getting Things Done? What if we started some kind of crazy, housewife revolution to get us all out of our own mundane lack of motivations? Hey, I’ll clean yours if you clean mine!

Things That Are Life Changing

IMG_2878About a month ago I posted about my friend who had given birth to a baby girl in need of a new heart. Zoe was born on July 2nd, and has been on the transplant list to receive a new heart since shortly after she was born. The family learned of Zoe’s heart condition at Zoe’s 20-week ultrasound in February, and in the months that followed it was determined a heart transplant was the only option for Zoe.

This evening they recieved the call they had been waiting for – a heart for Zoe has become available.

PLEASE, dear Internet, stand with me. If you pray, please pray. If you meditate, or think positive thoughts, or light a candle to remember, please do so with me as Zoe goes into surgery tonight to receive a new heart. In your thoughts and prayers, please consider these things:

– Peace for the Faultner family as they rush to prepare for this life changing event.

– Strength for little Zoe to endure the very lengthy surgery.

– Strength and wisdom for the doctors and the other medical staff, as they perform this complicated surgery.

– The donor’s family, as they are experiencing a tremendous loss at this time.

Beyond these facts, I’m a little overwhelmed at the moment to write any more. I am truly amazed at how such a thing is even possible, that two forms of life can be fused together to support each other. I will keep you posted.

The Digression of My Culinary Prowess

I have always loved to cook. Even as a single woman, among contemporaries who ate take-out or ramen noodles, I enjoyed experimenting with different recipes and ingredients.

From the time I was in college until I got married I lived with other people. Sometimes it was just me and my best friend, and other times, like the summer I rented a house with four others, or the two years I lived with up to ten other women (Yes, you heard me. That’s another story), it was many. In all those scenarios, preparing a meal was a community effort.

For years my friend and I shopped together and split the grocery bill. We took turns cooking for each other, and we entertained a lot. The summer I lived with a few other gals we often shared meals together pot luck style, and the crazy two years I lived in complete insanity with far too many women, we pooled together our money hippy style and all took turns cooking dinner.

Now that I’m married, I love it when Bryan cooks with me. He’s pretty handy in the kitchen, and on many occasions is the family chef, but my most favorite times are when we cook together. There’s always loud music involved, and wine, and a little flirting. It is a time of family celebration, even if we are just celebrating Tuesday.

When Bryan travels I am lonely, but I think it mostly hits me around the dinner hour. I’m so accustomed to the plurality of the process that I seem to lose motivation when it’s just me and the kids. After three years of cooking fresh and (mostly) healthy meals for my kids, this week I finally broke down and bought a bag of frozen fish sticks and a bag of frozen tater tots.

I know it’s not the unforgivable sin to serve convenience foods to my children, and it’s not like I haven’t fed them pizza or Chinese take-out a dozen times in the last six months, but there’s just something about fish sticks that resonates in my mind as the ultimate sell-out for me. There is no community in fish sticks. There is no process in fish sticks. There is no beauty in fish sticks. I bake them, and I feel sad and lonely.

And to top it off, my kids LOVE fish sticks and tater tots, and completely cleaned their plates in five minutes. No arguing was necessary – no stalling, no counting bites or offering rewards for finishing their meal. Gulp, gulp, gulp.

Sigh.

Well, lest I become sad and depressed over processed seafood, I captured two very adorable children enjoying the bounty of fish sticks tonight in this short video. There may not be beauty in the preparation, but the consumers make it all sparkle like Christmas.

Reading: Season of Waiting

The church I attend encourages congregational participation in the worship experience by providing opportunities for our congregants to share original poetry, responsive readings, essays, and personal stories during the course of the service.

You’ve seen some of my projects, but I wanted to share another. This past Sunday a friend shared her story of faith through difficult circumstances: on Monday she will give birth to a baby girl whose heart is broken, and she will need a heart transplant as soon as possible after she is born. Aside from knowing her and being close to the situation, I felt moved by what she has been learning about herself and God. She writes, “I have to give up the idea God exists to fix this for me; that if I just believe the ‘right way’ He’ll be forced to help me; but He’s not my voodoo jukebox and ultimately Job never knew ‘why.'”

I once had a boyfriend who thought Christians blamed everything bad on Satan and gave God credit for all the good things. But sometimes things just Are. I learned this when Gordy had cancer and ultimately died. I was angry, because he was a good person, and I had a short list of people who I felt deserved cancer more than he did. I begged God to take anyone but him.

But the fact that he died doesn’t change who God is, and I had to come to peace with that.

You can find a copy of my friend’s story on our church’s website. There is no permalink to the specific article, but click here, then scroll down to the essay titled, “Season of Waiting.”