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Comestible and Other Sundry Surprises

May 16, 2011 By 3 Comments

Ten pounds of tomatoes, ten containers of blackberries, containers of known and unknown vegetables and fruits. (I had to send a picture to a friend to discover what two of them were–jicama and tomatillos.)

Bountiful Baskets, a food co-op, now serves the Dallas area. Which means yesterday Chris and I peeled said ten pounds of tomatoes, and today I use them, along with the onions and garlic from the basket and basil and oregano from my garden, to make and can jars of marinara sauce (in twenty minute Keegan-nap intervals). And also, I made a blackberry tart yesterday. And froze some. And ate some. Tonight, we’ll grill the hatch chiles and tomatillos, and my husband will make pico de gallo.

I may not want to dive into molecular gastronomy, but I’m having a Suzie Homemaker makeover.

Far from my life plan (made in high school) to play flute internationally. Or from my life plan (made in graduate school) to minister in Italy.

Who knew I’d make homemade apple sauce? Or pickle cucumbers from my garden? Or knit toys for my baby and socks for various feet? Who knew a trip to the local dairy farm for raw milk would be my weekly treat?

Who knew I’d actually enjoy a suburban life?

It’s funny, considering this relationship between free will and God’s sovereignty. He gives us talents and the wisdom to make choices as we pursue and use them. At any point, I was free to go to grad school for music rather than to seminary or to choose to go to Italy rather than stay and see what happened with this sexy man I ended up marrying. And I believe God would have used any of those situations.

But here I am, in a Dallas suburb, with a husband and child wondering if a Winnebago is a good option for a family car. My imagination was not wild enough to conjure this scenario.

My life isn’t so different from the basket of known and unknown veggies and fruit I ended up with. Now I just need to figure out what to do with that jicama.

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Spiritual Mothers

May 5, 2011 By 1 Comment

Someone told him, “Your mother and brothers are standing outside, wanting to speak to you.”

He replied to him, “Who is my mother, and who are my brothers?” Pointing to his disciples, he said, “Here are my mother and my brothers. For whoever does the will of my Father in heaven is my brother and sister and mother.”

Matthew 12: 48-50

Mother’s Day is a tricky celebration for the Church. On the one hand, we want to rightfully honor those who have sacrificed to raise us. On the other hand, we need to be sensitive to those who have lost mothers, lost children, dealt with infertility, or been raised by abusive or absent mothers.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about the above passage, what it means to be not only a physical mother, but a spiritual mother as well. Jesus’s reply expands our thinking about family without denigrating his physical mother. After all, Mary had the job of raising a Savior (and one who made it a habit to hang around his Father’s house without telling anyone). In fact, themes from Mary’s Magnificat are found in Jesus’s teaching (and in James’ letter). Mary was more than a physical mother, feeding him, teaching him to bathe and speak and have good manners. She did the will of God and proved herself a spiritual mother as well.

I think of the women in my life who have been my spiritual mothers, beginning with my physical mother, who spent her days teaching me about God and demonstrates with her life what it means to follow him (and who continues to minister to me at all hours of the day and night when I call needing her). I’ve also had school teachers and Sunday school teachers and youth leaders and mentors throughout college and work. I have mentors in my church, even if it’s not an official role–women who demonstrate to me what it means to follow Christ in everyday life, women who take the time to walk beside me, encourage me, minister to me. These are women who do the will of their Father.

There are mothers from the Church’s history who continue to teach us. I remember one summer lounging by the lake we visited every year reading a biography of Susannah Wesley, the women who raised John and Charles. I did my thesis on Ruth, who ended up in David’s and in Jesus’s ancestry. When I questioned my purpose in life following graduation from seminary with my masters in theology (and landing the prestigious job of front desk medical receptionist), I found challenge and comfort in the writings of Jeanne Guyon. We have examples in the missionaries Amy Carmichael, Florence Young, and Elisabeth Elliot or the writers Fanny Crosby and Anne Bradstreet or theologians like Lady Jane Grey. Don’t forget Lydia and Priscilla from Paul’s time, or Timothy’s mother, Eunice, and grandmother, Lois. Or the women who ministered to Christ.

As we approach Mother’s Day, I’d like to honor all these women in my life, the women of my Church family. They’ve set examples for men and women alike of a Christlike life. I hope to be counted among them.

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Giving Myself a Break

May 3, 2011 By 6 Comments

When we first embarked on this parenting thing, I had high expectations about the all-natural thing. Cloth diapers! Homeopathic remedies! These hopes came from a desire to do what’s best for my baby and for God’s creation.

Then the cloth diapers gave Keegan yeast diaper rash, no matter how I washed them or how often I changed him. So we traded the cloth for the disposable.

And we discovered that he has a pretty bad case of acid reflux. Without the medication, the doctor warned that the esophagus could be permanently damaged and it would create long-term problems. So we gave up on the homeopathic and diet method to feed him baby Zantac twice a day. (Side note–he hates this medicine. Already, his dramatic side has appeared when it comes to taking the Zantac. He makes horrible faces and chokes on it. Perhaps this makes me a terrible mom, but I can’t help but laugh. I’m allowed to because he gets the dramatics from me, if you must know. Also his short temper, I fear.)

I had visions of writing every day during his nap, of planning weekly meals ahead of time so I could create healthy concoctions, of showering daily.

In some ways, I’ve surprised myself. The house isn’t as disarrayed as I suspected it would be. (This is due, in part, to the fact that Keegan loves when I strap him to me with the K’Tan–forward facing, of course; always forward facing so he could see the world less that aforementioned short temper show itself–and vacuum. My husband recently read that boys like to watch mechanical movement. I’m holding out hopes that someday Keegan will like to perform this job himself.) I love being a mother more than I thought I would. Most days, the time goes quickly. Keegan and I have a great time playing together. He may have a temper, but he has the cutest smile in the world, and he bestows it freely.

In some ways, however, I disappoint myself–when my writing goes neglected, when my frustration rises as Keegan’s temper does, when I’ve eaten something that the following day doesn’t agree with my boy. Yesterday was a rough day. Keegan was extra clingy and cranky. My husband had a client dinner, which meant I didn’t get my typical evening break (read “break” as “making dinner, collecting various burp cloths strewn throughout the house, perhaps taking the time to pee”). On days like that, I feel alone. It hits me that mothers (and fathers) can’t leave their responsibilities at work. You don’t clock out. My eating, sleeping, recreational (what? recreation?) habits all affect my son.

The only way I can survive is to enter into God’s grace. I can’t live up to the expectations I have for myself. I disappoint myself, and I will disappoint Keegan during his lifetime. I have to learn to give myself a Kit-Kat bar (but only one, because too much chocolate, I fear, makes a gassy little boy). What do they say? Love covers a multitude of errors? I suspect this may be true. I love my son more than I could imagine. Keegan loves me, even if he doesn’t understand love quite yet (who among us does?). But more than that, God’s love covers us.

So today, I bind my son to me and vacuum the floors again because I love to hear him giggle, and I rest in God’s love, even if I forget to make any vegetables for dinner tonight.

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A Child’s Theology

April 18, 2011 By 2 Comments

We had a nightly routine: first my mom came in and sang her designated song, then my dad sang his songs. My mom scratched my back or my arm. My dad rubbed my eyebrows.

My mom sang “Silent Night,” an odd nightly lullaby, perhaps, but I was a Christmas baby. The song hung in the air when I first entered the world, and it stuck. I was probably ten or so before I realized it was a Christmas carol.

My dad sang an assortment of children’s songs–”Jesus Loves the Little Children”; “Praise Him, Praise Him”; “Running Over”; “Jesus Loves Me.”

Now I sing these songs to my son. I add my own to the mix, a lullaby I wrote for Keegan while he slept (or kicked) in my tummy. Now he sleeps (or fidgets, more likely) in my arms, and I carry forward the chanson tradition.

The songs minister to me again in my motherhood. It is not I who entrust Keegan to God; God entrusts Keegan to me. He loves Keegan far more than I ever could. He sent his own son as a babe into the world that we might live. As I look at Keegan, I imagine this holy infant, kicking, screaming, suckling, spitting, cooing, smiling. Like Keegan, he was completely dependent on his mother for life. Did he have to learn to sit up, too?

I desire to raise a worshiper of God, that Keegan might someday also sing, “Praise him, praise him, all ye little children.”

***

“Ah, Lord God, behold“–my dad emphasized the “behold”–”thou hast made the heaven and the earth with thy great power and outstretched arm. Nothing is too difficult for thee.” Arm motions and drama accompanied the verse (Jeremiah 32:17). It was my first memory verse.

In a whisper, I repeat it to Keegan while he feeds. Really, I’m reminding myself of God’s great power. Keegan rests in God’s great power, not mine. And I can love Keegan the way he needs to be loved in God’s great power, not mine. The other night, the tornado sirens blared their warning in the darkness. Trees, possessed by the wind, thrashed at our windows. While Keegan slept, I prayed. Nothing is too difficult for thee. Including trusting God with my child, that God’s will be done so he might be glorified.

Dare I say that? Dare I chance that?

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Where’s That Darn Saddle

March 20, 2011 By Leave a Comment

I seemed to have misplaced the saddle in which I’m supposed to be back. (Trust me, that sounded funny in my head.) But I have good news:

  1. I actually have bona fide ideas for writing again. (Notice, I didn’t say they were good ideas, but ideas, nonetheless.) The other day, while walking Keegan in our neighborhood, a short story idea came to me. And I’ve been itching to get back to the short story I began BK (before Keegan). Perhaps someday I’ll return to editing my novel. But let’s not get hasty.
  2. Some semblance of a routine (which may allow me to pursue #1, see above) is visible in the distance. Perhaps not even the too-far distance. Exhibit A: this blog. I’m writing an actual, real, live blog post while my dear son naps in his crib.
  3. One small child produces enough laundry to clothe Tibet. (Extensive studies have been done on the amount of cotton needed to clothe Tibet.) This is neither necessarily good nor apropos of the former two points, but it begged saying. Especially as it waits for me on our pool table, aka laundry folding table. Except maybe it does relate in that I have to let go of some things in order to both enjoy my baby boy (and, seriously, how could I not enjoy the most adorable baby in the world?) and work toward finding some writing time so I don’t go crazy (no comment from the peanut gallery, please.) So the laundry sits unfolded and piles of who-knows-what develop on the coffee table and kitchen counter. (I’m allowing the growth of material for a later expedition. Imagine how fun it’ll be to dig through this pile in a few months for that unpaid credit card bill!)

So there you have it. I’m on the search for that darn saddle. In the meantime, me and Mr. Ed will enjoy cooing a smile out of a certain little boy.

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