On My Mother, On Writing, On Obscurity

My mother is full of life. A fiery, vocal, flitting-about woman with as many ideas and talents as there are days on the calendar. Indefatigable is how my sweetheart describes this quality. But, when he uses that word, he's describing me, unknowingly nodding to the woman who gave me life. In this, I am my mother's daughter, through and through.

Every day of her retirement has been filled with friend-making, others-serving, hospitality-offering, and grand-baby watching. She lives for others. She always has. For years, she tirelessly served as my childhood church home's director of outreach, figuring out best how to connect servants with needs. She has a big heart, a seemingly bottomless pit of selfless love.

I guess that's what motherhood produces. For years, she put my sister and I's needs above her own, generously providing for us at cost to her self. Back-to-school shopping sprees when it meant no new clothes for her. Saturdays at cheerleading competitions (and nights before sponge rolling every hair on our heads) every weekend of the fall when it meant giving up her own relaxing weekends. She threw birthday parties for the books and legendary Christmas tea parties. She's a giver, a do-er, and a gold-hearted woman. It is my heart and my hope that I can grow to be as kind and gracious, more loving towards my neighbors than I am to myself.

And when my mom's not doing, she's processing. She's always had a gift for collecting thoughts and wisdom gleaned on paper. She's a gifted writer, however infrequently she gets the chance to do it and share her bits of wisdom with the world. But, today, I had the somewhat-suprisingly profound realization that she has never tried to make much of herself. She has never tried to wrangle her abilities into a money-making scheme, or turn her gifts into a quest for fame.

She is quite simply...her. And the enjoyment she gets out of her hobbies, the rewards she gains from her endeavors, are for her satisfaction and the pleasure of others. Oh, I pray the Lord produce that in me. That my artistic, creative bents aren't twisted by selfish, narcissistic attempts to gain notoriety and success. I pray to simply know that my efforts, my days, my words, and my works can and will be used by the Lord to glorify Him and serve others if I offer them up as gifts and not givens.

I have struggled with the saints to find my identity in Christ, and Christ alone. I have put my purpose in the work of my hands, on the beau on my arm, on the amount in my bank account. But, I am changing. Lord, am I changing, thanks to the Spirit's hold on my life, and the Eunices, the Loises (and Louy's) that he's put in my path. Thank God for His indefatigable attempts to turn me into His faithful child.

Live to Die.

Well, it's certainly been a minute since I've found my way here with all of my thoughts and musings. At this point, I'm confident that it doesn't matter if there's anyone on the other side to affirm (or disagree with) my diatribes. At the heart, I know wrestling my thoughts onto a page is the only way that I can live at peace with them.

When something moves me, the pen, the keyboard— this is where I land. And, boy, where do I begin? The moral of the story is that by living, I've learned that life is hard. Struggle and despair are real. If not for me, for my neighbor, my roommate, my loved ones. Day to day, week to week, year to year. It's not always the joyful adventure I remember as a kid, or even clawed after as a young adult. Life is strung together by difficult seasons, peppered with what I once heard called "forgetful joys."

 As children of God we were never promised health, wealth, and happiness. Find me that scripture and I'll then amend the way I've been praying. No, in fact, we were promised suffering. But, we do not suffer as those without hope. In fact, the hardship of this life, according to the Word, prepares us to carry the immense heft of God's glory...later. There's the good news.

And, gosh it's GOOD. Because if it weren't for the life we anticipate with Christ, this toil, toil under the sun would sometimes be too much to endure. But, I'm (in this moment in fleeting time) so very thankful that this present is not enduring. Because yesterday (and maybe tomorrow), I'll forget and spend more energy flitting about like it is.

When I see death as the end to this and the beginning to something better, it does indeed make me want to capitalize on the now. Look close, think long and hard, and find a million reasons to despair. But, beneath all of the very real pain of living is the very real hope. And not just the band-aid, sympathy-card, pat-on-the-back kind of antidote. It's the ultimate end-to-all-tears, eternally-lasting kind of hope. I wish that I could remember it when I pore over the numbers of my budget and wonder how it's all going to come out, or when I cry and wait for a prayer to be answered. And for those in my life who live without the hope I know, I wish it'd resonate. Freedom for the captives, life for the walking-dead.

 * Note: Much of this thought has been stirred by my reading of Death By Living, by N.D. Wilson and by listening to this sermon about The Weight of Glory.

If you're a creative: if you make, write, start of scratch and produce, I advise you to watch this. If you've struggled with depleted inspiration, you will be refreshed and reminded that your creative 'genius' doesn't have to torture you because it was never from you. As Gilbert says, any bright ideas you have are a product of the gift that was loaned to you. Now, I don't have any reason to believe that Ms. Eat, Pray, Love is a professing believer in the God I try to know. But, in this ode, she does down right declare that there exists outside of us, a greater power. And when it comes to our successes, it is that power and not ourselves that should be saluted, thanked, and depended upon. I've had a summer filled with learning these lessons the hard way. I've experienced a drought of sorts in my artistic pursuit. The flow of work coming in slowed to a drip, and as a result, my motivation followed suit. I thrashed about and doubted that my decision to follow my artistic leanings was the right one. I made do with less, and I questioned more. The Lord works in mysterious ways. For whatever reason, He has used the last two months to take me by the shoulders, look me in the eye, and remind me that He is the source of every good idea, the energy behind each noble action. If not for His ingenuity, I'd have no mind to envision, to fingers to type, no arm to extend. This work is mine, but the ability to do it has been loaned to me...yesterday, today, and tomorrow.

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It was about four years ago that I first became acquainted with who I now only refer to on a first name basis. Dear sweet Edith. Each month, I gathered with other young new members of a freshly-formed neighborhood church to pore over the pages of Mrs. Schaeffer's The Hidden Art of Homemaking.

I was a recent college graduate at the time, having moved to a new town to begin work in my first professional job. At that point, I had moved no less than a half dozen times in five years. I had begun collecting odds and ends—things that might one day make a place a home. They were mismatched and incomplete. I felt an inner urging for wholeness, groundedness, for rest. But the truth was, I was in transition.

**Quick aside, I firmly believe that I was wholly unprepared for the several years after college that proved to be much more trying than I could've imagined. Who would've known that becoming a real-world working woman would require several wrong pursuits to finally—years later—arrive at a place that felt right, that just fit? If I have one piece of advice for new graduates, it would be this. Be patient. Be flexible. You may want to begin the rest of your life immediately, but more often than not, it's a process. Like most other things, getting there takes time for both you and that idea mature and grow. So, give yourself a break. You don't have to the woman you always dreamed you'd be. You just have to start becoming.**

So amidst the tumult of age 22,  I sat encircled with other gentle souls. I listened as women, just a few years my senior, echoed Edith's sentiment about finding beauty in everyday living, in making art out of home-based activities. Whether it is through cooking or gardening, making music, or decorating a home, God is inviting us to take part in His creativity. Don't wait, she encouraged, until you own a home, are married, settled, and have it all figured out.

The only place to start is to start.

And, so I did, and it was so soon that I felt alive to the woman God made me to be. I opened up my home to others more frequently. I dusted off the sewing machine, I framed old prints. I took a million culinary risks, far beyond my actual capacities. I delved into new hobbies, and re-awakened artistic leanings that I'd allowed to go dormant. I certainly didn't succeed in them all, but I was making, I was moving.

The simple of acts of effort were nothing short of transformative. I truly believe that the Lord used Edith's wisdom to crack open what He planted within me, within each of us. He desires for us to get involved with the world He has given us. In doing so, we become characters in our setting, looking for His maker's mark on all things. He doesn't ask for perfect, just for participation.

Taking Back Paris

Three years ago, I was laying in my backyard sun, listening to French language podcasts in anticipation of an upcoming trip to Paris. I spent days perfecting my bechamel sauce, delighting in the endless combinations of cremes and cookies for homespun French macaroons. I steeped myself in the culture as an appetizer for what I hoped to deeply taste on the other side of the sea.

I read a few books, and flipped through a travel resources of things to see and places to eat. I surely wanted to do the city right. But, in honesty, I was even more occupied with the company I would be keeping. I let all of my hopes for to-dos fade into the backdrop of a reunion with my boyfriend at the time, who had been across the pond for almost a year at that point. After a visit to his homebase, our plan was to take a four day Parisian detour. What a romantic idea, what a dream, right?

This is a cautionary tale. This is a story of sorrow and regret. This is a story of prayer for redemption.

The trip began with promise. A strong espresso at Gard du Nord, an impromptu accordion serenade on the metro, and a silvery sky started Paris and I off strong. But, within hours, a grumpy hunger tainted the mood. A subpar first French meal (which proved more of a disappointment than I could've imagined) and a heavy conversation lead us to a stroll by the River Seine. As I looked out on the river, and beheld the grey-washed City of Lights, I cried. A sniffly, embarrassed, looking-the-other-way cry.

Where was the magic? Where was the ease?

The questions I asked during the next four days, the additional tears I cried, and the inner turmoil I suppressed, all turned out to be more prophetic than I was willing to admit. I was in Paris, for Pete's sake. The city of romance. But, what was happening, if I'd been honest, was the very beginning of heartbreak. It was the first scrape in what ended up being a deep and painful wound.

Of course, had it been that obvious, I would have spared myself. But, the beauty of Paris blurred the truth. I was walking the streets of Montmarte, hand in hand with a well-dressed gentleman. I was standing in line, picking out macaroons at the very birthplace of the crispy wafery delight. I was experiencing little forgetful joys all throughout. But, underlying, I would be dishonest with myself not to admit a deep sadness.

Paris is for lovers. But, make no mistake, it is for life-long committed lovers. It's for those who've made a promise under God's love banner that come what may, covenant remains.

Sure, the city is a certainly the epitome of lovely. Even with the heartache and difficulty, the streets managed to charm me around every corner. The beautiful hours of sunlight well past dinner, and the full-flavor of wine-soaked steak. Yes, these are sweet memories. It is those memories that beckon me to return, to redeem a wearied heart, to put another nail in the structure of re-awakened hope.

You Can't Take It With You

For this past Lenten season, I gave up superfluous spending, online shopping, incessant lusting after things. Pinterest has been no small thorn in my side when it comes to desiring to decrease my appetite for things. I want to stop wanting, but every time I see the colorful inlay, the rows and rows of beautiful things and spaces and foods, I can feel the drool of desire dripping down my chin. Sometimes it seems like the subliminal message of our culture is just this colorful conniving version of untruth.

What you have is not enough.

During the fast, my aim was to put a stop to the spending, and thus, abate the ravenous hunger for more. I've grown so accustomed to seeing a book title that catches my eye, clicking right over to Amazon, and adding to my cart without batting an eye. That one-two motion is almost completely thoughtless, instantly gratifying, and utterly selfish.

This six weeks, I thought, will be full of generosity, others-centeredness, and God is enough-ness. Those good intentions surely did pave the way. I set out on the journey, only to find myself in a mess of unforeseen expenditures. Sure, I wasn't buying cute dresses and kitchen utensils, but I was forced to start shoveling out money for individual health insurance, for doctors visits, for bills. And then irony of all ironies... on Easter Sunday, due to a vehicle-devastating wreck a week prior, I had to purchase a new car. How's that for learning how to conserve my resources?

In starting a new job and adjusting to paying taxes as a small business owner, I've been riding the wave of a million little learning curves. Money in and out of my meager bank account has come to resemble the pastel colored currency of a child's game. But these hundreds and thousands are not-so-easy come, eaasssssy go. While I've been extremely busy with my letterpress work and with baking three-ish days a week, the only dough I find myself rolling in is for the Bourbon and Pecan frosted Sticky Buns.

But, I have not gone without. Not for a minute. Not for a meal.

I'm not worried about not having my needs met. The Lord has proven Himself fit for the task of providing again and again. What I pray, in this season, is that no matter how much I spend on the necessities of living and learning to run business, that I am truly taught the meaning of going without for the sake of lavishing generosity outside of myself.

May my rekindled relationship with Pinterest not create in me an insatiable desire for things at the cost awareness of the needs of others. And, may I always hold my money, my successes, my failures with a loose grip.

Living My Days

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I won't apologize to anyone (including myself) for my long absence from writing, from reflecting. The first quarter of this year has been filled with living. My day-to-day has received another minor facelift. I've got new hours and some new work for my hands, but it's all too familiar. I'm back in a kitchen, back in the flour, back to creating. And, I'm happy.

The funny thing is, I've been dealt some tough cards this week. Some material loss and a real scare could have easily sent me reeling into a worried despair. Years ago, I think it would have. But, today, I feel fine. My lightness comes only from a trust that is more firmly attached to an immutable source of strength. Today, I can more easily laugh at what's to come.

And, I think it all comes back on the prayer I began this year by praying. Come what may, I want to trust in the Lord. I want not to be shaken, embittered, or defeated by what happens to me. I can take a hint from his unchangeable character — the God of Adam, of Moses, of David that is, too, MY God. From the beginning, He was slow to anger and quick with mercy—even when He touched soil and physically entered this life with all its tattered imperfection.  May I too, be unmoved by the wind and waves of life on this ground.

Lord, bolster my faith.

"Come and You Will See" in Twenty One-Three

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Usually by this time of year, I've reflected on days past, dreamed and set my goals for the coming year, and of course, penned a rhyming motto to live by. For the last five years, that's been my M.O. But, this year, this 2013, already feels different. I'm relaxed into knowing that the long faithful obedience continues in the same direction. I'm confident that the important people in my life aren't going anywhere, I'm hopeful for the depth we will know in months to come.

I do have aspirations for Four Hats, namely ones to be more intentional about where and how I seek business, how I cherish a client from start to finish, how I use my time most efficiently. There is time for organization and to-do lists. For me, it's not today.

Today is a day to look back over my shoulder at a year that produced a fair amount of tears. Today is a day to remember the broken state of my heart and thank my near God for His attention, for His gentleness, for His patience. There was pain, but the joy did come in the morning.

Yes, this day is for gratitude, for a thousand sorrows turned into a million joys. January 1, 2013 is an ebeneezer, a landmark, a memorial of the peace of knowing a God who does not change from calendar year to year. He transcends time. And through our faith that shifts like sand, His great love is unmoved. This year, I'm staking that claim.

Yes, 2013 is a year to heed Jesus' words to the first disciples in John 1 when He invited them to come and see. They had no idea what life with Him would bring when they asked him "Where are you going?" "Where are you staying?" If they had known, perhaps they would not have chosen to follow Him that day. But they did, and history and their hearts were changed.

And in the fall of 1998, I too started after Him. I, too, couldn't conceive of the life He was writing for me. I trust Him, I'm with Him, I want Him. This year, next year, forever I'll trace His steps to see what He has, who He is.

I Won't Be Home For Christmas

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This year, for the first time ever, I won't be home for Christmas. No waking up on Christmas morning to the same nostalgic nods from Dad, or the gourmet breakfast spread from mom. My sister and I won't be tag-teaming "playing Santa" to retrieve thoughtful gifts from under the tree. No, where I'm going, I don't even know if pajamas will linger from morning until mid-afternoon per my family's age-old tradition. I won't wake up in a familiar place, or plod around in my slippers in rest-my-bones comfort. I am giving up a good bit to gain something new and altogether foreign. I will share in the traditions of another family, a drastically different and far away place. Heck, where I'm going, there may even be a bonafide White Christmas—something I have never known apart from Christmas specials on cable. I'm thrilled beyond measure to be walking into this and a for a million other things, a season of unknowns.  But let it be known: with every new and welcome change comes a thousand small goodbyes. A look backward and a pensive pause produces gratitude for the perfect rhythm of God's timing. He is working it all into good.

A dose of inspiration

Image from the latest issue of Kinfolk

Cheese nourishes, brings communities together, and allows people to farm the way they want, but it is also an art form. Although making cheese is hard labor, it is a craft that brings pleasure to both its creators and its admirers. Sometimes the rinds alone take one's breath away away. Brainy, wrinkly, ashy, smooth, waxed, covered in cocoa nibs or espresso or tiny diverts, they show a loving touch like a cut of fabric on a quilt does. -- Kirsten Jackson, Homage to Cheese, Kinfolk

I've started a new job in the cheese department of a local market. It's world's different than what I was doing, but in some senses, it's just a slight horizontal shift. Each day, I'm surrounded by lovers of fine food, by in-home entertainers, by people with niche and passionate knowledge, doing with might what their hands find to do. For these things, I'm so very grateful. I've already departed the store with belly aches more than a few times from tasting of the rich and pungent offerings of worldwide cheesemongers. I've much to learn on this exciting new journey, and am inspired by the art, the craft of farmers worldwide, and the love and meaning they pour into their processes.

This morning, I'm stewing in inspiration from the sights, smells, and sounds of this season.

What I'm reading: The Yearling, by Marjorie Rawlings; The Art of the Commonplace by Wendell Berry; Kinfolk, Volume 5

What I'm listening to: Shovels & Rope, The Matchcoats, Light for the Lost Boy (Andrew Peterson), Land of the Living (Matthew Perryman Jones)

What I'm cooking: Chili with cheddar biscuits (I added prosciutto to mine); Apple Cider Caramels; Beef Shoulder over Cheddar Ranch Grits

Visual eye candies: Tartan plaid, Field Notes, Chukka boots, Best Made Co.

What's on my Christmas list: This french press, this bag, and in my wildest dreams, this kitchen aid.

Cheese of Choice: Pave de Nord—a French raw cow's milk cheese, bright orange, rich, and smooth.

Why I Like Job Interviews

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I've recently come to realize how very much I like the process of a job interview. I like getting a chance to tell someone my story in brief, to make sense out of the on-paper senselessness of the string of events. Taking a step back from the one-pager and telling the timeline of my life in a half hour or so—it's good for me to hear.

It'd be untruth to say that there have been times during which I haven't fully trusted that the gaps in my "career" have been full of purpose. I'd be lying to say that I've always loved the somewhat-random turn of events that my life has taken.

But, after telling someone recently how I hopped, skipped, jumped, (limped, and ran) through some of the experiences on my resume, I feel just overwhelmed with gratitude. The tapestry is starting to take shape. I've collected some tales along the way, and a long list of good friends.

If parts of the journey were less-than-fun, with some distance, I can (and will) see the merit of enduring them. Who knows how many more road-forks will lead me down untravelled roads.

Our Farmer, Who Art in Heaven

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Horticultural references are buried deep in Scripture. Paul talks about about seeds being planted, watered, and grown by the Lord and men. Jesus lays down the parable of environments conducive for growing in grace those who believe.

Turning back a few pages, I’ve longed loved the hope in Habakkuk’s poetry: Though the fig tree should not blossom, nor fruit be on the vines, the produce of the olive fail and the fields yield no food…yet I will rejoice in the LORD; I will take joy in the God of my salvation (3:17-18).  What rich reminder of God’s goodness through the seasons.

And likewise from the word communicated to Jeremiah in the book’s first chapter about the Lord watching over the almond trees, over the fulfillment of His words.

I like to think that sometimes, our God wears overalls. His hands are dirty from being knuckle deep in our messes. He’s on His knees, fingers immersed in the soil of our lives, and he’s always regenerating newness out of dead earth.

There’s something about the fall season that just stirs me like nothing else. I love the picture of foliage shouting in splendor before it descends to its timely death: nature’s final exhale. New life always requires a preceding death.

This marinating thought was recently matched in another verse from Jeremiah, this time in the fourth chapter. The prophet here is faced with communicating an unsavory message to the people of Judah. Intentional sin has lead to impending doom—attack from the North and exile to a foreign land. Jeremiah pleads with the people to own up to their sinful ways, to remember the Lord, and turn back to Him, saving themselves and their home.

With this message he cries out in verse three:

Break up your unplowed ground, and do not sow among thorns.

He implores them to dust off the rake and hoe, to put some muscle into preparing their lives for rebirth. Green can’t grow on fallow ground. Work must be done. Ends must be met.

I’m just grateful for this truth revealed: in God’s word to us (implanted in us), in what’s happening out our very windows. Good news, fellow laborers. God, the farmer has His boots on the ground, roughing  up our complacency, preparing our fields.

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Oh, the Lord works in mysterious ways. Just a few months ago, I was coming out of a fog of sin and sadness when a thought-over, prayed-for move to Nashville didn't pan out. Admittedly, it had been an attempt to flee from a job that was leaving me longing and relational futility that I felt I couldn't find hope in.

So, I tried real hard to quit it all, and leave this place for greener pastures. When the timing proved not quite right, I told myself I'd practice contentment...until October. For three months, I put a ban on scheming my way out of discomfort. I tried just to accept my lot, exercise patience, and play the glad game as often as possible.

In July, a three month rest from constant plan A, B, C-making was just what the doctor ordered. I was able to really enjoy a summer for the first time in years. Fresh peaches, night swimming, and late-night cook-outs. Creek-wading, deep air-breathing, Kinfolk-esque attention to beauty in small details. Birmingham became full of possibility again, as I looked at it through new eyes. Here, I thought. Yes, I can do here for a while longer.

And then, an unexpected grace came out from left field, and made the staying even sweeter. Late night walks and excited-nervous talks, hand-holding, and meal-sharing. This gift—a sheer grace—was a soft landing spot for my wearied heart to rest. Grateful.

The Lord is rebuilding what was broken. He is fortifying what was impeached. He has been at work in me from first breath to gracefully unfold not just my story, but His, one page at a time.

And he's been readying me for something, ensuring my well-being all the while. And yesterday, all praise to Him, I was able to quit my job. In two weeks, I'll walk forward in faith into a future that doesn't promise me success, security, or comfort. But, in trusting the Lord—sovereign over all my days—my heart is light. I look down at my next illuminated step, hang my hat on this chapter, and walk on.

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Refinement pokes, prods, and pulls. Facing truth can disturb. But, oh, how necessary I realize it is for me to be dumped into a bucket, shaken until all of my impurities butt up against the instruments of their destruction—to endure through Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani moments. Past insecurities are coming to a head with present realities. I am prepared because I have been—am being—purified. Dross removed, imperfections smoothed over. I needed the fire to produce this shine. 

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It’s raining outside. As the drops hit my windshield on my way to work this morning, I couldn’t help but see them through the lens of a literary device. This is rebirth. This is the awakening. This is hope springing up out of old dry ground.  God digs splendor out of messes. He is growing life out of death. It’s in His nature to make beautiful things. He, is, after all, a Creator. Let’s remember.

A Far Country

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I stand before a horizon, a great perhaps, with limited sight of a far country. And just over my shoulders is a history that has laid the framework for my existence. The things I've seen, the places I've been, the truths I've built my faith upon—these fibers have composed my being, have culminated in my today.

At times, I've tipped the scales, and allowed myself to swim in nostalgia, afraid to create a present as beautiful as the past. During other seasons, I've been so anxious about fast-forwarding to a future I haven't yet earned. Bypass pain, find beauty. 

Over the last year, I posted the following words before my eyes:

If they had been thinking of the country they had left, they would have had opportunity to return. Instead, they were longing for a better country—a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them. (Hebrews 11: 15:16)

I can truly say on this day—September 27th, 2012—that I believe in a God who takes us through both joy-filled seasons and rough terrain. He gives and takes away, so that in each loss, we might long for Him and His coming. He'll do whatever it takes to reach His children with that never stopping, never giving up, unbreaking, always and forever love. I pray to have the wisdom to climb up on this hillside often enough to remember the God of Abraham, the God of Moses, the God of exile, and the God of who, even now, readies a city for those He loves.