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.