Garden-Variety Femininity

At some point during my childhood, I heard the story of creation, of Adam being formed out of dust, of Eve being formed out of Adam, and for years, I was convinced that all men had one fewer ribs than women.

I don't remember the exact moment I realized that both of the sexes had the same number of rib bones, but it was similar to my discovery well into my teens that when the weather man was talking about the "wind chill" temperature he wasn't actually saying "wind shield" temperature

There were other aspects of the creation story that I also got wrong in my early years. For instance, I always thought that it was an apple that Eve ate. When in fact, the fruit is never named. Of course, I didn't actually attend church as a child. Most of my biblical literacy was developed in the one week a year I spent going to Vacation Bible School at either the Baptist Church or the Methodist Church in my community

The creation story also gave me the impression that every woman would find the perfect man that would be bone of her bone and flesh of her flesh. I didn't realize, however, back when I was drinking grape Koolaid and eating Vanilla wafers, that the Creation story didn't actually have a happy ending.

I've been thinking a lot about creation, and particularly Eve, recently, because for one, I am teaching a lesson on Eve in my Bible study tomorrow night. But mostly, I have been thinking about Eve because I want to understand what God had in mind when he created women, and particularly what he has in mind for me as a woman.

As an unmarried woman who can't have children, femininity can seem elusive. Yet even without a ring on my finger or baby in my belly, I believe God still has a unique purpose for me that he couldn't accomplish if I were a man. And believe it or not, I think the answer lies somewhere in the garden. Not the Garden of Eden, though. No, I think the answer is out there in my front yard, in my garden.

When God made Adam and Eve, he gave them each a unique role, husband and wife, but he gave them a shared role, too -- stewards of the earth. How they lived out their unique roles would shape what each of them contributed to their shared role. That's why the terms "husbandry," caring for crops and animals, and "housewifery," providing food and shelter, have come to embody, though now somewhat archaically, all it means to subdue the earth and rule over it.

So while I am not actually a wife or a mother, I can continue to live out my created purpose by mothering the earth and using its abundance in my housewifery for my friends and family. 

In doing so, I become Eve's daugther, a uniquely feminine image-bearer of God.

Spiritual Dashboards: Real-time Data for the Soul

Last week, I attended a meeting for work where we discussed dashboards. According to Wikipedia, "dashboard is a term now being used generally to refer to a web-based technology page on which real time information is collated from various sources in the business." Executives and sales-types like to use them to monitor up-to-the-minute performance. I like the cool graphics.

We've been talking about dashboards at my company for a while now, though we still don't offer one to our clients. One reason is the cost; another reason is that some data just doesn't lend itself to a 3-D speedometer clip-art.

According the presenter at the meeting I attended, a successful dashboard identifies key performance metrics, tracks them in comparison to peers and competitors, and apportions them according to scope and sequence. And did I mention the pretty colors?

The application of the material to my job was unmistakable. But for a few minutes, I dreamed about what it would be like if God provided each of us with a spiritual dashboard, a web-based technology with real-time information about the condition of our souls.

A spiritual dashboard might have a pie chart reflecting how I spend my time. Maybe it would blink or spin if I dipped below 10 percent on Bible study and prayer. Holiness would be measured with a line graph, the origin would be our point of conversion and the line would show growth or regression over time. And one of the those fancy speedometer charts would measure walking by the spirit versus walking in the flesh, the needle hovering somewhere between red and green.

Then, of course, there would be the comparison charts on the bottom half of the dashboard. There would be bar graphs for spiritual disciplines, comparing my giving, service and prayer with other people in my church. For instance, I might be the in lower third on giving but just above half on overall service. Or key areas of obedience might be tracked in comparison to national averages: I lie 46% less than Christians in Cambodia.

Pastors would have access to peer into the lives of parishioners; parents would check in on their children. And of course, God himself would have a master dashboard, drilling down into each of our lives, setting new goals when we dipped below our targets.

Of course, there would be little need for self-examination or discernment. The dashboard would do it all.

Oops, gotta run. My time-spent meter just dipped into the red for "too much time on the computer."

Examine yourselves to see whether you are in the faith; test yourselves. Do you not realize that Christ Jesus is in you—unless, of course, you fail the test? - 2 Corinthians 13:5

425 of My Closest Friends

Today, I have 425 friends on Facebook. I'm not bragging. Believe me, 425 friends on Facebook is like joining the Latin club in high school. I'm barely making it, social media-wise. 

My very cool 20-something sisters, for instance, have 763 and 969. Not that I checked.

I remember very early on in my Facebook existence wondering how someone could possibly have hundreds of Facebook friends. I nearly dropped my account, in fact, when I realized how impossible it would be to actually have hundreds of real-life friends. Facebook was creating a false sense of social connectedness. 

Or was it?

Because I work with different people than I go to church with, and because none of those people are part of my family, I have at least three very large groups of people in my life. Just my close family -- grandparents, parents, siblings, and nieces and nephew -- contains about 30 people. Not to mention my somewhat large extended family. At work, I come into contact with about a hundred people on a daily or weekly basis. And church would easily add about 150 more people I interact with regularly. Not to mention random friends I have picked up along the way, and neighbors, former classmates, colleagues.

If you do the math, I have almost as many real-life relationships as I do Facebook friends. That's more than a Latin Club!

The problem is, I was right two years ago when I opined about the impossibility of that many relationships. And if you are married and have children, like most families, each person in your home has several of these large groups of people in their lives, creating near social gridlock when trying to develop closer relationsips with some.

Randy Frazee, in his book Making Room for Life, calls this "crowded loneliness." 

In reality, though, it's possible to be in the company of others and still feel isolated. Community specialists call this brand of isolation experienced by the majority of Americans as "crowded loneliness." It is the most dangerous loneliness of all because it emits a false air of community that prevents us from diagnosing our dilemma correctly. We have exposure to people but not a deep connection to people.

The solution to this disconnected loneliness, according to Frazee, is to move away from "linear" relationships - when the line from you to the people you know goes only one way - and toward a circle of relationships - where the people you work with and worship with are the same people who live in your neighborhood and play ball with your kids.

Sound remarkably like the small town I grew up in, but I don't live there anymore. 

So what else can I do to go from 425 disconnected friends to a vibrant community of circular relationships where I feel connected and secure? I certainly don't have friends to shed. And yet maintaining so many relationships often feels overwhelming.

How do you create community in your life? Or are you in the same boat feeling the crowded loneliness that seems to go hand in hand with our modern lives?

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By the way, I'm not done with Frazee's book, where in just a few chapters, he is supposedly going to give me the answer to my communal woes. Stay tuned for real help for crowded loneliness!

Leaning In

On Sunday, I had two women from church over to my house for a meeting, and since I didn't know if they were dog people, Precious was confined to the laundry room. 

She barked and whined when I latched the gate; she hates to be alone, especially if she knows I am nearby. But she's big and nosy, and sometimes she can overwhelm guests.

After our meeting ended, and just one of the women was still here, she mentioned that it would be fine with her if I let Precious out of her make-shift prison. So when the gate was opened, Precious rushed out and headed straight for my friend.

First, Precious leaned in on her, getting a feel for whether or not she could be trusted. And then once the petting began and she knew she was leaning in on someone who cared about her, she flopped down on the ground, belly exposed, legs in the air, a position of total trust.

I understand why Precious leans first before she exposes herself. I do the same thing with Jesus. I did it all last week, in fact. In my heart, I know He cares about me. But when things get hard, I forget. And before I expose my true self to him, I have to lean in for a while.

Yesterday, I was reminded of his love for me, his plan for me that extends on through this life to the next. And tonight, I have flopped down before him, belly exposed, legs in the air. 

Once again, I am in a position of total trust.

Regeneration: How I Got Back My Super Powers

On Saturday, I woke up late because I didn't set an alarm. And though I had a lot to do, I decided to just sit in the recliner and finish a book I had been reading. In the end, one of the main characters died in a tsunami. 

I didn't cry.

It was the end of a long week of crying already. There had been death and the fear of death in my real life. I didn't have any tears left for fiction.

Earlier, when I had let my dog outside for her morning ritual, I noticed it had rained in the night. The dry ground needed it. And after I finished my reading, I saw that the sidewalk was wet still. The rain coming down. Still.

So I quickly dressed, grabbed my sneakers and the dog leash, and we headed outside into the drizzle and sprinkles. My dry soul needed it, too.

As we walked around the neighborhood, a piece of blue plastic caught my eye from the ground. It was Spider Man's arm, torn from a child's action hero. I smiled to myself as I thought about Peter Parker with no arm trying to save New York City. Spider Man would do better to lose a leg than an arm, those arms that shoot webs and climb and swing.

And then I thought about my own super power, my faith and hope, that had nearly been amputated from my life by cancer, and now from the fear of cancer, again. 

It's been almost three years since that diagnosis, and two years since I have been clear and free from cancer. And still, a pain in my side for a couple of weeks has felled me like Spider Man with no arm.

Certainly there is no lack of gratitude in my heart to Jesus that I am a survivor of cancer. The alternative is devastating, and I don't take that for granted. But certainly there is no greater test of my faith than to daily be reminded that I will only truly be a cancer survivor when I die of something else.

Blood tests late last week had basically confirmed that the pain was not a recurrence, but surely the imagination of a cancer survivor can create new cancer or hidden cancer or a host of other diseases equally as devastating. So I spent the weekend wondering, hoping, dreading. I had a CT scan scheduled for this morning.

But throughout the day Saturday, the two-week pain was beginning to subside. I prayed fervently while I tackled the sink full of dishes and the basket full of laundry that had been accumulating for days. And when "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" began to play on my Pandora channel, I danced around the living room, my dog Precious leaping with me, smiling. 

My faith was regenerating.

At times today, while waiting for the CT scan results, I have caught myself having to take a deep breath to avoid hyperventilating. But now that the results are in, and I know for sure that there is no cancer, I think back on the past few days and feel sorry for myself. 

Did I waste the week praying and crying and worrying and grasping?

Or did I just need some time and Help to regain my super powers?

Ratatouille: It's Not Just a Disney Movie

Recently, when I was telling an organic farmer how much I love eggplant, he asked how I usually cook it.

"Ratatouille," I told him. "It's the only thing I know how to do with eggplant."

"What's that?" he asked. 

I hesitated. 

I thought he was kidding.

"You know, rat-atouille?" I said again, with the emphasis on "rat." Surely he would at least recognize the word from the 2007 Disney movie?

Nope. He had never heard of it. The movie or the delicious French dish that is surely short for "I need to use up all this stuff from my garden."

So, with as much couture and precision as I could muster, I described it this way, "It's a dish that uses all the stuff that is ripe at the same time as eggplant. You know, tomatoes, zucchini, green peppers, onions, basil."

"Oh," he responded, obviously not as impressed as I am about it.

Perhaps you've never heard of it either, although certainly YOU know about the movie with the cute rats and the young chef and girl with the bangs. Surely you do, right?

But even if you've watched the movie a hundred times but still not tasted ratatouille, you are missing out. And if you have a garden like mine that just keeps on producing despite the fact that we're in a major drought, then surely you need another recipe to help you use all of your goodies. 

Even if you aren't growing eggplant, you can find it at any farmer's market right now, or even in your supermarket, and it's a healthy addition to your diet. So grab one of those Black Beauties, or even a few of the Asian miniatures, head out to your garden for some tomatoes, peppers, and squash, and meet me back here with a knife and a really big skillet (I use a wok). You're in for a treat!

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Of course there are as many different recipes for ratatouille as there are cooks who make it. Some recipes also include mushrooms, olives, or potatoes (mine doesn't). I have eaten it with the skin on or off the eggplant. Yellow squash can easily be substituted for zucchini, and the same is true of any color of sweet peppers you have. I also have spiced it up a little with some ground red pepper or hot sauce, and it pairs nicely with a whole grain like rice or couscous, or even cottage cheese. One thing is certain, I ALWAYS sprinkle parmesan cheese on top.

Ratatouille 
My own version modified from The Joy of Cooking

1 medium eggplant (or 3 small Asian eggplants) - peeled and chopped coarsely
2 medium zucchini (or yellow squash) - chopped coarsely
2 onions - chopped
2 large peppers - chopped
3 cloves of garlic
1 1/2 cups of fresh tomatoes - peeled, seeded, and chopped (or one 14-ounce can of tomatoes)
1/4 cup fresh Basil - chopped
Fresh thyme (3-4 sprigs)
Salt and Pepper
Olive Oil

Heat 1/4 cup olive oil in a large skillet, wok, or dutch oven, then add the eggplant and zucchini and cook until tender [if you want to add potatoes, slice them and throw them in at this point]. Set those aside. Then add 2 Tblsp of olive oil and the onions into the skillet and cook until slightly softened. Then add the peppers and garlic and cook until tender [mushrooms should be added here, if desired]. Salt and pepper to taste.

Then, add the tomatoes and thyme and cook for about five minutes until the mixture begins to bubble. Then return the eggplant and zucchini to the pan and cook for 15 more minutes until everything is tender. Season again with salt and pepper to taste, then stir in the basil [and chopped olives, if you choose].

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Today, I am joining Ann Kroeker for Food on Fridays when she discusses all things food. Since I am a bit of a foodie myself, I plan to join her discussion often. Stop by and visit her yourself, too!

I Want to Get Married

With the big 4-0 fast approaching, my prospects for getting married seem slimmer and slimmer. Not that there's an age limit on marriage. In fact, a friend of my mom's who is in her seventies recently found the second love of her life, moved out of state with her new husband, and now plays sports and travels on cruises.

I want to travel on cruises. With a husband. But for some reason, second love seems to come easier for older adults than first love.

Several wonderful single women I know, friends of mine who have become family, are facing the same dilemma I am. If God made Eve from Adam, than where's the guy whose rib I am walking around with? Is marriage God's design for everyone?

Yesterday, as I was driving home in the evening, I heard a story on NPR about a 30-something Egyptian writer whose blog turned book, I Want to Get Married, is soon to become a movie and a sitcom.
< Ghada Abdul-Aal began blogging in 2006 about her experiences with the Egyptian customs of being paired off. Known as gawwaz el-salonat, or living room marriages, life-long commitments are often entered into after one evening with a man in the company of both sets of parents.

But it's more than just the family's involvement in arranging marriages that Abdul-Aal bemoans. It's the cultural pressure that marriage is the only alternative for young men and women, that's it's a sign of adulthood. In her NPR interview, commentator Deborah Amos explained.

The pressure comes because marriage is an important right of passage between adolescence and adulthood, says Cairo-based sociologist Ghada Barsoum. "It's this whole issue of completeness. You're not a complete person unless you're married. It's so different from the West."

Or maybe not so different.

Every Sunday when I am worshiping in church, I feel a similar social pressure about marriage. There isn't living-room match-making (though sometimes I think that might make the whole process easier). But there is the feeling that if God established marriage as part of creation order, then surely that design is for everyone.

One Sunday, when I was visiting another church out of town, the pastor went so far as to say that it was abnormal for women not to get married, since that's the purpose God designed us for.

Sounds frighteningly similar to the conservative Egyptian culture Abdul-Aal writes about. In a 2008 BBC interview, she said about her I Want to Get Married blog:

Girls are not supposed to be actively seeking something, a girl simply exists for someone to marry or divorce her. To say she wants something is seen as impolite.

I am learning to find my way in a Christian culture that extols marriage and family to the extreme. I have a deeply connected group of other single women that I spend lots of time with, but I accept that in other situations I will be the only single person in the crowd. I have learned to sprinkle conversations about parenting with stories of my own about my nieces and nephews. And I pray for my married friends and their children. Being a family is hard.

But I also long for a different way. Not a way contrary to the Bible, but a way that moves beyond the stereotypes and fears that single and married people have about each other. A way that values cooking for one as much as homeschooling a family of five. A way that says maturity happens over time and through great difficulties, whether you live alone or share your bed with a mate.

One of my life's dreams was to be the women sitting in the pew on Sunday, happily married with a two children by my side. But until that days comes (or maybe it never will), I would like to be the single woman sitting next to that family, feeling just as much a part of the faith community.

We've got a little ways to go. 

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You might also be interested in some earlier posts on singleness and marriage:

 

On Marriage: A Single Perspective

A Marriageless Wife

Who am I a Family to?

 

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Photo by Nono Fara, used by permission under the Creative Common License

The Hebrew Day Planner

In the few weeks before I left for vacation back in July, life had gotten pretty busy. It was all good stuff - family visiting, extra writing assignments, summer social-type events, birthday parties, involved work projects. But it all left me living in a pace I couldn't sustain, a pace I hadn't even tried to live at since my early 30s.

Something had to give: either me or the schedule. And since most of the busyness involved activities I could control, I decided it was the schedule. But what kind of changes did I really need?

THE IDOL OF "NOT BEING BUSY"
Having spent my 15th through 32 years at full throttle, making an idol out of busyness, there have been times in the past 8 years when I have felt the pendulum swing the opposite way. I have worked so hard to not be busy that idleness and even rest can become idols, too. 

When opportunities to spend time with friends and family come my way, sometimes I feel bitter, wanting to preserve an open calender. I also can be hesitant to commit to new ministry opportunities or service groups because I don't want to tie up too many evenings. 

The idea of slowing down is good: it's too easy to go with the flow in our modern culture, filling all of our time with activity. But the motivation behind slowing down can be bad: I risk becoming a hoarder of my own time, unwilling to share the sacred commodity.

In the past couple of weeks, as I have evaluated this new busyness, I determined that I was not just brushing off the household god and returning her to the altar. Indeed, my pace of life was actually bordering on unhealthy. Real change was needed.

As I evaluated the activities I had been filling my life with, there wasn't an obvious cut. Many of them were just one-time events that serendipitously (or not) fell together in a short period of time. Now the activity has ended, but it didn't necessarily feel like the pace had slowed down. What had happened in that busy season? 

REDRAWING THE MARGINS
First, I had lost my margins. Life works better for me when there is time on each end to emerge and withdraw slowly into and out of each day. When the schedule became busy, I was staying up late and getting up early just to get everything done. When the schedule eased up, my body was still operating at the same pace. I had to intentionally redraw the margins.

For me, that means I have to start shutting the blinds and turning off the lights throughout the house about an hour before I am ready to be asleep. It's not a rigid structure-some days it's 35 minutes, others an hour and a half. But once I begin shutting down the house, my mind takes its cue that its time to begin shutting down, too. I might check email one last time, read for a while, or spend time praying. Sometimes I might still be taking a shower, or other nights I might make a cup of tea. But during this margin time, my body and mind begin to take the posture they need to rest.

I need a similar amount of time in the morning. Once I am up, I like to give my body and my mind time to awake before running into a new day. Time in the morning means I can lay in bed a few extra minutes letting my mind wander. When I am up early, I eat a healthier breakfast and usually have time to pray, read, write. By the time I am ready to leave for work, my mind is alert and ready.

Creating margins might not mean I am always getting more sleep. But it does mean that I am resting better; I am no longer forcing my body in and out of awake and sleep with a matter of minutes.

RESTORING RHYTHM TO LIFE
The other problem with my hectic schedule was that I had lost a sense of rhythm. Because there was so much to do, I was working when it was time to rest and finding it hard not to rest when it was time to work. (I had to take a break from work one day just to drive to the local Einstein's for a cup of coffee; I had nearly dozed off while typing!)

Different than just creating margins, restoring rhythm means making room for Sabbath rest in my life. Sabbath is not just about setting aside a day; it's about believing that life will go on under God's sovereign hand even if I am not hard at work directing things.

Restoring rhythm to life is also about submitting to the creation order, too. Believing that light and dark, summer and winter, six days of work and one day of rest are something more than just a freak of nature or a cultural construct.

As in his book, Making Room for Life, Randy Frazee calls this God-made rhythm of life the "Hebrew Day Planner." 

The basic premise of the Hebrew Day Planner is that we were designed by God on the sixth day of creation to function in harmony and rhythm with what he created on the first five days. On the very first day God created light and darkness. On the fourth day God filled the night and day with objects that governed the time of the day, the beginning and end of seasons, and the yearly calendar--in other words, a divine Rolex watch.

I haven't completely redrawn the margins or restored the rhythm to life yet. It's difficult when my decisions about my time mean others have to schedule around me. But I am finding the pace gradually slowing down.

What about you? As summer is winding down, do you find the pace of your life picking up? Or settling back in to a good normal? What are you planning to do (not do) about it?

Multitasking Fast Redux

If you were here with me during Lent this past Spring, you might remember that instead of giving up chocolate or meat for the fasting season, I gave up multitasking. It turned out to be a difficult but rewarding choice.

I write about what I learned today over at The High Calling. Here's a bit of what you'll find when you visit . . .

I spend most of my days multitasking—simultaneously listening to the radio, checking email, answering phone calls and drop-by questions from coworkers, while also moving in and out of various software programs running queries, researching discrepancies, and tabulating results. It all appears very busy and productive, but at the end of the day, I often am not even really sure what I accomplished.

If my life is any indication, multitasking doesn't seem to work.

{READ MORE}

Food from Somewhere: 'Mater Pie

About this time last year, I visited North Carolina for the first time. I didn't go to the coast where I've heard things are touristy and trinkety. I went to the mountains, where people are just simple and scrappy.

During my visit with friends, I attended a mountain wedding, rode tubes down the river, and spent some lazy afternoons in the hammock in the back yard. We also visited the Canton Mountain 'Mater Fest.

The day was filled with pop-up rain showers, sultry and steamy. We almost didn't go. But, with a break in the sky just after noon, we loaded up the cars and drove the 45 minutes through the mountains.

The 'Mater Fest had all of the normal street fair fare -- overpriced games and rides, booths stuffed with homemade crafts and chotchke's from China, a blue grass band playing on the makeshift stage, and a whole line of trailers and tents selling food. There was pizza, ice cream, gyros, and lemon shake ups -- just like any ole fair.

But then I saw the namesake Mater Fest food for sale in the Lions Club tent (or maybe it was the Kiwanis): 'Mater Pie. Once I had a bite, I had a whole new sense of what the Mater Fest was all about. The pie was made with the ripest tomatoes possible -- the seconds or overstocks of all the mountain tomato farms that dotted the area. The pie was also uniquely southern, a flaky pie crust loaded with lots of cheese and mayonnaise. And yet the fresh basil provided a sense of urbanity: city folk visited this little mountain town, and the pie was there to prove it.

I loved the Mater Pie because it was from somewhere, and that became more and more obvious with every bite.

Later that afternoon I was visiting with my Aunt Lucy who lives in the area, and she graciously offered me the recipe. I've made it half a dozen times in the year since, including Wednesday night for dinner at Ann's house. I've made it just like the recipe says most of the time, though I substitute whatever cheese I happen to have and usually make a fresh pie crust instead of frozen.

Wednesday evening, however, I changed out the traditional pie crust for a cornbread one, and I think I like it even better (or at least as much). It changes the Mater pie though, makes it a little more Indiana than North Carolina, but it's still from somewhere.

Tomato ('Mater) Pie
from Canton (NC) Mountain 'Mater Fest and from Charity's Indiana kitchen

1 frozen pie crust
2 small onions, sliced (I use larger onions and diced)
2 large tomatoes, ripe (I use as much tomato as I need to fill the pie pan almost full; I also peeled and diced mine-the recipe doesn't specify exactly how to chop it)
2 tbsp basil (after my mom used 2 tbsp of dried basil, we determined this amount must surely reference fresh. If you want to used dried, go with 1 1/2 tsp)
1 cup shredded sharp cheddar cheese
1 cup shredded monterey jack cheese (I actually have been using 2 cups of raw milk cheddar lately instead of two different types of cheese)
3/4 cup mayonnaise

Bake pie crust as directed. Saute onions and tomatoes and drain on paper towel (I just lift them out of the pain with a slotted spoon). Put layer of tomatoes and onions in crust, sprinkle some of the basil over them. Then another layer of tomatoes and onions, then another layer of basil until you reach the top of the crust. Mix well mayonnaise and cheese and rest of basil and spread on top. Bake at 375 degrees for 30-35 minutes. (I end up letting it stand for a few minutes out of the oven before serving so that it holds together better when you cut it.)

If you would rather try the cornbread crust, here's a recipe from cooks.com that I modified. Follow this recipe, including baking it, and then add the tomatoes, etc. as above.

Cornmeal Pie Crust
(the instructions for this recipe were a little sketchy, so I had to use my imagination) 

1/2 c cornmeal
1/2 c flour
1 1/2 tsp sugar
1 1/2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp salt
2 tbsp butter
1/2 c milk
1 tbsp parsley (I omitted this)
1 egg

Combine all dry ingredients using a pastry blender cutting in the butter until coarse crumbs. In another bowl, mix milk, parsley and egg beating with a whisk. Add wet mixture to dry ingredients stir until moist. (That's it; that was all of the instructions. So, since the mixture was too wet to roll, I patted this into the pie pan and cooked it for about 10 minutes in a 425 degree oven. The crust slid down the sides of the pan and kind of puffed up in the bottom, but it still worked just fine.)

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Today, I am joining Ann Kroeker for Food on Fridays when she discusses all things food. Since I am a bit of a foodie myself, I plan to join her discussion often. Stop by and visit her yourself, too!

The Hope of a Fall Garden

It's an awkward time of year for gardeners.

My eggplant has reached its stride, and in addition to the two fruits that hang from its branches, there also is the promise of a couple more blooms. The basil has gone from a rather unpromising shoot that I started from seed, to a full, aromatic bush, ready to become pesto or the seasoning in a sauce. And the carrots, still a little too small to harvest, are quietly churning away underground. In a month or so, they will be perfect.

But early birds, like I was this year, also find themselves with lots of unruly plants that, at the same time, also are petering out. My squash and tomatoes had completely taken over one whole raised bed. And since the squash stem bore left the green and yellow zucchini plants virtually lifeless, I spent Saturday yanking them up and tossing them in the compost pile.

The tomato plants are still producing, but they are overgrown and browning on the edges. When I tried to prune them and clean them up (they are in my front yard after all), the heavy branches started to crack and peel. I started itching from rubbing elbows a little too closely with the furry tomato stalks, and a few really green tomatoes plopped onto the ground as I worked. 

Hopefully, I put the green tomatoes among the not-quite-ripe ones on the window sill, and left the wild mess in the garden as domesticated as possible.

Then, there was the green bean tower to contend with.

My Kentucky Wonder pole beans had created an impressively tall fortress in the second raised bed, the vines aggressively crawling up an over my four six-foot stakes arranged in tee-pee fashion. The total of 12 plants had produced a respectable accumulation of green beans this summer - probably around 4 quarts, though I didn't keep track. But after a hard pick on Saturday, there were almost no young beans waiting to mature, and there were fewer blooms. The tower had to come down.

The same fate awaited my green and jalapeno pepper plants, the lettuce I had let continue to grow as an experiment (it grew up to waist high with flowers and seed pods), and the two eggplant plants that just never grew more than five or six inches. All of them were pulled and dumped into the compost pile.

Though the end came early for much of garden, the timing couldn't have been more perfect. While the temperatures are still hovering in the mid-90s, the time is right to begin planting my fall garden. 

Most of the vegetables, particularly greens, that are known for maturing in the late Spring or early summer are the perfect candidates for a fall garden. They are planted and will germinate while the temperatures are still boiling, but if I timed it right, once the plants begin to mature, the weather will be cooling and the risk of bolting will have ended.

That's my hope, at least, for the lettuce, spinach, peas, broccoli, cabbage, and kohlrabi I planted on Sunday. Mostly I sowed seed, but the owner of the little garden shop I occasionally frequent was so proud of his new fall garden seedlings that I also snatched up a couple of tender plants.

The gardens look cared for again--despite the tomato plant mess, and the nascent seeds afford a welcome contrast to the burgeoning compost pile.

It's an awkward time for gardeners, but it's also a hopeful time again.

Still Running

It's a tired, old metaphor for the Christian faith: running. But I'm a tired, old runner, and as I was pounding the pavement in a five-mile race on Saturday, I couldn't help but think of my life of faith and running.

I haven't always been a runner. When I was in seventh grade, I joined the track team because my friends were doing it and because the art teacher was the coach. I liked art much more than sports.

But as I began to live the life of an athlete (which should make you chuckle if you know me!), running became an activity of choice on its own merit. Not only did I run track in high school, I also ran cross country. Until my sophomore year when I slid and fell down a muddy hill, got up, ran another half mile and collapsed in pain. I learned in the ER a few hours later that I had fractured my pelvis. It was the day after my 16th birthday. 

I spent the next week in the hospital then hobbled around on a walker for another month. Gradually, I rehabbed and eventually picked up running again. But once high school ended, so did my competitive running. It continued to be a hobby for me for years, though. I even ran two half marathons (13.1 miles each) in my late twenties. Running helped me stay in shape, gave me a place to be quiet with my thoughts, provided me with a metaphor of perseverance. I thought running would always be a part of my life.

Until I developed a rare illness and found myself paralyzed just over eight years ago. At the time, it was considered a freak auto-immune response, a one-in-a-million type of illness in which my immune system attacked my spinal cord. I was transferred in an ambulance to an intensive care unit. The paralysis which had begun as tingling in my toes was advancing, and before the doctors stopped it with high doses of steroids, I couldn't even move my arms.

As the swelling in my spinal cord diminished, I regained the use of my arms within a couple of days. My legs took longer. I was told to expect a life in a wheelchair. But after eight days, I could "suddenly" move my feet. The paralysis was reversing.

Needless to say, I fully recovered, though only a third of the people do. Another third are paralyzed for life. Another third die. That's the odds if you have this disease, transverse myelitis, once. I ended up having three more episodes. Each one coming on faster, but each once being treated more successfully. By the fourth time, I was paralyzed for only 24 hours.

Running became an elusive dream for me during the five years of dealing with transverse myelitis. Even when I was basically restored between episodes and after the fourth, I wasn't able to run much. My energy level was low; I couldn't build up speed or endurance. I might work up to a mile, and then spend a week laying on the couch trying to recover.

And then, after two and a half years on medication to prevent more transverse myelitis, I was diagnosed with cancer. My body, already worn down from years of chronic illness, hit bottom. After surgery, chemo, and radiation, I was completely sapped. Many days, it was all I could do to get out of bed and walk to the couch. Even as I recovered, walking to the mailbox and back was a big deal.

Running was no longer even a dream for me. I wasn't even sure I would survive.

At some point in my recovery, which took longer mentally and spiritually than physically, I sped up the treadmill just a little faster than walking pace and began to run a little. It lasted only a minute or two. I wasn't sure I would be able to run. And in my frame of mind then, I even considered the possibility that running might cause the cancer to come back. 

Yes, I realize that is totally irrational. But there were a lot of things that cancer took from me, and though I didn't exactly blame God, I knew he could have stopped cancer in its tracks if he had wanted to. Apparently he didn't. Any glimmer of hope, including five minutes of running on the treadmill, made me a little wary that it would all be stripped away again.

Day after day, the walking was interrupted by longer and longer stretches of running, and soon, I was running more than walking. At some point during this time, one of my doctors connected the dots between transverse myelitis and cancer with the words "paraneoplastic syndome," and is convinced that not only have I been NED (no evidence of disease) from the cancer for two years, but I am most likely free of the transverse myelitis, as well. And I can run again.

A little over a year ago, I "ran" a five-mile race which was nearly a disaster. I wasn't ready. It was too much, and I felt horrible for several days after. It set me back, but it didn't stop me.

In the past year and a half, my running has come in fits and starts, but if you could graph it, you would see it trending upwards. Up to and including the five-mile race on Saturday. I started out too fast. I had to walk a little in miles 3-5. I was exhausted afterwards and felt a little woozy. I was sore the next day. 

But I did it. I kept going. I made myself run up most of the inclines, and promised myself I would ride the momentum down the declines, even if I really wanted to stop. When I did walk, I set little goals and insisted that I keep them. Even if my lungs were still screaming.

The real reward came today, though. While I was on the treadmill running, I was also praying, thinking, listening to music. And I felt strong. Really strong. The memories of being unable to move my legs felt faint. The dread of cancer, which I still live with most days, felt small. And though the future still feels a little uncertain, I was overwhelmed with gratitude and hope in Jesus.

I am still running!

A few other posts about faith and running:

Laura Boggess's "Redeemed"

Jennifer Dukes Lee's "Running as Worship"

my recent "A Taste of Island Living"

Water: Running, Flowing, Quenching, Satisfying

I've been thinking about water a lot lately.

Most of the month of July and running into August has been brutally hot here in Indiana. And though we've had a lot of rain, it hasn't always been spread out in increments that are good for the garden. So nearly every day I have to monitor if there has been enough water or too much water in each of my raised beds and in the other places where I grow food.

Some days, I have to drag out the hose and buckets. Other days, I wish I could take a towel to the soil and mop up the excess. 

Often, I feel like a slave to water.

Water was on a lot of our minds nearly two weeks ago as we made final preparations for my baby sister's wedding. It was an outdoor event, right next to my cousin's lovely little pond, but the forecast said a storm was coming. Just before the ceremony, the wind picked up and the air changed. Rain was spotted on the radar 45 miles west, and it was headed our way. 

We were spared from a ruinous rain, though, and we witnessed and rejoiced and ate and danced in dryness. When a few drops did fall from the sky about three hours later, we didn't care. 

By then, we weren't afraid of the water anymore.

I left the next morning for a trip to the Pacific Northwest, and I spent a week on an island, literally surrounded by water. Most mornings I ran along Crescent Harbor, amazed by the coastal life I knew little about. A couple of times we took ferries, crossing the water to other islands. We drove on bridges over water, waded up to our knees in the stuff, and even risked falling into it as we climbed craggy rocks to see starfish and jellyfish.

A few days we nearly got lost in the air-born water that swept over the island as marine fog and mist. The stuff I had monitored so closely in my garden and feared so desperately before the wedding was now surrounding me like a blanket, obscuring our view and changing our plans.

I didn't care much, though. I was on vacation. I wasn't going to worry about water.

Just before I boarded the plane to come home, I got a call from a friend. I heard water in the background.

"Where's do you shut off the water to your house?" she said loudly over the sound.

A by-pass valve had had enough, and gallons and gallons of water were shooting out of a pipe in my laundry room.  Since no one had been in my house all week, she didn't know how long it had been spilling out. Maybe days, losing perhaps as much as tens of thousands of gallons.

My restful vacation ended abruptly as I worried about the water soaking my laundry room and garage. Would it ruin my furnace? What about the washer and dryer? The water heater? The freezer? I imagined the mess I would have when I got home, water soaking the rugs, my shoes, the walls. 

What would it cost to fix the damage caused by all the water?

And then, I saw what else water can do.

By the time I arrived to my house at 10:30 Sunday night, my friend Verray had painstakingly swept out most of the water from my house. All that remained was dampness and puddles.

Shortly after I pulled in the driveway, Bess and Baher arrived to help me blot up what was left of the water and assess the damage. They brought towels and a dehumidifier. It continues to pull water from the air and the walls even this evening. 

The next day, Ann and her daughter came with cleaning rags and water for drinking and for cleaning and bathing.

Later, Baher returned with pipes and torches and tools and restored the proper path for the water to follow. From aquifer to well to treatment plant to reservoir to water main through water meter to copper pipes to faucet.

Water, running deeply, flowing freely, quenching my thirst, satisfying my soul.

A generous person will be enriched,
and one who gives water will get water. 

-Proverbs 11:25 NRSV Bible 

Potty Breaks and Barcodes: Remembering What We Hear

A few weeks ago when I was on a road trip with my friend Kelly and her two sons, we stopped to get gas, buy some snacks, use the restroom. You know, all the things road travelers try to squeeze in any time they exit the tollway.

Kelly had taken her youngest, Jensen, into the ladies room, and I was with Alex.

"Do you have to go potty?" I asked him.

He stared at me, choosing his next words carefully.

"No," he said. "And I don't even call it 'going potty' anymore." He was clearly perturbed.

"Oh," I responded, not exactly surprised. He is almost seven. "What do you call it?"

"'Going to the restroom,'" he said. 

"I see."

Two weeks later, I was at their house celebrating Jensen's birthday, and Alex was kind of dancing around a little. I've done that same dance myself when I am at the grocery store, and I'm just about done, and I'm not sure what to do with the cart.

"Alex, do you need to go potty?" I asked, just a second before it hit me. "I mean, go to the restroom?"

His face lit up. I had heard him. I remembered. 

::

Hearing and remembering can be a wonderful gift to others. I am always amazed and pleased when someone I have met only a time or two remembers my name and the things I have told them about myself.

Being forgotten? Not so much.

Recently, I strolled into the gym I belong to, duffel bag in tow, and swiped my card. The employee behind the desk was the one who actually had registered me for my new bar coded card a few weeks before. He smiled as though he remembered me, watched as my profile popped up, and said, "Have a good work out, Charity."

Before I could even say "thanks," he continued excitedly.

"Wow, my fiance's name is Charity, too. I've never met anyone else by that name." 

"Anyone but me," I wanted to say, since he obviously had forgotten that he told me the exact same thing when I met him six weeks ago. Maybe he should put that kind of information next to my name under my bar-coded file. Then, maybe he would remember.

Instead, I just kind of laughed and blew off the comment.

::

I wonder if Jesus does the same thing when I am reading his word and suddenly have a major epiphany over a passage I've read a dozen times. Does he just laugh it off as he remembers all the times I've covered this truth before -- in fact, the passage may even be highlighted in my Bible? Does he just blow it off when I ask him to speak to me even though I'm obviously not really listening, not remembering? Does he wish I had a bar-coded reader that would help me remember His name?

Sometimes truth feels new because it has a new application. A new season of suffering helped me read the Psalms differently a few years ago. In that case, I was really hearing truth for the first time because I was listening from a different place.

Often, though, I don't remember because I'm not really caring enough about Jesus to absorb what he's telling me. I read through chapters so I can check them off the list. I spend hours in scripture preparing to teach rather than preparing my heart. I work on memorizing a Bible passage while I scan my email.

But giving Jesus my full attention so that I'll remember what he said? Not so much.

::

This weekend, I will probably be with Kelly and the boys at some point. And there will inevitably be a potty break involved.< But because I love Alex and have heard him -- have heard that he's trying to tell me he's growing up -- I'm not going to call it that.

There will be only "restroom" breaks for us from now on.

::

Today, I am writing in community with Ann Voskamp and friends, discussing the spiritual practice of listening and hearing God. Follow the link above to read Ann's thoughtful post and then scroll to the bottom and see what others have written.

Real Vacation - Real Life

My time in Washington was a real vacation.

I laughed with family.

I ate really good food.

I drank lots of good Seattle area coffee.

I saw lots of interesting sites.

I splashed on the beach.

I hiked on a mountain.

I even rode on a couple of ferries.

And then I left.

My time in Indiana is real life.

(More on that later!)