a different loaf

I make bread religiously at least once a week, often twice. I usually give away as much as we consume. And I always make the same Oatmeal Bread recipe.* Always. Sometimes I think about trying something new but I am afraid I will waste my bread making effort on an inferior loaf.

Sunday I was in the bread making mood but didn't have all the ingredients I needed for our regular recipe (and had no desire to go buy ingredients) so I dared to not only attempt something new, but to adapt a recipe I had never tried, since I didn't have all those ingredients either. The loaves were totally different than the Oatmeal bread but delicious nonetheless.

Three-Flour Sunflower Seed Bread

4 1/2 t. yeast (or 2 packages)
2 cups warm water
1/4 cup molasses
2 T honey or sugar
2 1/2 cups whole wheat flour
1 cup rye flour
2 1/2 t. salt
1 cup sunflower seeds
1 1/2 to 2 cups unbleached flour

Combine the first four ingredients in a bowl and mix until combined. Stir in the whole wheat flour, then the rye flour, salt and seeds. Gradually mix in the white flour. Let the dough rest for about 10 minutes (it will be kind of sticky), then knead for 3-5 minutes. (I choose to do this in a Kitchenaid mixer with a bread hook. I am not the romantic sort who loves to get my hands in the dough. I was born to multitask during the 3-5 minutes the Kitchenaid is kneading for me.)

Form the kneaded bread into a ball and let rise in the mixing bowl, covered with a kitchen towel, for 2-3 hours, until doubled in size. Punch dough down, form into two loaves and put in greased bread pans. Cover with towel and let rise another hour or so. Bake the loaves at 400 degrees for about 30 minutes.

This hearty bread is really good warm from the oven with soup. It also makes great toast the next day.

*Since I posted the Oatmeal Bread recipe over two years ago, I have adapted it slightly. I have upped the salt by a teaspoon and now use 1 cup whole wheat flour and 4 cups unbleached all-purpose after everything else is combined. The sunflower seed bread is really good - good enough to deserve a blog post - but the oatmeal bread is still the very best.

friday haiku

earth eerily mute
minus five, work starts early
the moon is a gift

beautiful things I've seen online

:: This heart-breaking story that's a tragic piece of history eloquently linked with a mother's love for her "special" son. To think that in another place and time, my own son would be considered expendable and wiped out. I was moved to tears when I read this tender story, which isn't really surprising, I guess. It hits very close to home.

:: This sweet little video of a now-popular Etsy artist and how she brought her dream to life. In addition to loving her approach to the craft, I am enamored by her accent (what a surprise!) and her chickens. Yes, I want chickens.

:: This incredible "proverbial" quilt that a blogger I like just whipped up. The letters are awesome and the fact that they spell out lyrics of a song by my favorite band, well, I'm speechless. I'd like to think I could copy the idea but I should probably start with a potholder.

:: This wonderful lesson in perspective that a very popular blogging neighbor sprung on her kids the day before Christmas. All that's needed is a pocketful of dollar bills, a pack of post-its and a giving spirit. Thanks for the example, Kasey.

:: This life-giving project from Craft Hope that enables people like me and you to make a difference in the lives of new moms in Haiti. Did you know that only one in 10,000 people has access to a doctor in Haiti? This project provides safe birthing kits and would be an awesome thing to do with a small group of like-minded friends, crafty or not.

What beautiful things have you seen online lately?

intention #3: write letters, with a pen

Recently I received a beautiful hand-written letter from a woman from church thanking me for the things I write here and a sweet card from my aunt, just because. I found a note of encouragement from my sister-in-law in my mailbox a week ago and a thank you from my step-mom. I am always surprised by how touched I feel to get a letter or note from someone in the mail. To know that someone put some real thought and time into me means a ton.

I am not the best at sending letters myself. But I am trying to be better. I am starting with thank you notes and I am getting Liam going on it, too.

Today we wrote a couple of overdue thank you notes for Christmas gifts. Liam added his unique touch to each one, and cracked himself up each time, such as, "Dear Aunt Tim and Uncle Liz." I love that kid. But it was his last note that really got me.

He insisted that he wanted to write to his good friend Ian whose birthday party he just attended last weekend. I started to say that we needed to finish our thank you notes first, but it was clear he wasn't going to be pleased with that response, so I let him use our nice stationery and write his note. The result was precious:

Dear Ian,
I just want to say hi. Say hi to Andrew for me. Thanks for the Nerf gun. The party was awesome!
Love, Liam

If Ian is anything like me, he's going to feel incredibly special that his buddy Liam took the time to write him a letter. And not because he was due a thank you or because it was a holiday and everyone else was doing it, too. But just because Liam had an impulse to say hi, I'm thinking of you. I appreciate you. I liked your party favor.

As is often the case, I want to be more like my son when I grow up. I'm glad he's here to show me the way.

friday haiku {for Kristin}

two years, grief goes on
I pray for her hope and wings
afraid of nothing

::

Today marks the 2nd anniversary of the death of my dear friend/cousin's husband. I have never been so intimately acquainted with grief in another person and it is not what I imagined. It is not, I believe, what she imagined either. There is a quiet expectation that after caring for your soulmate through a long and painful illness there would be a reprieve, that life would get lighter. But the loss barrels in day after day as you attempt to live a different life alone, to parent small people without a partner, to not be overcome with fear. This is no easy feat. I admire that woman immensely for just getting out of bed in the morning.

A friend of mine wrote an article in the Tribune this week about grief and depression and quoted Tom Zuba, an author and motivational speaker who has suffered incredible losses. His words spoke to me:

"Accompany your friend. Create a safe place for your friend to be with his or her feelings, past, new life and, in time, new dreams," Zuba suggested. "Remember, you don't know how the person feels, but you can ask, 'What is it like to be you today?' And then make sure you set aside time to listen."

Last night on our weekly hangout night, I gave Kristin a framed photo of her girls on which I wrote these incredible words from poet Mary Oliver:

I am thinking now of grief
and getting past it;
I feel my boots trying to leave the ground.
I feel my heart pumping hard.
I want to think of dangerous
and noble things.
I want to be light and frolicsome.
I want to be improbable beautiful
and afraid of nothing,
as though I had wings.

I am thinking now of Kristin and wondering, on this awful anniversary, What is it like to be you today? I really can't imagine. No one can. But we can continue to set aside time to listen, to encourage dangerous and noble things, to bring lightness, to pray for wings and life without fear. That's what I'm praying.

what are we teaching them?

One of the best things I've read lately is an article by Catherine Newman suggesting that it's absurd how we teach our children to share and cooperate and then send them off to clamor over each other "towards the teetering heights of personal wealth." How we're teaching them Marxist and Socialist behavior (trading the corruption for fun, of course) and living as full-throttle Capitalists. The author isn't condoning Socialism as she takes some jabs at Capitalism. She's just pointing out how strange it is that we shape our kids with these very essential values that most of us hardly give a nod to in adulthood - i.e., sharing and cooperating and giving stuff up for the good of others. It's a funny piece, but it made me think.

Would I let a new acquaintance drive my new car around town just because he wanted to? Would I give some colleague half my latte just because she didn't have one? Or, on the flip side, would I cheer on my kid if he devised a clever money-making scheme at the snack table, collecting from those who could afford to purchase a snack, turning away those who couldn't and throwing the leftovers in the bin at the end of the play date?

Don't get me wrong, I'm living as a capitalist just like you, but it's something to think about. Why do we teach our kids these things when, as adults, they'll be expected to live so differently?

This weekend Liam went to a good friend's birthday party - a "bring your weapon" Nerf gun party. We love the party-throwing family and I'm not being critical, but I was kind of caught off guard by the theme as we really don't have any weapons in our house other than a play sword, a broken squirt gun and a lightsaber made out of a swimming noodle. At one time we had a small dart gun but Liam played with it for a day or two and eventually I threw it out. We never made a firm decision to keep weapons out, but we haven't encouraged them. And, truthfully, it hasn't been difficult. No toy comes before a LEGO here.

So it was interesting and slightly disconcerting to observe fifteen kids armed with Nerf guns shooting at each other and running for cover at yesterday's party. I am not a killjoy and I understand that the spirit of the afternoon was 100% fun. (Afterall, my own kid had a squirt gun birthday party last May.) But that article keeps coming back to me. What am I teaching my kids? What kind of character do I want them to develop? Do I reflect the best of what I hope for from them?

Pegging his friends with foam darts on a Sunday afternoon isn't going to turn my son into a criminal any more than teaching him to share his toys is going to turn him into a socialist. But what's the reason I'm condoning or allowing certain behaviors and activities and not others?

Several years ago I heard a speaker talk about building character in kids. The first thing he asked the audience to do was to write down the top three character traits we wanted our children to develop. Most people sitting there had never thought about it. I was one of them. Oh, I knew I wanted my kids to be nice and caring, but to deliberately write down the top three traits was a challenge. I finally landed on these: honest, empathetic, kind.

In light of the article, I'm not sure how these traits would work in climbing the corporate ladder or clamoring towards the teetering heights of personal wealth. I'm not sure my kids could win scholarships or be top of the class. I'm thinking these character qualities wouldn't make them worldly successes. But, deep down, that's okay with me. Because - gasp - I'm not grooming my sons for the boardroom. I'm not grooming them to be cunning or quick or stealthy. I am not equipping them for battle or street fights. Or to make lots and lots of money.

I hope I am equipping them to love God, love their neighbors and live big, awesome lives, which have little to do with wealth and capitalistic success and lots to do with the character traits I long for them to develop: being honest, empathetic and kind. This is why I don't mind a Nerf gun party. This is also why they are taught to share and cooperate.

But teaching is only half the equation. Sure, I can teach my kids stuff. Stuff I think is really important, essential even, but if they don't see the adults around them living it out, it won't stick.

I realize now that this is why we take our kids to Third Tuesday Suppers. This is why we make meals for our neighbors. This is why we comfort those who suffer losses. This is why we tell the truth even when it hurts.

And this, we pray, is what happens: When our kids pick up a Nerf gun, they're more concerned with helping a buddy find his lost foam dart than hitting the target. When someone wants to try out their toys, they give them a chance. When they make a bad decision, they don't cover their tracks. And when they're at the snack table, there's no question that everyone's invited. With all due respect to Newman and her excellent article, it's not socialist, it's character. And when we all try to live this way, it just might stick.

friday haiku

seven thirty a.m.
no one is awake but me
day's first miracle

the boy has a plan

On Saturday, Liam spend hours designing a new LEGO set. Then, he disassembled it, found a box, put all the pieces in it, created packaging and taped it up. 100% on his own. There are no step-by-step directions, but there's a nice drawing of the completed structure. All the pieces are in the box - including 14 minifigures! - and it can be yours for $39.99.

This boy is so determined and focused and creative, sometimes I think there must be a 30 year old in that body somewhere. I am amazed by him. We have broken it to him gently, though, that this set probably will not sell. He's okay with that.

He's onto building mini LEGO robots. How cute are these? (Note, however, they are not so cute 10 minutes before it's time to leave for school and the boy is not dressed and has not finished his breakfast but has snuck back to LEGO land to finish another robot. Mom yelled this morning. Felt kind of bad about it. Need to figure out a better morning plan that allows for LEGOS and gets us to school on time, without the yelling. Any suggestions?)

intention #2: write more poetry

I used to write poetry. I used to have time to think. I used to be able to sit with a line from a poem and stew over it for an hour. These days I cannot imagine it. There's billable work to do! Kids to chase after! Groceries to buy! Dinner to prepare! Showers to take! My rational mind tells me I need to exercise, clean, purge my office long before I need to wile away my precious hours doing something as indulgent as writing poetry. But I can't shake the longing to get back to it. So, inspired by My Year in Haiku, I plan to write and post a haiku every Friday. A poetry warmup of sorts. 17 syllables a week. I think I can do it, and still keep the kitchen tidy.

(If you are so inspired, join me and link to your haiku post in the comments - or just write one there. It'll make you happy. It'll make me happy, too.)


fifth morning of school
goodbye cries escalating
it will get better

intention #1: a plan for giving

A couple months ago I was flipping through a Family Fun magazine at the library and was inspired by an article with an ingenious idea for giving. I had been wanting to find a way to implement the idea but it wasn't until a car ride home from Wisconsin between Christmas and New Years that I found the moment to spring it on my family.

"I'm hungry," my six year old whined from the backseat, just outside Beloit. Not having food or a plan, I asked him what he thought we should do.

"Go to McDonalds?" he excitedly suggested, leaning forward in his seat.

Ugh. I hate McDonalds, which is why my son has been there probably five times in his life and why he thinks it's so wonderful. Plus, it wasn't dinnertime yet and a snack of fries would probably just make everyone feel hungrier.

"I have a better idea," I said, trying to sound enthusiastic, knowing this probably wasn't the moment to turn a request for fast food into a lecture on the needs of others. But, sometimes I really can't help myself.

Liam threw himself back and sighed. He knew all too well my better idea was not going to be french fries.

"What?" he pouted.

"Well," I said. "What if instead of spending money for food at McDonald's we wait until we get home to eat something. Then we write down what we would have spent there and put it that piece of paper in a jar. Every time we go to buy something extra or spend our money on something we really don't need this year, we'll think about whether we could not spend the money and write it on a paper for the jar. The jar will be our Giving Jar. We'll pick a special place we want to give the money, then we'll add up the amounts on all the slips of paper and write a check for the total. What do you think?"

"YES!" my son shouted. He really did this. My husband just about crashed the car.

"How much can we write on the slip?" my son asked excitedly.

We figured between french fries and drinks we'd probably spend $10. Then we discussed what or who we should be saving the money for. Because of our connection to Lithuania, we agreed that in a few months we'd add up our papers and write the check to our sister church in Taurage, specifically for the playground they want to build for kids in the community who have no safe place to play.

My son never said a word about being hungry the rest of the 90 minute drive home. I was stunned. Did this really happen? Can a focused family giving plan silence a kid who would give his front teeth to eat at McDonald's?

We'll see. In the meantime, we've started making our pizza on Friday nights: $8 for foregoing a Home Run Inn. And working at the library instead of the coffee shop: $2 for not buying a cup of tea.

I don't think of us as frivolous spenders. These days we're especially careful with our money. But I see this exercise as a good lesson in what we need versus what we want. And what we can give up - even the little we think we have - to help someone else. I also think we'll all discover that spending money doesn't make our lives richer. But seeing it fill the Giving Jar? We're already finding that that's a different story.

this is what I preached today

I was offered an opportunity to give a reflection in church this morning along with two other non-clergy types. We each got a passage of scripture and 4-5 minutes to speak. First, what I learned: pastors have an incredible job - both exciting and terrifying. If I were one, I wouldn't know whether to be in awe that I could share my insights with a congregation or vomit each week over the very thought of it. I also learned that I wouldn't make a very good pastor because I could never make it through a sermon without crying. Now for what I said...


The true light that shines on all people
was coming into the world.
The light was in the world,
and the world came into being through the light,
but the world didn’t recognize the light.
The light came to his own people,
and his own people didn’t welcome him.
But those who did welcome him,
those who believed in his name,
he authorized to become God’s children,
born not from blood
nor from human desire or passion,
but born from God.
The Word became flesh
and made his home among us.
We have seen his glory,
glory like that of a father’s only son,
full of grace and truth. —John 1:9-14 (CEB)

This Advent I read a lot of reflections. One that poet and author Kathleen Norris wrote on the annunciation has stuck with me.

In it, Norris notes how an angel not only appears to Mary and but also to Zechariah, heralding the birth of John the Baptist. And how Zechariah’s response to the angel’s news, although seemingly similar to Mary’s, is so radically different.

“How will I know that this is so?” asks Zechariah.

While Mary asks, “How can this be?”

Zechariah demands knowledge and information. Mary, however, ponders a state of being and, in the words that follow, professes a holy state of fear and wonder.

“Mary proceeds,” Norris writes, “as we must do in life—making her commitment without knowing much about what it will entail or where it will lead.”

I grew up the eldest of 20 cousins who regularly convened at my grandparent’s home for holidays and other special occasions. We spent most of our time in the basement in various configurations playing bumper pool and marbles. My favorite, however, was playing house. I usually orchestrated this activity and family lore has it that I would stand in the middle of the room with my hands on hips saying quite loudly, “If we’re going to play house, someone has to be the mother!”

Not surprisingly, as the oldest, this role usually fell to me. Although there were times I longed to be the baby or the sassy little sister, I relished my role as mother. I was well practiced. I was going to have five kids of my own someday. They would all be smart and healthy and very obedient. And we would live Little House on the Prairie style.

Although similar on the surface – I am a mother, afterall, and I live in the Prairie state – my storybook life didn’t go exactly as planned. I have two beautiful boys, not five (which I’m sure is probably a mercy). But the second I made my commitment, I knew all control I thought I had was gone. I had none. And when one son began to show signs of developmental delay, I, like Zechariah, wanted knowledge and information. I wanted illumination. Through various tests and exams we’ve gotten some, but it hasn’t helped. It hasn’t given us any understanding into the mystery of my son’s brain, and compounded by some depressing Googling, any hope for his future.

In pondering this passage from John 1, it has occurred to me that we all live in darkness. None of our lives have gone as our childhood dreams dictated. We are all fighting great battles, some of gargantuan proportions, most in complete darkness. Because as much as we long for the knowledge and information we think will shed light, we are not fulfilled by the illumination we find.

How can it be that our children have disabilities? Our financial futures lie in ruins? Our loved ones fall ill? Our pregnancies and marriages fail? Our young husbands die? None of this is part of the life we planned for ourselves or – as children playing house – the future we dreamed. Like Zechariah, we look for answers to shed light on the unexpected, the difficult, the impossible, the devastating.

Zechariah got punished for his arrogance – 9 long months of silence to think it over. Or maybe his punishment was really grace, since it was only when things got dark that he could accept the mystery and recognize the source of true light.

German theologian Karl Rahner believed that God could only be approached in absolute mystery. He wrote this, “If God’s incomprehensibility does not grip us in a word, if it does not draw us into his superluminous darkness, if it does not call us out of the little house of our homely, close-hugged truths…we have misunderstood the words of Christianity.”

I don’t know about you, but I want to understand things. I want to know how to get out of our difficult financial situation. I want to know what is going to best help my son and how he’s going to be 10 and 20 years from now. I want knowledge and information. I want to know what my commitments will entail and where they will lead.

But like the Isrealites in the desert, we are people living in darkness who have seen a great light. And the light isn’t knowledge or information. It isn’t answers to all our worldly problems. It’s the Word becoming flesh and making his home among us. It’s the incredible mystery of God with us.

In all honestly, it’s not what we think we want. It’s not something we fully understand. But when we open our hearts in a holy state of fear and wonder, it’s enough.

Amen.