friday haiku {and a recipe}

alchemy of soup
carrots, lentils, rice and broth
says all will be well

::

Lentil and Brown Rice Soup

I looked back through all my recipe posts, and I can't believe I've never shared this. When the weather turns, I make this soup. All. The. Time. Love that it uses pantry staples and inexpensive veggies and, other than a little chopping, takes almost zero effort. Plus, you can adapt it and add other root veggies you have on hand. Today I threw in some golden beets. Cheap, easy, healthy comfort food at its best.

1 cup lentils
1/2 cup brown rice
3 cups broth
4 cups water
2 t. salt
1/2 t. oregano
1/4 t. thyme
1/4 t. fresh ground pepper
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 small onion, chopped
2 celery stalks, chopped
2 carrots, sliced
1 can diced or whole tomatoes
1 T. cider vinegar

Put all ingredients except tomatoes and vinegar in a pot. Heat to boiling, reduce to simmer and cover; 45 minutes. Stir in tomatoes (break up if using whole) and vinegar. Simmer another 10-15 minutes. Ladle in bowls and sprinkle with parmesan.

grumble hallelujah

We are in a financial mess. Creditors call us daily. I don’t even open the medical bills anymore. Our mortgage is late again, and I don't know how we're going to pay it. And I can’t believe I’m writing this for anyone to see. But if I’ve learned anything from reading Caryn Dahlstrand Rivadeneira’s book Grumble Hallelujah: Learning to Love Your Life Even When It Lets You Down, it’s that my honesty just might help someone else feel less alone.

Now knowing firsthand how it feels to be released from the terrible prison of embarrassed isolation (which involved, I’m not embarrassed to say, a lot of tears), I’m willing to accept the ridicule and pity for telling you this awful news about our life. But somehow I doubt it’s coming. Because I bet you have awful news about your life, too.

Your situation may not look like mine, but it’s probably equally distressing and painful, or maybe even worse. It might be something that keeps you up at night or causes you to cry yourself to sleep. Or maybe you’re just working really, really hard to ignore it. As Caryn’s book so poignantly points out, none of us get the lives we thought we were supposed to have.

While reading, it occurred to me that every person I know has something in their past, present or (sorry to say) future that they never asked for, something that leads (or will lead) them to say, “This isn’t the life I signed up for.” An unhappy marriage, a spouse with depression or addiction, infertility or miscarriage, the death of a child or a husband, divorce, a disabled or mentally ill child, a career in the tank, bankruptcy, broken relationships, abuse, cancer. I don’t know one single person who has a perfect life. Do you?

And, yet, how hard we work to make it appear otherwise.

Most people who know me would probably say that I’m a pretty happy person. I find the positive in most any situation. I care for people. I love my family dearly. I follow Jesus. But what most people don’t know is that I live with this big pile of ick.

I try to keep all the yucky stuff—the debt, the bills, the worry, the fear—stuffed in a can, but it keeps sloshing over, seeping into the beautiful parts of my life. And it makes me angry and scared and really embarrassed.

I once told a close friend who knows the ugly truth about my life that one of my greatest fears is dying and knowing that people I love will discover the depth of our financial mess. How sad is that? But something in me wants to hide at all costs. Somehow we’ll come out of this and regain the life I’ve always wanted, I think. No one needs to know.

And yet, as I sat blurry-eyed, reading Caryn’s book, I realized this approach benefits no one, especially the one trying to hold the lid on the can.

In the pages of her book, Caryn shares the bitter truth—this brokenness is your life. But, thankfully, that’s just Chapter One. The other fourteen chapters are helping me learn what to do with my struggle and see how my life was meant to be lived, and loved. I am discovering that I need to grieve the fact that this was not the way my life was supposed to be, to release my expectations about how my life should look, to spit out my envy and anger at the ease with which others seem to live, to stop worrying that my shameful-feeling secret is going to influence others’ opinion of me, to die to this “should be” life I’ve imagined and, instead, to allow God’s light to shine through my imperfections and struggle.

If I could, I would give this book to all of my friends and family members who need to grieve over the fact that their lives aren’t turning out as planned. Loved ones who are experiencing distressing circumstances or painful losses. People who need to know they are not alone and that God wants their hallelujahs, even if they’re grumbled. Because when we’re courageous enough to cry out and give thanks even in our lowest times, God’s in the business of turning our lives into something beautiful. And that is reason enough to find our voice and stop pretending.

friday haiku {for an anniversary}

this girl knew nothing
of the two made one, just joy
how being loved feels

::

Today, a decade later, this girl knows a little bit more than nothing, and still joy. Grateful for a man who shares my dreams, pursues his passions, makes me feel incredibly beautiful and has to be one of the best dads alive. What I wrote at year 7 and year 9 still stands. Happy anniversary, honey!

{photo by Carols Vergara}

what if we knew we were beloved in every fiber of our being?

Recently I was approached about contributing an artwork to an exhibit at church. The exhibit was focusing on persecution and artists were being asked to respond. My first thought was that I am not an artist. In the traditional sense, it's true. I don't draw or paint or sculpt. But the woman coordinating the exhibit warmly suggested I use my sewing machine to create something. I told her I'd think about it.

I sat on it for weeks. I am not well acquainted with persecution. Although we have our struggles, we live a pretty cushy life. Occasionally the awful realities of life outside will pop up on my computer screen and I'll be moved to sign a petition, engage others or say a quick prayer. But in order to maintain the freedom and safety of my family, I don't have to do much. I can exercise my beliefs, use my voice and show my face everywhere I go. Living in the western suburbs of Chicago has its perks.

I figured I would not be participating in this exhibit.

A couple of days before the contributions were due, I remembered a conversation I had had years ago with the director of Youth for Christ in Lebanon. He shared about the difficult situations he and his family had experienced over the past months: death threats, bomb scares, etc.

“It must be really hard to be a Christian in Lebanon right now,” I said to him.

He gave me a funny look and shook his head.

“Not really,” he responded. “I imagine the most difficult place in the world to be a Christian would be in America.”

I'm not sure I said anything after that. I was stunned, but I knew he was right. We are self-sufficient in America. We really don't know anything about persecution. Most of us don’t have an urgent daily need to cling to God or his Word.

Thinking about my friend in Lebanon reminded me of the story of Corrie Ten Boom surviving the Nazi concentration camps. The efforts she went through to hide her little Bible on her person so she wouldn’t have to give it up impressed me greatly as a child.

A few seasons of life have led me to open my Bible on a daily basis. But never with the urgency of a desperate person clinging to every word.

What would it look like if the Bible were that important to us? If it were—worn and tattered—all that we clung to? If we gave up our debates and arguments about the finer points of theology and inerrancy? If we stopped looking at the Bible as a book of rules and judgment, or a weapon of persecution in itself?

What if, instead, we simply clung to its promises? What if we wore the truth of who we are—beloved children of God—like our lives depended on it?

And, so, I cut out pages of those promises from a little Bible and made something for the exhibit after all.

No matter what happens to us in this life, I am certain that there is a greater purpose and a God of love we can cling to. A God who doesn't demand retribution but who encourages forgiveness. A God who doesn't promise prosperity but who asks for sacrifice. A God who doesn't leave anyone out but who loves lavishly and unconditionally.

Persecuted believers know it with every fiber of their being. May we as well.


For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord. Romans 8:38-39

friday haiku

when you feel alone
pour out your life, instead of
a drop, an ocean

30 beautiful hours in wisconsin

My fabulous sister Liz turned 30 last week and her husband flew her halfway across the country so she could celebrate with her immediate family this weekend. The sixteen of us spent two unseasonably mild October days on the lake, catching frogs, wading in the water, carving pumpkins, walking in the woods, playing cards, eating great meals and simply relishing each other's company.

Had anyone told my nine-year-old self, enduring the saddest days of my life in the wake of my parent's breakup, that my family would someday be an exceptionally beautiful, loving, life-giving home, I never would have believed it. Now I know. There are gifts that far outweigh the losses. And, despite what you may think in a time of grief, anything can be redeemed.

friday haiku

So, friends, every day
do something that won't compute.
Love God. Love the world.


{thanks to Wendell Berry}

the bliss of innocence

My son is in love with the girl across the street. And, for the most part, she returns his undivided attention and devotion. We parents laugh at how cute and silly they are, screaming repeated hellos from the windows, giggling with glee whenever they are in each other's company. But this mom also worries.

At 4 1/2, my son does not play with any neighborhood peers his age. He prefers to spend time with kids who are 12 to 24 months his junior, kids who are still learning to speak in complete sentences and who ride their bikes with training wheels. Yet as the months go by, I see the gap widening.

My son mixes up his pronouns, commanding me to "Carry you!" or asking "I tired?" when I stifle a yawn. He has not yet mastered any wheeled ride-on. He struggles to answer unfamiliar questions. He still resists the potty. Even his youngest friends seem to be passing him by.

One sunny afternoon last week, Elliott and I went walking. We ended up at the neighborhood schoolyard where his girlfriend Mia happened to be playing with friends. Elliott screamed her name from the sidewalk and then rushed onto the blacktop to greet her. Mia was riding her scooter and paid no attention to her suitor. My stomach lurched. It's beginning, I thought. The months of mutual affection are coming to an end.

I watched as Elliott followed scootering Mia around the basketball court. His persistence never wavered. Neither did his joy. He kept laughing and calling her name. She kept riding and ignoring him.

Eventually Elliott left Mia for the slide. Then, he happily trudged home.

Our neurologist cannot give us any prediction about how Elliott will progress or where he'll end up intellectually. His condition is rare, complex and completely individual. So as a mom, I provide as many opportunities for him to develop as possible. I watch and pray. And, although I try not to, I worry.

I've always known that Mia would tire of Elliott's advances long before he'd be ready to step back. That she would begin to surpass him in conversation and intellect and activities. That she would eventually move on.

What I didn't know is that my son doesn't seem to mind. He is an "all in" kind of guy. At the schoolyard he seemed blissfully unaware that the object of his affection had stopped participating. He just continued to love her.

I am discovering that what my son lacks in development he makes up for in contentment. He never compares. He just is. And although I worry that he could experience many disappointments and rejections in his lifetime, I'm not sure he'll view them as such. If his first 4 1/2 years are any indication, he'll see opportunities and, strangely, happiness. He'll love without condition or demand. And he'll keep teaching us a better way to live.

When it comes to love, St. Paul said that we see through a glass darkly. Some days I am convinced that my boy already sees the other side.