Sacramental Living

Here I am to worship.

Here I am to bow down.

Here I am to walk to the store to get sour cream to bake a pound cake.

Here I am to stop on the way to the store to set up my neighbor's voicemail.

Here I am to give up on the sour cream and bake a yellow cake instead.

Here I am to spill sugar all over the floor of our tiny kitchen.

Here I am to share the still-warm cake with hilarious and beautiful roommates.

Here I am to take the rest of the cake down the street to a friend.

Here I am to sit with her, watching crappy Lifetime movies and talking about the weather and landlords and love.

Here I am to see her off to her hair appointment while I walk to the porch of an abandoned house where another friend is teaching me how to crochet.

Here I am to have her send me home a few minutes later because it's cold out and WHAT WAS I THINKING not wearing my coat?

Here I am to walk back to my own porch with yarn, hook, and thankful heart.

Here I am to steam broccoli while we wait for neighbors to come over for dinner (it's hot dogs again, and no one is complaining).

Here I am to boil water for tea and hot chocolate as our company lingers in the after-dinner hours.

Here I am to giggle with gratitude and exhaustion as I start to fall asleep on the couch and then stumble back to my creaking, squeaking, lumpy, and yet still inviting bed.

Yes, here I am to worship.

On that Day all the horses’ harness bells will be inscribed “Holy to God.” The cooking pots in the Temple of God will be as sacred as chalices and plates on the altar. In fact, all the pots and pans in all the kitchens of Jerusalem and Judah will be holy to God-of-the-Angel-Armies.
-Zechariah 14:20-21

Chit'lins

Ain’t nothin’ pretty ‘bout chit’lins. From the frozen block in the plastic bucket to the slowly unfurling curls defrosting in the sink to the way the smell spreads down the hall and into your fingers. But when a neighbor passes away and her best friend is grieving, what can you do but dump your joys and sorrows and chit’lins all together in the sink and just sit with them for a little while? What can you do but tenderly pull apart each piece of meat and memory, holding it for a moment before setting it aside to keep?  What can you do but let the scent of vinegar and peace into your body as you breathe, and breathe, and keep on breathing? And somewhere among the joys and sorrows, memories and meat, vinegar and peace, you know that this too is beautiful because God is here.

Baking to Newness

It feels a little like baking muffins. Strawberry banana muffins. In a tiny kitchen. Where he keeps bumping up against me and grabbing my waist and making me laugh so my hands shake and I can barely crack the eggs. And no one else is awake yet but they will be soon and they'll know. They'll know that here, in this sacred space, around our scarred, scratched table, they are safe. Some of the muffins will be charred around the edges and others will be sticky-sweet in the middle but they will still know, our friends will. They'll know that we care, me and Jesus. That we want them to smell nice things and see pretty colors and smile a tiny bit, even though it's the much too early morning after a much too long night.

That's what dreaming feels like to me. MLK dreamed of singing and Jesus dreamed of healing and I too dream of a world that is not, and my heart breaks with longing for it.

So I bake. I bake to singing and I bake to healing and I bake to newness. I cream the slowly melting butter of my slowly melting heart. I cream it with the sugary sweet toddler smiles that whisper "tomorrow will be here soon indeed." I crack my misconceptions of God and the world and myself and crunch the shells for good measure before tossing them in the trash. I haven't finished the recipe yet; we're still experimenting. I don't mind. Sometimes just being in the kitchen is enough.

I want both of us to start singing like two

Travelling minstrels

About this extraordinary existence

We share,

As if

You, I, and God were all married

And living in

A tiny

Room.

-Hafiz

In the Struggle

I've been struggling with a lot.

Racism, sexism, faith-ism, and unhealthy choices in my neighborhood.

Racism, sexism, faith-ism, and unhealthy choices in my own life.

But today, I've been struggling with the fax machine, which is simultaneously the most outdated and most essential piece of technology in our office, apparently. It was something about an unlabeled box and old ink and not shaking it (whatever "it" is... the diagram was supremely unhelpful) enough. And while my hands were being covered in black powder (is that supposed to happen? don't even know...), words from a couple months ago echoed in my mind. It was early Thanksgiving morning and I was unloading the dishwasher and complaining to Jesus. Telling him that I felt entirely inadequate to respond to the ideas and problems rattling around in my head. Telling him that I was sick of thinking about oppression and the ways that I let it happen in the world and in my heart. Telling him that this bringing of his kingdom,  this fighting for a new woman and a new world, sometimes brings with it the sensation of drowning. And right there, among the plates and cups and bowls, Jesus brushed up against my shoulder, leaned in close, and whispered, "In the struggle, you'll know me."

When I'm having a conversation with one of my roommates or neighbors or clients and they're walking through messy and hard times and I can't get my mind off myself, I'll know his forgiveness. When I find that my expectations of people are all tied up in their gender and race, I'll know his grace. When I need people to want me, delight in me, think I'm wonderful and perfect, I'll know his sufficiency. When I'm confused about who he even is, I'll know that he is Yahweh, the God who is who he is, and that will be okay because "is the great heart of the reality of God to speak in only the broken accent that I can follow after?" And when the struggle of the moment is the fax machine, Jesus is still brushing up against me and letting me feel his heartbeat. So okay, Jesus. I'll rejoice in these tensions and curl up on the couch with the uncomfortable questions because they're the road I walk, dance, stumble down to find you.

I will get up now and go about the city,
    through its streets and squares;
I will search for the one my heart loves.
-from Song of Solomon