From our weekly reflections

My biggest prayer for the year is for serenity. The United Methodist church down the road threw a party on Saturday, and we stopped by. It was like Eucharist with hot dogs and grape soda. Front porches are like the best thing ever. Had a great conversation with Ms. Joyce about Peter's faith. Bernard came over for a bit on Saturday night and told us that friendship is about justice, humility and freedom. Not sure yet what that means. We hold on to our emotions because they are how we experience the world. So respecting people's emotions is really important. 

Steve and I usually ride to work together and have a blast. Conversations with roommates, neighbors, etc. are constantly challenging my perceptions of God. The biggest thing in my life right now is the color red. The red leaves mean a change in season, which fills me with a feeling of anticipation. The first two or three weeks were hard. Not knowing or being known by anyone here and not having access to the people who did know me was frustrating. Ms. Bridgett's phone is off/dead/lost and I miss her. Miss Annie got onto me for walking outside without a sweater and Queen laid into me for not drying my hair. One, they were right, and two, I'm thankful for adopted mommas. I have experienced joy, frustration, silliness, brokenness, and deep love in those friendships. Got to spend Thanksgiving with Ms. Bridgette and her family. Thankful that she invited me! I was about to add a note apologizing for how jumbled my thoughts are, but then I decided I like that they're jumbled because that's where I am right now and I trust the Spirit's work in my heart. 

Randomly ran into Whitney after work at the train station. Been super tired because I haven't been able to sleep. The questions are rich, if unsettling. Sanchez and I are going to audition for American Idol together with "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." Someone told me white people call chit'lins "crinkle steaks." I almost fell out of my chair! Spent a million hours in the kitchen kneading dough for bread and dough for cookies and meat for this Syrian dish and making rice and green beans too. God was just as present in the cooking as in the actual dinner! So if I can learn how to love well somewhere, in some context, I am fighting injustice there and fighting it in all the places I will ever go, because I will always carry my being-redeemed heart with me. 

Also, God talks to me a lot in pictures. And sometimes through short sentences so I can remember them. Sitting at Pittman Park and belting "Be Thou My Vision" because no one was around. Like, my crap sucks but people still love me. I swear I can make friends with anyone by mentioning chit'lins. Went to a neighbor's 7th birthday party! It was super awkward because I don't know them that well and I hate parties (but really). Ryan and I taught preschool Sunday School on Easter and ROCKED IT. I think, maybe, what a flower feels is a sinking, pressing in to the soil and a stretching, reaching out into the world, toward the sun, never arriving. And I do feel like I'm there. 

Jill and I became friends with this like 90-year-old woman who loved to dance but didn't really know any dance moves so she just copied us. She told us that she LOVED to PARTY! It feels like the past eight and a half months of awkward moments are finally paying off... in the form of differently awkward moments. Asking not so much "who is right" but "how do we show each other love" and "where do we go from here." Gym, pool, nose piercing. Now I feel sore, sunburned, have a sore nose, and feel rested and more at peace. I'm going to miss our front porch. Because honestly? I can continue to carry a lot of prejudices and live with a lot of blind spots if I never explore faith with other people... people who are different from me. 

I see the moon, the moon sees me

"I heard someone say it's 93 billion miles away."

The stray cat purrs and settles between my sunburned legs. We're rocking back and forth, smooth and easy, summer-night slow. He's already licked the pink splattered remains of our ice cream from the bowls. He's comfortable here. Me too.

"But if you ask me, it looks like it's hanging right over the interstate."

We sit with the full stillness between us and watch the moon slide above the line of trees. It's a thick yellow, pockmarked and freckled with unexplored craters. 

And she's right. It looks absurdly, impossibly close. So does the Kingdom, tonight, as we're crossing generational and color lines to watch the night sky, looking for patterns in the stars and warmth in each other.

It doesn't look close because I'm proclaiming good news to the poor. That's what Jesus did, bringing his stunning message, "God is with us," to lonely, anxious humanity. All we can do is proclaim good news to each other. And that's what we're doing, the two of us, as we're opening her family Bible and reading, "Bless the Lord, O my soul: and all that is within me, bless his holy name." And that's what we're doing as we're singing the old hymns, laughing that we know all the same ones, belting that we rest on his unchanging grace. On Christ the solid rock we stand!

The Kingdom, in all of its upside-down, inside-out, embarrassingly inclusive glory is not yet here. I see the not-here-ness in too many "flesh-colored" Band-aids and missionaries that match my skin tone. I see it when I treat people as one-dimensional: you are just a needy friend, you are organized and put together, you are a heretic. I see it when kids in our neighborhood, and in others with similar demographics, are seen as the recipients of community service, not capable of offering it. I see it when I wake up in the middle of the night feeling lonely and afraid.

But here we are, on the porch, sitting with the paradox of a far-near moon. Calling out constellations, wishing on them for a world full of holiness and wholeness.

This is the year of the Lord's favor.


The Spirit of the Lord is on me,
    because he has anointed me
    to proclaim good news to the poor.
He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners
    and recovery of sight for the blind,
to set the oppressed free,
to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.

Even though this isn't a cooking blog (part two).

I expected adventures when I moved to Atlanta. I just didn't know they would look like this. I didn't anticipate wrestling spinach to shreds, wielding my wooden spoon in an onslaught of popping oil, beating down billowing clouds of flour. But here I am, breathing in the garlicky breadcrumbs and the roasting chickpeas, saying "grace, this is grace, all is grace." And then we're sitting around a table together and we're laughing and the tears come too and we're saying "grace," all together now. We're believing that this love we're experiencing, leaning into, working our tails off for, is grace.

"The grace of God means something like: 'Here is your life. You might never have been, but you are, because the party wouldn't have been complete without you. Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don't be afraid. I am with you. Nothing can ever separate us. It's for you I created the universe. I love you.'" -Frederick Buechner

This was dinner Tuesday night. Further proof that eating on $2.41 a day can be healthy(ish) and taste so. dang. good! Thank you Pinterest for the beautiful photography (and recipes, of course).

Spinach Burgers
1 1/2 c. cooked spinach (fresh* or thawed+drained)
2 eggs
1/4 c. diced onion
1/2 c. shredded cheddar
1/2 c. breadcrumbs
1 tsp red pepper flakes
1/2 tsp garlic powder
oil (for frying)

Mix all ingredients but oil. Heat oil in skillet over medium. Using 1/4 c. measuring cup, scoop mixture into skillet and cook burgers 4-6 minutes on each side, or until nicely browned. Serve on quartered pita bread. Sweet chili sauce was a popular topping. Makes 4-6 burgers.
*If spinach is fresh, saute it (cooking spray works well for this) in batches until you have 1 1/2 cups cooked. It usually ends up taking about 2/3 lb. uncooked.

Cucumber Salad
1 1/4 c. water
1 tsp salt
1 c. bulgar
1/4 plain yogurt
3 Tbs olive oil
3 Tbs lemon juice
1 tsp pepper
4 c. halved+sliced cucumber (approximately 2 cucumbers)
1 15.5 oz. can chickpeas rinsed+drained (optional: roast them in olive oil and oregano for 20ish minutes at 425 degrees)
1 Tbs dried oregano

Boil water and salt. Turn off heat. Stir in bulgur. Let stand, covered, 20-30 minutes, or until water is absorbed. Uncover and let cool. (Hint: spreading it out on a cookie sheet makes it cool much faster.) Whisk yogurt, oil, lemon juice, and pepper. Toss everything and refrigerate for at least 1 hour. Makes 8 side servings.

Applesauce Oatmeal Cake
1 1/2 c. brown sugar
3 eggs
2/3 c. butter, melted+cooled
2 tsp vanilla
1/4 c. honey
2 1/2 c. flour
1 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp apple pie spice (or pumpkin pie spice, or cinnamon)
1 c. applesauce
2 c. oatmeal (I like 1-minute oats)

Preheat oven to 350. Whisk sugar and eggs. Whisk in butter and vanilla. Mix flour, baking powder, salt, and spice. Alternate mixing in flour mixture and applesauce, beginning and ending with flour. Stir in oatmeal. Bake in greased bundt pan for 55-60 minutes. (I used two loaf pans and reduced the cooking time.) Serve with whipped cream, powdered sugar, or applesauce (applesauce tasted perfect... yet another great excuse to eat cake for breakfast!).

_______________________________________
The cake recipe happens to be perfect for when those itty-bitty black ants invade your white sugar. For some reason they don't touch brown sugar or powdered sugar. Anyone else had an issue with those recently? Are they just part of Georgia's summers?

On my bookshelf

"Rhythms": MissionYear buzzword number three.

It comes right behind intentionality (which is either the guiding principle of my life OR the word most likely to make me vomit) and community (we build it, pursue it, create it, promote it, define it, and struggle to separate it from pasta dishes). Of course, you get bonus points for using "intentional community." Or you get eye rolls. One or the other.

But, rhythms. I think we use that word because it sounds gentler and freer and stronger than "schedule." It brings images of hearts pumping, chests swelling, tides ebbing. And "respect the rhythms of the house" has a nicer ring to it than "show up for devos at 6:30 SHARP, PEOPLE." But euphemistic as it may be, the idea of rhythms has been pretty central to our exploration of life in Atlanta.

The first "beats" of our days ARE those 6:30 devos, times set aside to reflect on scripture, poetry, songs, art as a little community. (Ha, "community"... two extra points for me.) Then we settle into our quiet hour. There have been days enough where I've opened my Bible at random. Put my iPod on shuffle. Grabbed a new and unfamiliar book from the shelf. I'm grateful for those mornings, the ones where Onesimus and Simba and Janie Crawford awaken me to the Holy One in our midst. 

But if I'm honest, as days here sashay and strut or sometimes wriggle and squirm by, I need to read and pray words that keep me grounded. I need to sit with the thick books that make me focus my attention long enough to be transformed.  I need to pray the prayers of that great cloud of witnesses, the prayers that have been swirling around in the mists of our planet through many loops around the sun. I need to hear the language and stories of my childhood, the ones reminding me that "grace hath brought me safe thus far," the ones making me trust that "grace will lead me home." So I open my Bible, and I open these books. They stay on the makeshift bookshelf between my shoes and recipes, between my head and heart.

Gates of Prayer: the New Union Prayerbook. I found this Jewish prayerbook in a little bookstore in San Marco. I love that the prayers in here point to God's presence in nature, in doubt, and in community.

The Jesus Storybook Bible. This is a story about a God who transforms a world with a Never Stopping, Never Giving Up, Unbreaking, Always and Forever Love. And on the days I lose sight of the fact that this too is the narrative of the Bible, my whimsical storybook reminds me to take few steps back and look again.

Total Yoga. So I don't fall back asleep. And because it's hard to read or pray at all if I'm forgetting to breathe! Yoga reminds me of what a powerful and beautiful thing my body is, and gently prods me to treat it kindly.

Overweights of Joy. Amy Carmichael's experience adjusting to life in India helps me process my life here in Atlanta. She uses lots of plant imagery and draws from a deeply intimate experience with the Divine. These words floor me, inspire me, center me: "Guard against depression. Bear evenly with all that is uneven. Never be shocked out of loving."

Baptist Hymnal. It's the second and third verses that get me every time. Current favorite is Be Thou My Vision.  (Related: Red Mountain Music.)

_______________________________

What's been on your bookshelf recently?

Among the Trees

You know how sometimes you get to the end of a day and you don't want to say "it was a good day" or even "it was a bad day," but you pause, breathe a little deeper, and then you sigh "it was a day"?

Well this has been a week. Please excuse the melodrama; just last Sunday, I was a teenager.

Things I did that made this week a week:

• curled up under my rain jacket in Panera (these are the times I wish it were more socially acceptable to carry around a blanket), cried over a book of poetry, and drank so much sweet tea I couldn't sleep all night
• ate fan-freaking-tastic birthday cupcakes made with love by two of my favorite people
• [unsuccessfully] attempted to register for classes and get football tickets for the fall
• talked to my mom about scrapbooking
• made "lentil loaf" (there's a reason this post doesn't include the recipe)
• came home from work one day and collapsed on the couch until I mustered enough energy to microwave some eggs for dinner (clearly the raving success of the spinach burgers last week was balanced out by lentil loaf and microwaved eggs this week... what can I say?  I'm restoring equilibrium to the universe)
• made plans to go dress shopping with one of my very fashionable older neighbors this weekend
• hung out with some awesome preschoolers and danced and celebrated the ways we see God provides for us
• cried because people are hungry
• hit a girl (and got hit!) in a jam-packed Zumba class
• picked a lot of flowers and put them in my hair
• blew out birthday candles and wished that I would always be surrounded by people who love me as well as the 1158 crowd does (oops... does writing it mean my wish won't come true?)
• thought a lot about trees:

When I am among the trees,

especially the willows and the honey locust,

equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,

they give off such hints of gladness,

I would almost say that they save me, and daily.

I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,

and never hurry through the world

but walk slowly, and bow often.

Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, "Stay awhile."

The light flows from their branches.

And they call again, "It's simple," they say,
"and you too have come

into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled

with light, and to shine."

-Mary Oliver

And so I've been trying to "walk slowly, and bow often." Because my sometimes-flighty, no-longer-teenage self has a lot to learn from the elegant, coming-back-to-life tree in our front yard, from the grasping branches at the park down the road, from the pink buds littering the sidewalk on my walk to work. They're inviting me to stay awhile, to hold out during the long cold months and trust that spring, flowers, growth are coming, to offer unashamed fragrance and beauty to the world. "'It's simple,' they say." Maybe not easy, but simple.

Sights for Sore Eyes (seriously though... this pollen is killing my eyes)

The wonderful, perfect, wanna-be-like-her-when-I-grow-up Meredith and I celebrated Mass at St. Bernard's Abbey. We missed the dress-up-and-cover-your-hair memo, but the monks didn't seem to mind at all. Also, the homily was one of the most stunning invitations I've ever heard to come to the table of grace and stuff our faces with the goodness of Christ's forgiveness so we don't walk away hungry. Only the monk said it much, you know, prettier.

Then we ate pizza. Lots of pizza. With pineapple.

The next morning (who am I kidding... it was the afternoon before we even got out of bed) we went on the loveliest walk, full of snaky trails, sunshiney rocks, and a topsy-turvy-tumbly stream. 

Then I was off to Tuscaloosa. I don't even eat at Taco Bell, but  it's always the first thing I notice on McFarland, so I have this strangely forceful attraction to it. I may have sort of almost cried.

First stop in T-town... Church of Movement Toward Freedom. These folks--my family-- know how to do community (and fried chicken!) exceptionally well. 

And then... GLORIOUS REUNION! Fried green tomato BTL and a chocolate shake. Oh also it was pretty nice to see my roommates again. (Of course you know that by "pretty nice" I mean it was like someone plugged in the world and everything, EVERYTHING just lit up.)

I swear there is nothing better than eating brownies and watching monsters fall in love with a little girl. Nothing in the whole wide world. See also: what cool college kids do at night. 

THIS! I swung by my favorite art gallery EVER (the Paul R. Jones Gallery downtown-- houses 20th century African-American art)  and found a lovely collection of pieces around the theme of migration and the way cities forced people to start rubbing shoulders with each other a little bit more. Coincidentally, that mayyy be something I've been thinking about recently. Just a little bit.

Ben Rector sang about giraffes and it was STILL face-meltingly gorgeous. That's all I have to say about that.


...And tomorrow it's back to Atlanta for more adventures, more precious community, and (hopefully) much less pollen!

Now-but-not-yet

We got to the Good Friday service (which wasn't really a Good Friday service at all) a little late. I wish I could blame MARTA, but it was actually because I got lost. (Me? Lost and late? Shocking, I know.) But no one seemed to mind as we settled into the back row of the synagogue to welcome the Pesach Shabbat, Passover Sabbath, with the rest of the congregation.

And somewhere between the beautiful kirtan and the silent meditation it hit me.

We're all living in the now-but-not-yet.

We celebrate freedom from captivity in Egypt. We eat quinoa instead of bread to remember the gleeful, terrifying fleeing as Pharaoh finally let us go. We shake tambourines and proclaim, Sh'ma Yisrael Adonai Eloheinu Adonai Ehad. Hear, O Israel: the Lord is our God, the Lord is One. We remember Sarah and Abraham, Rebekah and Isaac, Miriam and Moses, and we dance in the presence of Jehovah Jireh, the Lord who always, always provides.

Or, we celebrate freedom from death. We take the preschoolers running around the church looking for Jesus only to find out that He is risen. He is risen indeed! We watch the sun come up on Easter and let the signs of life remind us that life itself is being renewed, restored, redeemed. We sing the hymns loud, trusting that this resurrection points to a future one.

But we all live in the same shattered world, a place where the imago dei is on display but goes unnoticed. Image-bearers of the Most High parade, meander, or sometimes slouch through life seen as sex objects, gun targets, too much of one thing, not enough of another. And we cry or yell or sit quietly with the not-yets as they slap us in the face, all the while looking forward to the coming—whether we believe it will be for the first time or the second—of Moshiach, the Messiah, who will bring the complete redemption of the world.

In a world torn by violence and pain, a world far from wholeness and peace, a world waiting still to be redeemed, give us, Lord, the courage to say: There is One God in heaven and earth. The high heavens declare His glory; may earth reveal His justice and His love.

—The New Union Prayer Book

Even though this isn't a cooking blog.

Let me detail for you my cooking experience prior to September 1, 2012.

• scrambling eggs
• making mac and cheese from a box
• boiling a chicken (which I had done exactly once)
• microwaving cereal and marshmallows (and yes, I still feel good about this decision)

This is no exaggeration, people. 

Our first weeks here consisted of some... experimental?... meals. The highlight was peanut butter potatoes and broccoli (affectionately known as PB&PB). For the record, our creation was inspired by an international cookbook. Did they recommend making a sauce out of crunchy peanut butter and strawberry yogurt? Not exactly. But Ryan and I rocked out with what we had.

Obviously, we've gotten a little bit better about planning ahead. And, you know, working from better recipes. Also, we discovered the DeKalb Farmers' Market... AND QUINOA. And in light of all that exciting progress, here's a recipe from our kitchen this week. 

Thai Veggie Quinoa
makes about 6 servings

broccoli
snow peas
green and red peppers
3 cups quinoa
6 cups chicken or vegetable broth
3/4 cup Italian dressing
3 Tbs peanut butter
2 Tbs soy sauce
2 Tbs honey
1 tsp red pepper flakes

Preheat oven to 425 degrees. Chop your veggies. Cover a cookie sheet with aluminum foil, spray it with Pam, spread out the veggies, coat them with Pam, and then douse them with soy sauce. Roast them for 25 minutes, or until they're crispy. Bring the quinoa and broth to a boil, stirring. Cover it, turn the heat to low, and let it simmer for 15 minutes, or until the quinoa has absorbed all the broth. Whisk the remaining ingredients. Mix the vegetables in with the quinoa, pour the dressing over it, and stir. Done. Yum.

Notes:

• Frozen veggies work if you don't have fresh ones. You don't have to defrost them.
• If you don't have time to roast the veggies (like if you're trying to catch the next 42 bus in the middle of a thunderstorm because you want a milkshake), just put them in a covered container with a tiny bit of water and microwave them for 10 minutes, give or take.

So what's cooking in your kitchen? We're always looking for new recipes!

ode to marta

in honor of the many bus drivers who've waited for me as i've run to catch the bus

you're early-morning-pumpkin-muffin orange

banana-just-ripe yellow

bright-blanket-keeping-me-warm blue

and i'm

running

out the door

down the street

coat flapping

backpack bumping

hair in tangles

neighbors are laughing

yelling

cheering

it's coming

run!

as i step up

it's a half smile and fingers through hair

my pass beeping

falling into the seat

some mornings we're packed 

like sardines in water

or in oily drops of 

memory

frustration

anticipation

longing

other mornings

there's more space to thrash

and flash our fins

in each other's salt-laden, oxygen-rich brine
and
breathe

on weekends, marta,

on weekends you're

burnt orange like late afternoons

the mustard of turkey sandwiches carried to the park

or corndogs fried up for dinner

blue like summer sky

like little-girl eyes
(though who's a little girl anymore?)

oh

but i'm still
always

running!

When Washing Feet Isn't Cheesy

Lights are low (if we're really taking this seriously, candles are involved) and shoes are coming off. We're probably cross-legged on a cabin floor at a retreat center, but we may be itching in Sunday school dresses or sitting tall in the plastic chairs of the youth group room. Soft giggling and uncomfortable snickering harmonize with unhurried guitar chords. The buckets come out. It's that night. We're washing each other's feet.

Because Jesus said to, y'know?

And because the adults think it's fun to make our awkward teenage selves feel even more uncomfortable with our bodies. (Mmhmm, we saw you laughing in the back.)

And because we are bodies, and we need these images, these sacraments. They invite us deep into the reality of purifying water and cleansing Spirit and kneeling-down humility.

But behind the crossed legs, giggles, and guitar is an utterly subversive narrative. A Jewish carpenter-teacher steps away from the table to wrap a towel around himself and get intimate with dirty feet.

I've got my hands on my knees, and I'm poised to step out of my chair. I'm taking a deep breath and pushing myself up. But the towel isn't around my waist yet. Because, y'all, this is hard for me. It's embarrassing to uncover the ways my misconceptions and prejudices have kept me from serving my sisters and brothers with humility. It's bewildering to transition from standing and teaching to kneeling and listening. My cheeks grow warm and I twist my hair around my fingers and I can't maintain eye contact because all of a sudden I'm friends with people who are shattering the boxes I've believed in.

But like I said, I think my hands are on my knees.

I think that for me, right now, that looks like spending 2013 reading only books from women, people of color, and the LGBT community because God and the gospel seem to come into focus in the midst of diversity. It looks like speaking out when my friends are called or treated like "dirty whores," "violent Muslims," "Bible-hating feminists," or even "close-minded fundamentalists." It looks like eating on $2.41 a day as part of living in solidarity with my neighbors. (Though I gotta admit that since my wonderful roommates still let me bake all the time, it's hardly even a thing. Haha. Love you people. :) ) It looks like living in a neighborhood where eating on $2.41 a day is part of solidarity, because before all this foot washing can happen, I've got to get to know some more of the "one another's."

And I trust that in the middle of my embarrassment and bewilderment and growing, the Spirit is breathing new life into my lungs and pouring clean water over my filthy, redeemed feet.

Come and See

Once upon a time, there was a happy family with a mom, a dad, and two little girls. They all lived together in the sunshiney state of Florida.  

(Just pretend Emily is in this picture! Also, pretend that it's in Florida.)

But then, one day, one of the little girls realized she wasn't so little anymore. She decided she would move to a new city where she would live with new roommates (who REALLY like to floss their teeth, apparently)...

...and make new friends (some of whom like to suck on unreasonably large pieces of hot dog... see those chubby cheeks?).

They would eat chili dogs together.

And potato chips. The wavy kind.

And 1158 would become a place for people--quirky, honest, opinionated, inspiring, gentle people-- to gather for awkward, hilarious, uncomfortable, and sometimes beautiful moments. 

It's hard to say if everyone would live life happily ever after. But one thing is for sure. They wouldn't live life alone.

Nobody Got Time

White girl, nineteen, has quick answers to questions of how to load a dishwasher and heal a heart.

Ain't nobody got time for that.

Sunday school girl, there every week, talks more about the grammatical significance of the conjuctions than about the jealously tearing her apart.

Ain't nobody got time for that.

College girl, aching to teach, too busy fitting the world into her mind to let the wide expanses of green and blue and brown and gray woo and win and lay waste to her.

Ain't nobody got time for that.

New girl, unfamiliar with the streets that twist and narrow, unfamiliar with the syrupy Southern words that melt into each other and race away. Forgets plans. Assumes too much. Comes over without calling. Tells instead of asking. Projects her insecurities. Realizes what she's doing. Apologizes. Apologizes again. And comes back.

Mmhmm, come on over and rest your feet a minute.

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

One

Two months means waking up in Atlanta sixty-one times. It means eight trips to Sav-A-Lot, 208 hours at work, and a dozen journeys through lovely green parks. And don't even get me started counting hot dogs.

But it really means that one night when I should've been in bed but Jesus wouldn't let me sleep just yet because He needed to tell me one more time that He loves me.

It means the one morning I slumped into an exhausted heap on the bus and the man next to me reminded me to delight in peace-bringing, soul-settling grace.

It means the one Sunday in the nursery when we whispered to each other the deep and sacred secret of Christ's love, and then we danced-- oh, we danced!-- because that love is such a delight.

It means the one Thursday afternoon sunset that melted away as I sat at a bus stop with a no-longer-stranger who is on a scandalously passionate journey for more and more of Jesus.

And as the ones add up, I am thankful. Thankful to see and show the Redeeming One in my neighborhood. Thankful to sit on front porches and praise the Gracious One for His faithfulness. Thankful to claim the power of the Healing One in the middle of broken relationships and hearts. Jesus, may I give up the many things I cannot keep to gain the One I cannot lose.

After while, crocodile!

Yes, moving to a new community means a lot of goodbyes, but-- let's get excited about this, people-- it also means a whole lot of fabulously interesting hellos!

For the next six weeks, I'm going to be focusing exclusively on these hellos. So adios, teléfono. See ya later Facebook. Pinterest, we need some time apart.

For all of you wonderful people who don't know how you're going to be able to live through six weeks without me (or my pins)... fear not. When I was off in T-town last year missing the Sanctuary, the Lord pressed on my heart again and again that prayer was more than big enough to cover the 500 miles. Even though I couldn't play jump rope or sing the moose song with the kids, I could lift them up to my Heavenly Father (who could give them much better hugs than I could, anyway).

In the same way, I'm asking you to join me on this journey by faith. I won't be able to fill you in on the details of what God is doing, but I would love for you to lift me and my team and our neighborhood up in prayer, trusting that God is working. 

James tells us to pray when we're in trouble, and sing songs of praise when we're happy.

Since I won't be around to let you know for sure, let's assume that there are going to be moments of trouble and moments of happy.

Because there will be moments of trouble, please pray for...

gentleness within our team

humility in our training

energy for our work

compassion toward our neighbors

Because there will be moments of happy, please rejoice that, Lord-willing...

God is using community to strip us of our selfishness

we are being equipped for our service by our training

our work is making the name of Jesus famous

we are coming to a deeper understanding of God's character through listening to our neighbors' stories

Anddd don't forget that good, old-fashioned snail mail is always smiled upon. Check with my momma for my address! (Specifically, someone should take it upon him/herself to inform me of the outcome of the football games. And I'm def expecting a copy of Lecrae's new album. Just sayin'.)

Until the cinnamon rolls (I know, now I want one too)!

The Church of... what's the name again?

Every new season of life (or chapter of life, if you fancy book metaphors) means lots of hellos. Lots of “what’s your name?”s and “where are you from?”s. Lots of “really, you too?”s and “I’d never thought about that before”s.

But every season, every chapter, means lots of goodbyes too. That’s where I am right now. Looking forward to Mission Year, but acutely aware of what I’ll have to leave before I get there. I’m back in T-town for the week, seeing my roommates (114 for lyyyfe) and all the other wonderful people I missed over summer.

Lots of ‘em are from the Church of Movement Toward Freedom, my faith family here. I went yesterday to catch up, exchange phone numbers with a few folks, and say goodbye again. In a lot of ways, it felt like a celebration of the relationships I formed in the spring. The kids were there, which brought back memories of homework help in the afternoons and sweaty games of tag at twilight. The women were there, the ones who spoke so much truth and poured so much love into my little freshman life. The songs we sang were powerful reminders of the truths God pressed into my heart last semester (“I got J-O-Y, joy, joy in the Holy Ghost!”).

One of the most poignant moments of the morning was when Brother Willy sang a song that he wrote a few years back. At the time, he was in a group home in another part of the country, and missing his family very much. He explained that he was in a difficult place of rebuilding, and particularly aware of his moment-by-moment need for the Lord. I scribbled down just a few of the words:

“Everything I do, Lord, I'm tryin’
The Devil do his lyin’
But Lord, I'm tryin’.”

In the midst of lies, he held to and acted on Truth.

What is the capital-t-truth? That God ruthlessly pursues His rogue creation. With my eyes turned to the coming months, I’m excited about understanding and communicating this in new contexts, with new people. And then, God-willing, eleven months from now, there will be another celebration of truth and love.

Y’all. This is going to be a CRAZY RIDE. Stay tuned! :)

The ABC's of Middle School

This summer, I spent about 400 hours (but who's counting?) with middle school girls. The following is my thought-provoking and insightful reflection.

all skin colors are not equally gifted when it comes to cutting the rug (“I think we came outta our mommas already dancin’ around”), but all equally enjoy attempting

boys are the most interesting topic of discussion, ever

candy alone can sustain you for at least five days

drawing on people while they sleep is terribly entertaining (who am I kidding... I already knew this one)

every moment is an opportunity to whisper and/or giggle

FLAME and Lecrae are cool no matter which side of the train tracks you grew up on

green-eyed monster is on the prowl… particularly when we’re talking about—you guessed it—boys

having a boyfriend is a sign of social status

inviting a boy over is tantamount to confessing undying affection

justin bieber is not that cool anymore

k means “I’m not listening”

lighting up my world like nobody else is what you do, baby

money is primarily useful for buying shoes and candy

nineteen-year-olds are not real adults

one direction. let me repeat: ONE DIRECTION

pencils and shoulder pads... enough said

quiet is not familiar territory

robot dancing is generally acceptable when the catdaddy, dougie, wu-tang, and wobble are beyond one’s skill level

stuffed animals are still really, really cool

trips to the bathroom should NOT be made alone (well, I guess this is all females)

under the pretty face is a girl working out her identity

very few moments are inappropriate times to start belting 1D lyrics

wedding planning—no matter how real the wedding—is exciting… and serious business

x factor is more commonly known as “that one thing”… and you’ve got that one thing

you don't know you're beautiful, and that's what makes you beautiful

zipping one's mouth is no easy feat

(Find the number of 1D references and add the average number of times middle school girls say "like" per day to find the chances out of 10 that I would spend another 400 hours with my sweet girls. Starting just as soon as I get back from my therapist. :) )