Last week, I invited my second-cousin-once-removed (and dear friend), Ben, over to teach me how to make his killer stir fry recipe. From the start, I sensed something different about his cooking style. It was calm and methodical, clearly lacking my rapid fire approach that regularly incorporates broken glass, smoke, and indiscernible work spaces. He laid out each ingredient and cooking utensil before chopping even one vegetable, creating a beautiful sense of peace and order. What really caught my attention was the way he cooked the chicken. Slowly. So very slowly. He used the “power burner” I love so much, but he didn’t bring the rings of fire to their full potential as I delight to do. He left them low, letting the oil and heat draw the flavor and fragrance from the garlic for what seemed an eternity. He pushed it around gently, making sure that nothing burned. Eventually he added the chicken and the process continued, with purpose but without intensity. The chicken was remarkably moist and delicious, and a perfect compliment to the rest of the dish, which he cooked with the same precision and patience.

I learned something that night, and it went way beyond one meal. It was about the use of good technique to bring about the best. Like my cooking, I tend to rush things in life. I like to see change come swiftly – in myself and others. I like to see God use his power burners and get things done. The quicker, the better. There are clearly times when he chooses that approach (when you’ll hear me begging him to turn down the heat), but mostly I find that he sets the flame low and sits patiently with me, allowing the heat to draw out the most fragrant and flavorful things he’s placed in my heart, making sure no part of me gets torched. It takes time, but he is in no hurry. He knows what he’s creating, knows how best to do it, and knows the end result will be well worth the wait.

Dog meets turtle

Madison, our twelve year old daughter, finished her dinner ahead of the rest of us and asked to be excused. Not a minute later we heard a scream from the family room, followed by a loud declaration that something was moving. Cole, our strapping sixteen year old, jumped up from the table to rescue his sister. From our seats in the dining room, John and I overheard Cole’s playful comment that turning on the light would help and then his laughter as he announced that the “moving” object was a sock.

I was getting ready to (lovingly) tease Madison for fearing a fuzzy sock, sort of like we tease our dog for her terror over a fork on the ground, when Cole shouted, “Oh my gosh, it’s Schtocky!!” This is about the time I flew into the family room, closely followed by John, and found our four year old tortoise stumbling out from under the sofa. This is the very same tortoise that had been missing for a month, presumably having escaped through the open gate in the yard, while in reality spending several weeks snuggly hibernating under the Ikea sectional in our favorite room of the house.

Schtocky is not quite as adventurous as his sibling, Klein, a notorious escape artist with wanted posters all over town, but he has still gone missing rather frequently. When I first owned these lovable nomadic creatures, their disappearances broke my heart. I would search high and low, post missing flyers by the dozens, and check with every neighbor in the vicinity. They always seemed to find their way back – usually discovered by a dog in a neighbor’s yard or by one of us in some obscure corner of our own. One time, Klein had been found by a construction worker down the street, living for a while in a another city with a different family and a new name (Franklin). Even then, she returned to the deluxe yard that we called home on her behalf. So I stopped worrying and let things work themselves out.

Klein has – once again – been missing for months. I picture her traveling the world and living it up. When she has had her fill, she’ll probably find her way home and I’ll write a kid’s book about it. In the meantime, we are very happy for the return of our once-lost pet, Schtocky. We didn’t kill a fatted calf, but we did gorge ourselves on homemade red velvet cupcakes as Schtocky sunk back into slumber in his cozy little house outside.

I’m very grateful to my sister who alerted me to the new season of Downton Abbey, a brilliantly written and acted soap opera – period piece, I mean – which was left unresolved at the end of the initial mini-series last year. I’ve now made it through the first two-hour installment of the new season and eagerly anticipate watching the following installments, collecting by the week on my DVR.

We are already familiar with the characters of the Crawley estate, from the aristocrats to the servants, and are now witnessing the changing dynamics of the household as England enters World War I. I was quite taken with a conversation between Ana, a sympathetic housemaid, and Mrs. Patmore, the estate’s cook who has just received word that a loved one is missing in action and presumed dead.

The master of the estate is well-connected and able to find the necessary details for the anguished cook. Both women are aware of this fact. But Ana knows the character of her master; that he is willing – not just able – to act on his servant’s behalf. With no other possible avenue of resolve, Mrs. Patmore begrudgingly agrees to request help from her master and is rewarded by a personal experience of his generosity in agreeing to seek out the desired information, his faithfulness in following through, and his kindness through the care with which he communicates his findings. The lowly cook is bestowed with dignity by the gentle humility of the highest in the house.

Strong and powerful people are rarely seen as approachable. There is often good cause for this; we see it acted out daily in society. How quickly, then, if we see God as strong and powerful, we may conclude that he won’t have the time to listen or the care to bother with our troubles. But if we, like Ana, know the character of our master or, like Mrs. Patmore, have the courage to test it, our God will demonstrate his willingness to extend himself on our behalf every single time. It is not a patronizing response, but one of true compassion birthed of a humble love for his people. How much our confidence in approaching him will grow as we ask for help and find it in greater measure than we ever could have imagined. And how lovely it is as we become servants who know our master and confidently nudge others toward the broad shoulders that so lovingly carry our burdens.

One thing God has spoken, two things have I heard: that you, O God, are strong, and that you, O Lord, are loving. Psalm 62:11-12

For anyone who hasn’t yet had the pleasure of reading the Chronicles of Narnia, a brief overview…

Four kids – Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy Pevensie – were transported through a magic wardrobe to another world where they took their rightful place as kings and queens of Narnia. Years passed as they gained knowledge and stature, learning to rule the kingdom well under the ultimate authority of the great lion, Aslan. They became warriors, each skilled with a weapon and brave in battle, and diplomats, wise in their relations with other kingdoms. Basically, they grew up in Narnia. Not only that, but they became something beyond what they were in their own world.

But their time in Narnia was temporary and Aslan always called them back to England, the place of their childhood, outside the reach of the kingdom where their royal identities had been established. Here, they were just kids with big imaginations and no evidence of where – or who – they had been. What’s worse, whenever they returned, they found that no time had passed. It was the same minute of the same day they had departed, each situation they left awaited them, and not a single soul noticed their absence.

Although there was nothing external to prove it, they were different. What each child had become in Narnia remained inside of them, at least in seed form. While their royal identity in Narnia didn’t transfer to England, it informed who they were, how they saw life, and what they anticipated. Each time they went to Narnia, a knowledge of their true identity was further established, as was their trust in Aslan and a quickening of their hearts toward the adventure he called them to.

We are living in a very similar parallel… in this world, but not of it. Our identities have been established as kids of the King whom, like Aslan, is not bound to one world or another but moves about freely. Through the Spirit, the King’s version of magic, we are called to see a new world and experience heaven while still existing here. It is there, in that Kingdom, that we see who we truly are and we are changed by it. But, like the Pevensies, we need to work out the truth of that identity in the reality of a world that can’t see it.

Our job is not to go around proclaiming our royal status, wearing crowns and tunics, or even trying to convince people that it’s for real. That will be perceived as craziness at best and arrogance at worst. Our job is to let our lives here be informed by the life and identity that we experience in that other world. To let our thoughts, words, actions, and even countenance reflect it. To essentially be who we are and, in so doing, to extend a glimpse of that glorious Kingdom to others who may be thirsting for it.

Just before church last week, John was writing a note to a friend. When he pulled a $50 bill out of his wallet to include in the card, I playfully extended my hand to receive it. He looked up, his sea blue eyes catching mine, and gently said “it’s all yours.” The response caught me off guard. Even though I was with him at the bank when he added me to his account, contributed my signature where required, and received a debit card to access the money, the implications that all John’s resources are now mine hadn’t registered. In truth, having left my job and recently run out of my “own” money, his resources are all I now have. It is a fact I feel squirmish about. I want to contribute more than a signature that enables me to use his money. I want to put my own resources in the account and feel deserving of using that bank card. But John sees it differently. In marrying me, he gave up the lines that would divide “mine” and “yours.” He graciously agreed to carry the weight of financial provision. It is a tangible demonstration of his love; a love that goes far beyond money.

I’m sure John thought no more of his simple statement, but it penetrated my heart through the church service. And I still haven’t quite been able to shake it. Not just because of a giving husband, but because it’s a picture of what my Father has given to a far greater extent. I’m equally as – or possibly more – squirmish about receiving His generosity without being able to deposit into the account. I want to earn access, or at least some measure of it; to become deserving of the vast resources at hand. But if it wasn’t God’s way for Abraham, it probably won’t be His way for me. He gave freely and asks me, through faith, to receive freely.

I wasn’t there when Jesus gave his life and opened the account. I had no part of the great deposit made. I can add nothing to it. But when I committed my life to him and become one with him, the lines that divided “mine” and “yours” were completely, totally, eternally erased. All that belongs to the Father, Son, and Spirit is now mine. I get to draw upon every promise made in the Bible. Not in small amounts to avoid making dents to the balance, but in the huge sweeping confidence of one who knows that not only is there no end to His resources, but that each one is multiplied as I use it through faith.*

*John, please note that I do realize the difference between bank accounts in the heavenly places and those at Bank of America. 

The mood in the room began to lighten as we chatted, caught up, laughed at times. There wasn’t really anything significant about the conversation. I can’t recall a single word of it. At one point, I looked down and found that our hands had been busy. Little by little, we had been removing knots, unraveling webs, and doing the impossible. The work wasn’t finished; we’d only just begun. But a mark had been made on me about how a relational God often accomplishes mighty things. Not by lightning bolts and magic spells that zap our troubles into extinction or by giving us brand new unblemished situations, but by being with us in the midst of our troubles. Through this – or, rather, through Him – we find grace to lift our eyes off of our daunting messes and enjoy the friendship of our creator as he makes a way with us and for us. What a beautiful thing to see what will be knit with the strands he so caringly restores!

A passage really resonated with me from Prayer A Holy Occupation by Oswald Chambers…

“The meaning of intercession is that we see what God is doing, consequently there is an intimacy between the child and the Father which is never impertinent. We must pour into the bosom of God the cares which give us pain and anxiety in over that He may solve for us, and before us, the difficulties which we cannot solve. We injure our spiritual life when we dump the whole thing down before God and say – You do it. That spirit is blind to the real union with God. We must dump ourselves down in the midst of our problems and watch God solve them for us. ‘But I have no faith’ – bring your problems to God and stay with Him while He solves them, then God Himself and the solution of your problems will be forever your own. If we could see the floor of God’s immediate presence, we would find it strewn with the ‘toys’ of God’s children who have said – This is broken, I can’t play with it anymore, please give me another present. Only one in a thousand sits down in the midst of it all and says – I will watch my Father mend this.”

A rare quiet moment

The title of this post was the playful subject of a recent email from my sister, reminding me of the promise I wrote last month to tell more stories. Truth be told, life without employment is far busier than I anticipated. The expectation of some wide open window of time without anything to do has been tempered by the reality that such a time doesn’t exist. But the kids are at school, the dog is sleeping in the sunny spot by the sofa, and the dirty kitchen will wait, so I am seizing the opportunity to get the water moving again.

I’m married. The miraculous nature of this hits me every once in a while, and I stand in speechless awe for a moment or two before carrying on with my day. Some may say it was just a matter of waiting for the right guy, but I know better. Time itself doesn’t heal wounds, change the course of man, or produce any magnificent thing. Rather, it often accomplishes the opposite. It is only touching the Spirit of a mighty God that changes anything. As the song El Shaddai so earnestly states, “To the outcast on her knees, you were the God who always sees. And by your might you set your people free.” It is the sweetest truth I’ve ever known, and makes me cry even to write it.

Many of you know my story. It is not unlike that of the arrogant son in Jesus’ parable who took his rebellion public; a self-righteous outcast whose plans ended in humiliating defeat. Like this son, the only thing I ever did right was to acknowledge my defeat, recognize my need, and turn in the direction of the Father. As I’ve enjoyed this journey with the man I love and joyfully watched our kids playing around together, I’ve become keenly aware that this beautiful time in my life is not the result of some prescribed period of waiting, but of becoming – and remaining – an outcast on my knees and touching the grace and might of a Father who is always waiting at the end of the road with perfect restoration.

One of our Top Chef faves

Before my older brother, Christian, moved to Northern California, we had a happy ritual. On Friday nights, Cole and I would jump into Lady Corinne (our green beater station wagon Cole named after his great grandfather’s WWII bomber) and make the 15 minute drive to Christian’s expansive mid-century apartment on the water. Christian, the ever-gracious host, would have our favorite beverages and snacks – maybe even a Godfather pizza from Gina’s – laid out on the coffee table.  It took me all of two seconds to fling off my shoes, hop onto the squishy brown sofa, wrap myself up in the comforter, and turn expectantly to the TV for a recorded episode of Top Chef.

Each season, there were arrogant, self-serving people we all loathed. And there were smart, funny people we all loved. We were generally indifferent to the rest of the characters who didn’t particularly appeal or repel. But every single time, there was at least one person who completely charmed one of us and not the others.

We would continue to gather each Friday and, being the analytical family we are, express our take on each person and element of the show. Without fail, an interesting transformation would take place. A person I initially disliked would become slightly less disdainful to me. Not because they were acting differently, but because I began to see them through Christian’s eyes. More episodes would pass. Without any effort on my part, I would develop an affection for the person… sometimes to such a point that I had difficulty remembering what it was that I disliked in the first place.

This happens with real people too. Christian has a pot-smoking friend in Natchez, Mississippi whom I’ve never met but think of as the greatest thing ever. It’s possible, maybe even likely, that I wouldn’t have had a shred of appreciation for this woman if I’d randomly met her, but I now have an automatic inclination to adore her… which I’m sure will translate to something genuine the day I meet her.

Christian has also been instrumental in shedding new light on my own perceived shortcomings, and has helped me to see myself through his (very loving) eyes. All of this got me thinking. If my perceptions are so dramatically changed through the vision of the brother I trust, how much more will this be true through the perfect God I trust? I mean, think of it. The more I hang out with him, the more I will naturally come to appreciate – and even delight in – the people he loves, which is all of humanity. I couldn’t be happier to share my spot as his favorite daughter with every other person on the planet, and for them to become my favorites too.

While I haven’t technically harmed anyone, I’ve begun to worry about the potential. So, when researching driving schools for Cole, I considered signing myself up. In the midst of this process, God shot a question at me: “Is it a matter or skill or choice?” Hmmmm. An intriguing question… and one I didn’t need to ponder long.

While it might be easier to blame these happenings on some deterioration of my driving skills (assuming I had any in the first place), they are far more likely connected to my habits. Really, really bad ones. Like driving with my knee while eating breakfast, managing email or texts on the road, or finding the right playlist on my iphone while zooming down the freeway at 70 – okay, 80 – miles per hour. Yes, I represent everything you hate in a driver. I hang my head in shame.

But the question of choice pressed into something true and I wanted what it offered. The following day, I ate breakfast before leaving for work. I put my phone in my purse on the backseat where I couldn’t reach it. I dropped Cole off at school and merged onto the first of three freeways that take me to my Irvine workplace, sitting in perfect silence with my hands on the wheel and my eyes on the road. Not only did I notice the placement of each car on the road, but the quality of light in the sky as it filtered through the morning clouds. There was nothing rushed within me which was proven by the unusually low number on my speedometer. The experience felt almost holy. I arrived at work with an uncommon stillness.

I have spent a few days now driving well and find that it is becoming one of my favorite elements of the day. It is as if something comes together in that very present space that is missing elsewhere. I have begun to wonder how many times in a day or week I bump into people, causing damage – minor or otherwise, in the midst of the chaos that is sometimes my existence. And I wonder how many good and holy moments I miss out on in the process. It could be that there really are too many things going on in my life to do it well. Or it could be a matter of choice. I’ll work it out and let you know.