When I think of patience, I think of a fisherman. Rising before the sun. Pole ready, tackle box. A thin finger of steam rising from his black coffee as he heads to the dock.

He is alone in the morning cool. The lake exhaling fog sleepily, the loons, a denim sky. He casts out and reels, casts and reels. He rushes nothing. He waits in quiet hope.
Continue reading “Fishermen Lovers (Love is Patient)” →

It’s hard to imagine harvest right now, with the soil just darkening for the seed,  the earth green and green and green. When everything is ripe and ready. After toil and sweat and hopes are poured out,

then harvest.
And there is no better word to describe what happened this February in Haiti.Our team experienced the joy of harvesting, of reaping where many of us did not sow.

We held the hands of orphans, taught them how to fly kites and learned that love really can have no conditions.

We watched as a  group of old and young gathered, held hands and prayed over the hand-built building that would tomorrow would be their first-ever clinic.

We watched as neighbors, long-hardened by a hard lives, kneeled and said they wanted a Jesus life.

Sometimes, you are invited into a vineyard that you did not plant, an orchard that you did not nurture. You are invited to come, smell the thick sweetness in the air, feel the heavy fruit in your hand. Then you realize suddenly, that you are holding the final product of heavy work and many hours, the product of mysterious growth.

And the work and the hours and the tears and the laughter that had gone into this fruit you are now holding. This is all from those that have gone before you. Those who raised and loved children. Children who became doctors and entrepreneurs,  missionaries and managers. Missionaries, managers, doctors and entrepreneurs who dreamt wild and selfless dreams. They all were the ones who planted. Who got dirty, got real, who worked hard in Jesus name. They tended their fields, gave their whole lives. Watered and weeded and waited.  Watching  for a harvest. Sometimes one they would never get to see.

After this year’s trip, I’ve been wondering  if I will leave a harvest for those coming after me. I wonder will they find a field flourishing, a garden watered and weeded? Will I and my generation get low, get dirty and begin to sow even where we know we may never reap?

I hope so.
Because there is nothing like walking into a vineyard–one that has been tended and nurtured for a lifetime–and being invited to pick, to taste, to harvest.

My day?
Well, it started with this little gem.

Notice the two red underlines, the way “computer” and “off” kind of run together as if written words could communicate loud, aggressive annoyance. I am a bad, bad girl. 🙂

And then, my day it went on for a bit… to this near-catastrophe

No, no, that is not a man-hole filled with man-sludge. That is a pan (after nearly catching fire) with crispy little mulling-spice remains and a layer of black sludge which used to be apple cider. 

The poopiness

I’d like to say that this poopiness started with the yelling-note and ended with the black-sludge incident. But no. The poopiness has been here off and on for a while now. And it has this crazy way of coming back in little whiffs and smears whenever I think its gone! (I can’t believe I’m using poop as a metaphor for life stuff right now– do you see how far I’ve fallen from sane?!)

Because I detest rant blogs and twitter-complainers, I will spare you my sob story. Here’s a hint. I sobbed.

Carrying things vs. carrying on

I am a self-confessed carrier. When I was young, I used to lie awake thinking of all the things I probably did wrong that day, so many interactions that went sour. Over time I learned to let more go, move on. I began to see that anxiety and worry leads to dead ends and forehead wrinkles.

But, once and a while the ugly weight rears its head; I want to carry my woes again, hold onto the heavy stuff. Even the light stuff, like post-it notes and burnt cider can pile up and suddenly there I am, hobbling along with a bent back, stupidly staring at the ground because of all I’m trying to hold onto. And sometimes its not about worry, sometimes its about control and fear, but no matter what it is about it never goes anywhere.

(Gosh. This is so good for me right now. I feel like it’s therapy just writing this down! Seriously though, I don’t have it figured out. Sometimes my fingers teach me truths that were hidden in some flabby fold of my mind. )

I don’t need to carry. You don’t need to carry. It’s been carried for us. And when we try to take it all back upon ourselves, suddenly we’re tipping toward earth, facing the dirt, unable to look up and see all the glory before us.

Carry or carry on. Your choice and mine.

Carry on.

~M

Through a hazy window, I’m watching ginormous bees slurp at swollen zinnias, thinking. Wow. I’m hungry.

Usually I blog  things I learned, am learning, or just need to process. Today, I am blogging about my life and how much I just want ice cream right now.

A little history…

About 3 years ago I found out I have tiny esophagus condition. (There’s a name for it, but it’s hard to say and I always spell it wrong.) Essentially, my throat is itsy-bitsy and bad cells stick to it. In the past, it was a pain in the tush to eat lots of things. (It should be noted that I still made a way, and LOVED to eat. still do.)

Since the discovery, I’ve been beyond blessed to work with great doctors, nurses, and specialists who’ve both stretched my tiny throat several times, and helped me journey towards discovering what’s causing all the issues.

The 6 food elimination diet

In this discovery process, they think food might be corralling these bad cells. So here’s where I find myself.

No wheat, soy, eggs, fish, nuts, or dairy.

Hm. How do I say this tactfully? I am a fairly… thin person. My ma and da are both tall, leanish people. Most of my relatives are tall leanish people. I am tall and leanish too.

So when I am deprived of food, it seems like my stored fat cells aren’t burned up in the metabolic inferno, my happy cells are.  My happy cells are burned-up and now blowing like ash in my black, black soul.

I want ice cream so bad. I want cream in my coffee and a piece of peanut butter toast. I want noodles that don’t taste like corn and leave cloudy pee-water in my pan. I want soy sauce on rice and lots and lots of eggs for breakfast. I want the biggest, most gluten-y brownie there is.

Paleo disciple

Unintentionally, I am basically on the paleo diet and I am not quite loving it yet.

If you don’t know what paleo is, it’s basically eating like “a cave man”–meat, veggies, fish, nuts, fruit, tubers, dead roadside raccoons, spiders on your deck, basically anything you can hunt or gather besides grain. don’t gather grain.

I can’t follow the paelo perfrectly, cuz I can’t have fish, nuts, or some of that other stuff–sooo, I’m eating whatever I can, including weird flours like tapioca  but NOT the forbidden gluten-pregnant-wheat. So paleo dietee… I’m basically there.

A few things I’ll admit:
1. I’m not bloating at all
2. I’m not having strange random stomach aches
3. If I eat periodically, I actually stay full longer
4. I’m secretly a tiny bit happy that I’m cleansing out nearly every processed food and lots o’ sugary things that give me mood swings

I’m no paleo propogate yet. But. I’ve lonnngggg thought that eating real food (that you actually know what’s in it) is probably safer, better for you, smarter, even tastier, than all the processed nonsense sending US of A into obesity oblivion.

That’s it for now… I’ll keep you posted on if I turn full cave-women-paelo-disciple  in the next four weeks.

Curious about paleo? This guy has a great and entertaining take on getting started.