Sweeping the Cobwebs Away

I was sweeping my mother-in-law's kitchen floor when it hit me.

"I am finding joy in this."

My heart has been searching for joy--or at least meaning--in housework for eight years. Why now?

I've read so many books on the How-To's of house keeping, and even a couple of really amazing ones on the Why. I've tried and tried and tried to embrace this. So, why all of the sudden does it seem to make sense? Why am I enjoying it?

I think it's because I'm grateful.

My mother-in-law and her husband are allowing our family to completely take over their dwelling for eight months. Free of charge. And I find joy in baking for them and doing things around the house, because it's the best way I know to say, "Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you!"

It's the same situation at my mom's house. I shouldn't enjoy spending time cleaning and cooking there. Our weekends are nearly our only times to be with B.daddy. But still, I am humbled with gratitude. Every other weekend we get their house completely to ourselves. And every other weekend they give up their privacy to give us a place to be a family. So, straightening up their house and baking cookies for their work week? Not only is it not a big deal, but it actually brings me joy to do it.

Now, if you were me reading this, about two paragraphs ago you would have started asking, "Are you not grateful in your daily life? Are you not grateful to your husband and children for existing? Let alone the fact that they are awesome, and your husband is a good man and treats you with love and respect." Well, yes, that is exactly what it was that hit me.

Why have I not found joy in preparing our previous home for my husband's return from work everyday? Why has it always been riddled with guilt and resentment? He has never--NEVER--told me how to keep the house and how things should look when he gets home everyday. He has always showered me with grace and empathy. So, why? Why has it always been such a hardship for me?

Well, I have two theories.

One is, it's my own entitlement that tells me he should be helping me with all of this. And then there are my assumptions and insecurities that tell me he expects me to do it all perfectly...all by myself. (And have make up on and my hair did at the end of the day.)

The second theoretical source is our culture. I think we all know that popular, American culture has been trying, for decades, to revamp female roles in society as well as the home. I'm not against it. I'm just saying, many of these messages that I've been hearing all of my life are making it dang hard to serve my husband and children the way the Spirit within me longs to serve--namely, joyfully.

I'm sure that in the end, they both meld together perfectly to antagonize my desire to be a good wife and mother. I'm sure they work perfectly together to deflect my attention from how amazingly God loves me, that He would give me the privilege to be these things. And I'm sure, it could be any number of things causing me to not see what is right in front of me and all around me: a Father who loves me and showers me with gifts appropriate for my upbringing and edification. In the end, isn't that the most important thing? That God really does love me, and I really can count on that every single day? Even on days that suck? Or, better yet, on really good days when I don't "do" anything outside of hanging out with my kids and folding a load of laundry?

Baking, I am.

My most halting concern about spending 8 months in Arkansas-living with and mooching off of our families: I wouldn't be in my kitchen. For it is in one's own kitchen that one can move fluidly from the pantry to the utensil drawer to the pink Kitchen Aid mixer. And it is in anyone else's kitchen that one finds oneself completely lost and flustered as to where the darn fill-in-the-blank is!

But, I am very happy to report that I only have two, new kitchens to learn. And these two kitchens have welcomed me with open arms. I spend most of my days in the kitchen of my gracious, hospitable mother-in-law, who has allowed me to turn it upside-down on several baking occasions. And I have been spending weekends at my mom's where I simply cannot not bake for her and my sisters.

So, thankfully, I have already had many opportunities to bake for the people I love. One of these opportunities was making pancakes for Grammie and Poppy, and tomorrow morning my eldest sister will be graced by their consumption as well. Seriously, y'all, they are g-o-o-d. See, I LOVE pancakes, and I spent years trying to find the perfect recipe which would yield the yummiest pancakes ever. I finally found it, made minor tweaks, and here it is!

Yummy, Fluffy Pancakes

2 cups unbleached, all-purpose flour*

2 Tbsp. granulated sugar

1 Tbsp. + 1 tsp. baking powder

1 tsp. salt

2 eggs, slightly beaten

1-3/4 cups milk**

1/2 cup butter-flavored shortening, melted***

1) Melt the shortening in a small container in the microwave. Preheat griddle to 350-400 degrees--that depends on whether your griddle is on the hot side or cool.

2) Combine flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt in a medium-large bowl. Then combine the eggs and milk in a separate bowl.

3) Pour the milk and eggs into the dry ingredients and stir just a bit. Then pour in the shortening and stir till most of the lumps are out. (If you put the shortening directly into cold milk and eggs it will stiffen back up.)

4) Fry 'em up, baby!

5) I always keep my pancakes warm in a 150-200 degree oven. Nothing's worse than cold pancakes! I use a dish that I can uncover and recover easily--also don't want them getting dry.

*If you absolutely HAVE to use whole wheat flour, go ahead. But they just aren't the same. Make them first with all-purpose flour, and you'll know what I'm talking about. I have a completely different recipe when I want to use whole wheat. There is a time and place for everything. And I think there is even a place in HEAVEN for these pancakes!

**Once you have everything stirred together, you might need to add a splash of milk. You don't want your batter too thin, but also not too think. There's a perfect in-between somewhere in there. (And I have been known to use half-n-half when in a pinch. ;) Even better!

***If you don't have butter-flavored shortening, use the white stuff--but add 1-2 tsp. of butter flavored extract. It makes the pancakes sing!

Gussied Up

I have three older sisters, all alike in beauty and in grace, and I got to have a lunch date with one of them this last weekend. She took me to Ya-Ya's which is one of her FAVORITE!! places--always expressed with such emphasis. I just had to try it, and it was wonderfully delicious. Which, $2 mimosas make pretty much anything delicious. Even to a snob like me. ;)

What struck me when we walked in was the smell. These blessed olfactory receptors received nothing but bacon, sweet belgian waffles, and perfume. Yep. It was Sunday mornin'--not that that really makes a difference--and everyone was Gussied Up! Even the heathens who didn't go to church were dressed to the 9's. For the last four--has it already been four?--weeks I have been struck, and honestly, intimidated by how Pretty everyone is. I know I should be used to it since I grew up here. But more than anything, I'm just thinking, "Of course I was always self-concious! Every single girl I see is ready to take the stage." And again, that liberal, New England voice says, "Damned if I do! I'm going to change this culture!" But, you know, I've got my own stuff to deal with. And the whole of Arkansas to honk at.

So, it has been a bit of an adjustment. But I will say that today I managed to not wear make-up. All day long. See...I've tried. A number of times, I've restrained myself from putting on that pleasing face in the a.m., but by the time I actually need to get out I think to myself, "Oh, but what if someone thinks I'm sick?" Because, like, seriously, no one leaves the house without make up on. So I usually opt on the side of make up. With the amount of personal information that passes between strangers, I'm really worried that someone will walk up to me and ask how my chemo is going.

Truly, that's absolutely nothing to bother about when I consider the incredible break I am getting. Take for instance, tonight. Li'l bit has a belly ache. Her bowels have been loose for several days (and I know all 4 of my readers are moms so I can say that), and I've been worried about the toll this move is taking on her. Normally, diarrhea would have to be remedied by t.v. and water, while Babydaddy and I wrassled the other two through dinner and bed. But tonight, I was actually able to sit on the couch and read to her for hours while the other two were upstairs being fed by their Grammie. And I don't even have to wash the dinner dishes.

So I guess I can put on my big girl pants and wear a little bit of make up.

Honk if you love Jesus (Or if you just want someone to drive correctly!)

I promised myself and several dear friends that I would not get down here and just complain, complain, complain. And I'm doing very well. I'm enjoying the south, the people, the pace. What I thought might be annoying, has been charming and/or hilarious. BUT, let me tell you...

I love honking. It is so very efficient.

Someone pulls in front of you and endangers the lives of your precious passengers? Honk, and she knows she did something wrong. You want to let someone pull out but they're hesitant? Honk, flash your lights, and he knows you're letting him go. The person in front of you doesn't see the green light? Honk, and he moves along.

But not so much here. I saw it with my own eyes: A guy on a motorcycle didn't see the light turn green. He got a polite, little honk from behind, but instead of going, he turned around and glared at the other driver! Can you believe the inefficiency of that action? We're on the road people. And the point of driving is to safely get from point A to point B. This is not an emotional transaction.

You see, "up in Boston" (read with a snobbish, aloof tone) there are a million-gazillion cars on the road all the time. And the roads are horrendous with hundreds of terrible intersections. So, things have to move quickly and efficiently. Which means, you have to be always alert and very conscientious--or you will kill someone. You must watch out for bikes and pedestrians, and cars that need to turn left across high traffic areas (which means, you sometimes stop to let them go! Novel idea.) And when merging must take place--It's a zipper people, a ZIPPER! You go, I go, You go, I go. And if you don't allow proper zippering, you can expect to get honked at. And if you're in the left lane on the interstate, you know to move over when someone wants to pass. Everyone understands this rule; we give each other a chance to move it along.

But driving is not the same in this slow-paced, spread-out south. Drivers don't have to be more efficient and so, in my humble opinion, they are not. Watch out in parking lots--you'll get run over, since pedestrians apparently do not have the right of way. If you start to turn left across traffic, the oncoming cars speed up! And my dear friend--recently moved back from Boston as well--was riding his bike to work and someone actually rolled down his window and yelled, "Get off the road!" And if you're in the left lane, you don't even get a chance to pull over before the car behind you nearly rear ends you in their passive aggressive attempt to get you to move. Just honk, for crying out loud. I'll skit skat skoodle doot, before you can say "flip flop flee."

I call this Over-Emotionalized Driving. Everyone is so dadgum polite. Complete strangers wave and say "Howdy, how are you, young lady? Oh, what pretty babies you have. You know, my granddaughter..." But this sort of politeness does not translate well to the road. It becomes one of two things: 1) Slow, slow, slow going. But no hurt feelings. or 2) Aggressive, passive-aggresive drivers. But "no hurt feelings." The charming, polite culture makes everyone afraid to say yes, no, or just go, for fear of hurting someones precious feelings. How about we all just recognize that we're simply trying to get to the store, or home, or wherever. So, let's get down to business. If I'm in your way, let me know. And if I'm doing something wrong that slows you up, honk. I'll kick it into gear. And I'll do the same for you.

So, I vow: I will single-handedly change the driving culture of central and south Arkansas in a mere eight months. If I do not succeed I promise to take my "mean" driving habits back to Boston. ;)

And Boston drivers are NOT crazy! ;)

Mrs. Chris

After crossing over the Mason Dixon Line last Monday, we got to spend an evening with Mrs. Chris and her husband, Lou. Lou was actually born in Medford--and lived a few blocks from our old house on Winthrop Street when we was a little boy. She and Lou met a few years ago and fell in love. Two sweet souls, gifts to one another.

Chris was my mom's BFF while we were just hoodlums, and also our choir director and associate youth pastor. We were very fortunate. While other kids spent their spring breaks and summer vacations on the beach, ski slopes, or in front of the tube, Chris took us to homeless shelters, mental hospitals, and disciplinary institutions. She wasn't trying to scare us out of bad behavior. She made all of those plans based on love and compassion--a bleeding heart if you may. Rather Christ-like, eh? We sorted clothes closets, served meals, and painted walls; we scrubbed, scoured, and cleaned places not worth mentioning or recalling; we held toddlers who smelled like urine and hugged the women they belonged to. And all while singing a vast repertoire of contemporary Christian hits. We were exhausted at the end of every single day. And we loved it.

I grew up in a safe, southern town full to the brim of middle-class Southern Baptists who just happened to be--you guessed it--white. I loved my little town~and an important part of me still does~but I was also completely unaware of my cultural limitations. I was not a born Questioner. (My husband is.) I still don't like to challenge things, ideas, or people, (my husband does.) But, Chris was probably the first person who taught me from a standpoint of love, that there was work to be done and a vast world within to do it. I couldn't assume I would marry within my Cabot circle, have little Cabot babies, go to church every Sunday morning, and call it a life. I'm not saying, by any means, that staying in your hometown is regrettable. I'm simply saying, for me it was not the right path. And I needed to be convinced that it wasn't.

We stayed mostly in the southern states on our trips, but she exposed us to so many different types of people. So many different ways of life. So much hurt, desperation, and loss. And yet, Joy in every single situation if you knew what you were looking for. Among so many other things, I learned that 1) there are people in very difficult situations who need to be loved. And 2) it is possible to love people in very difficult situations.

Most of all, I loved our experiences because I touched a world so far removed from my own. I came back feeling like I could never go back to the way things were before. Of course I always felt I did in the end go back--fail. But now that I'm old enough to look back on that young girl, I know. I didn't fail. I was just learning.

And then I witnessed Chris experience earth shattering loss like no one I've ever known. No one. But she was honest about it, and she let me watch. I was just a teenager and she respected me. She didn't lean on me as a friend, but she treated me as an equal. I'm sure she protected me from the parts of grief I simply could not have handled, yet she was so open. Then years later her world has been racked again. And again. And again.

When I was 12 and entering the youth group, her son smuggled a handful of cookies to me at the welcoming party. At 15 she toted us all over the crazy South. When I was 17 and my parents were divorcing, I spent almost everyday with her while she grieved that soft-hearted son. Today I see her once a year. And today, as she grieves the two parents she has spent the last several years caring for, I still learn from her. To know her is to see what it's like for a heart to be beaten, bruised, betrayed, and torn to shreds, and still love. Still forgive. Still cry out to her Father for help. A heart oozing love still, because there is hardly any blood left to bleed.

Rather Christ-like.