.i raise my babies right.

Greta gave me a teddy bear as an early Valentine's present this weekend.

Look how she decorated the bag.

That's my girl.

.He, watching over Israel, slumbers not nor sleeps.

The "little girls" wanted to have a sleepover at my house last night...

At 5 am, in the quiet darkness, a panicked, sleepy voice:

"Emily!!!"

I woke, found the voice and its accompanying curled up body across the room,

"Sweetheart, I'm right here. Are you ok?"

"No. My stomach hurts."

"I'm sorry." I rubbed her back. "Can I get you some water?"

"No, I'm okay."

"...Do you think you need to go home?"

"No way!"

Umm... "Okay. I'm sorry you don't feel good."

"It's okay."

Back to sleep.

Fifteen minutes later,

"EMILY!!!"

"What's wrong, babe?"

"My stomach really hurts."

More back rubbing. More soothing voice.

"Are you going to throw up?"

"No."

"...Do you want water? Or some medicine?"

"No."

...

"Can I... do anything for you?"

"Nope."

So I'm thinking,

...Why are you telling me?

Not because I was annoyed- I had told the girls to wake me.

But I was truly confused.

She didn't want water.

She didn't want medicine.

She didn't want to go home.

She wasn't particularly upset.

I sat with her and held her hand for a few minutes. She rolled over and seemed fine.

She just needed to know that somebody was awake and aware.

Almost two years ago now, one morning at Rez, I tore lyrics out of a church bulletin and stuck them in my Bible.

They're still there, tucked in the pages of the psalms...

I just need to know that He's awake and aware.

...He who keeps you will not slumber.

Behold, He who keeps Israel

will neither slumber nor sleep.

The Lord is your keeper.

-psalm 121.3-5-

Sweet comfort.

Friday night.

The hobbit was fond of visitors.

Cabin.

mountains and a fireplace.

space and time to play and pray.

and two of the families who for the last year and a half

have treated me as their own.

i am a blessed girl.

         

.half crazy with the wonder of it.

"Sometimes I spend all day trying to count

the leaves on a single tree. To do this I

have to climb branch by branch and

write down the numbers in a little book.

...Of course I have to give up,

but by then I'm half crazy with the wonder

of it- the abundance of the leaves, the

quietness of the branches, the hopelessness

of my effort..."

-mary oliver

from "Foolishness? No, It's Not"

in A Thousand Mornings

spent the long weekend in one of the prettiest places I've ever seen

with some people i love so dearly.

trying to count the wonder of either, i had to give up,

but by then i was half crazy with the gifts i've been given.

I planted primroses.

Because we all need a little extra color in our lives in January.

.communion.

(from October 2008)

"Tonight as we were leaving All-School, Matt said, "Taking Communion is my favorite thing in the world."

I replied casually, "That's good, it's the best thing in the world."

And then I paused.

I use the phrase "best thing in the world" often, about a lot of different things, seriously- but not literally.

It is startling to realize we can actually make a true statement:

...that yes, there is something that is the best thing in the world.

"As they were eating, Jesus took some bread and blessed it.

Then He broke it in pieces and gave it to the disciples, 

saying,

'Take this and eat it, for this is My body.'

And He took a cup of wine and gave thanks to God for it.

He gave it to them and said,

'Each of you drink from it, for this is My blood,

which confirms the covenant between God and His people.

It is poured out as a sacrifice to forgive the sins of many.'"

Matthew 26:26-28"

.how His messages come?.

I'm curled up watching TV with one of "my" families, their teenagers and pre-teen curled up with me, all of us in blankets around the living room. We're watching a show I fell in love with during my college years. It was probably produced around ten years ago, and for the most part the high-schoolers in it seem like they could be teens today.

Except.

A focus on one episode is the main character standing up for a friend in chemistry class- because she's being teased for being gay. A "lesbo", specifically.

A couple episodes later, it's not even the main point of the show. "You're gay" is tossed around as a casual insult. Now again, our protagonists never use the term and in fact are shown to be disdainful of those who do. But it was still considered the way kids talked. Those days.

I shift on the sofa, getting uncomfortable. I nudge Mareesa. "Weird, huh? I forgot kids ever talked like that..." She nods. "I know."

I want to say something to protect the twelve-year-old on the floor. What is she thinking, watching this? These words are likely not a part of her daily experience, thank God. I was in high school seven years ago, and we still heard "dyke". I've almost forgotten about the term... But then again, it was never leveled at me.

Two years ago, I stood in my kitchen one winter day, leaning against the counter eating pasta. He'd stopped by to eat with me. I don't remember much about the day, just that I had a long enough gap between family visits to stop at home for lunch, but not long enough to change out of my work clothes.

He was telling me about a story of a Wheaton alumni he'd heard. Honestly, tonight, two years and 2,000 miles away from that kitchen conversation, I can't remember the details of the story. But there was something in it about AIDS. The guy had died of it... Twenty, twenty-five years ago? A Wheaton kid. He hadn't told anyone. Any of it.

He mentioned this to me, then started to go on to the next point- but stopped when he realized that out of nowhere, I had started sobbing. Sobbing. Couldn't see through tears, couldn't catch my breath for crying.

He stared at me.

"Um... Em?"

I tried to breathe, couldn't. Let out another sob.

"I'm just... I'm so... glad... you're not..." Sob. Breathe. Picture the faces I love, then stop because I can't. "...that you're not dying of AIDS."

He laughed a little. "Well, yeah... me too..." Then he caught my eye. And then his eyes filled, too. "Yeah. Me too."

Twenty five years ago. A Wheaton kid. Died of AIDS alone.

Ten years ago, kids who look just like our high-schoolers tossed around "dyke" and "that's gay".

I hear arguments that make sense to me, about sin and righteousness and thoughts that are higher than our thoughts and a just God. I hear arguments that make sense to me about reading within cultural contexts and a wideness in God's mercy and a faith that has always been for the marginalized and despised.

And I see faces. And I imagine those faces being called those names, or lying with those sores on their skin, and then I don't hear or see or think anything. I just feel.

And we can say that those names and those sores are universally considered horrible, that those aren't the same thing as church membership or a wedding where everyone in attendance cries with joy. But they feel the same to me today.

Because ten years ago it didn't startle us to hear dyke or that's gay and twenty-five years ago someone who could have been my friend or your friend died scared and alone. And with every calm, rational argument about Romans 1 I hear, I can not convince myself that withholding an invitation to our table isn't the same thing.

My knowledge of God and my understanding of Scripture swirl around me, seeming to look a little different in any different light, everything I have thought I have known in my short 24 years still susceptible to mood, to cultural bias, the time we live in, the people I've been taught by and those I have loved. HE never changes, never shifts, is the Same yesterday and today and tomorrow. But what about my comprehension of Him?

Our feelings are fallen, the argument goes: no matter how much you love your friends you can't let that make your decision about what's right and true. But aren't our interpretations and our logic fallen as well? Every fear I have of blasphemy or not taking Scripture seriously enough, the frantic cataloguing I do of the Christians I respect and trying to guess who comes out on one side or another and why... that could all be fallen, too.

My desire to be a woman who loves the Word: my picture of that woman, of what she believes and proclaims. Is that so invincible to sin, to confusion, to era?

Huckleberry Finn decided he would just have to go to hell rather than turn Jim in. Joan of Arc's reply to the inquisitor who informed her that her messages were just her imagination: "Of course. That is how the messages of God come."

And for me, the horror I feel at picturing some of the people I love most in the world called a name, suffering alone.... I now believe, that is some of how God speaks to me. I have a strong hunch that in five years, or ten, I would feel that same horror, those same out-of-nowhere sobs, at the thought that they would have a family uncelebrated. A Sunday morning feeling looked at and treated with caution. A Table at which they weren't welcomed.

Maybe basing theology off of a hunch is blasphemy. Or at least really stupid. But then I remember that my loving Him started as a hunch, too.

.coram deo.

i just spent half a week a couple hours away on the coast,

at a retreat my church puts on every year called "sabbath by the sea".

though there were others in the big house and i loved talking with them at meals and morning and evening prayer,

most of the days were spent alone w/ God.

lots of this:

and this.

i asked friends for ideas on what to think and pray through in this gift of time.

here are some of their words...

What does God say about who I am? How does God see me differently than I see myself?

Where have I found the most joy this past year? Where have I felt the most tension / fatigue / deadness this last year? What might God be saying to me through those memories? 

How have I felt God's love lately?

How am I living adventurously, trusting that God is my provider?

In what ways can I simplify my life?

How can I build space into and protect the space I need to serve God most effectively?

What am I holding too tight? What am I too freely giving?

rhythm and space.

Bits of this week...

 every day this week held

an hours-long morning of coffee and reading

a quiet afternoon at home creating

and ended with a shared meal and laughter.

For some things there are no wrong seasons.

       "...But listen now to what happened

 to the actual trees;

toward the end of that summer they 

pushed new leaves from their stubbed limbs.

 It was the wrong season, yes, 

but they couldn't stop. They 

looked like telephone poles and didn't 

care. And after the leaves came  

blossoms. For some things

there are no wrong seasons. 

Which is what I dream of for me."

-Mary Oliver,

"Hurricane".

From A Thousand Mornings.

.new year's day soup.

Since discovering this recipe less than a month ago,

I've made it three times.

So far everyone who's tried it (even if they were skeptical at the ingredients) has gone back for seconds.

Sweet Potato Cauliflower Soup

(adapted from Manifest Vegan,
which is also where the photo is from)

1 large caulifower head, chopped into bite-size pieces

2-3 med-large sweet potatoes, peeled and chopped into 1" pieces

1 onion, diced

4-5 cloves garlic, minced

3 cups water

4 cups chicken broth

good olive oil

cumin, cinnamon, black pepper

salt

 Scatter cauliflower on an ungreased cookie sheet.

Sprinkle liberally with the black pepper, cumin, and cinnamon.

Drizzle with olive oil.

Roll pieces around to coat in olive oil and spices.

Roast at 400 degrees 20-30 minutes, until browned on top but not too soft.

Set aside.
(Warning: It's really easy to want to just eat them. Make extra.)

Saute onions and garlic in a T or two of olive oil for a minute,

then add water, broth, sweet potato, a teaspoon-ish of salt, and a few shakes of black pepper.

(The water-broth combo is basically to taste.

The original recipe just called for water, which also leaves it vegan.

I like chicken broth better, but didn't want to overpower the tastes of the veggies and spices.

Thus, a combo.)

Bring to a boil,

then simmer until sweet potatoes are tender.

Either blend half the mixture and then re-mix it in

or, if you're lazy like me,

mash a bunch of the sweet potatoes against the side of the pot and stir them back in well.

Mix in roasted cauliflower pieces.

Serve hot.

*******

I concluded my basically perfect first day of 2013
(walked into town in the brilliantly sunny, freezing cold morning,
spent the morning knitting and reading Nathan Coulter,
spent the afternoon with Breanna keeping me company as I unpacked)

with my little house filled with friends over to eat said soup together and play Apples to Apples.

So far I like this year.