Seriously, I white knuckled it all the way to work this morning. I tried to pray and I tried to sing, I tried to solve all of life’s problems but just couldn’t. (Of course had I not been distracted by the danger I could have solved all of life’s problems) but I needed to concentrate on the task at hand. My eyes and thoughts were fixed on the road ahead of me and beside me and behind me because you never know from which direction someone else will spin out and put you in a coma or at least a neck brace. Not to mention damaging my one and only vehicle that gets me everywhere I need to go….To Infiniti and beyond.
Yesterday I left the house at 5:00am to get to the gym by 5:30 and I did. But this morning I left at my regular time (15 minutes late) and the traffic was Ca–razy. And the ice – for a moment I thought I took a wrong turn and ended up at the Columbia Ice Fields except I didn’t see any bombardier ice vehicles (which I really could have used BTW). Approaching one red light I had those breaks on hard, they were pumping and grinding like than a pole dancer at Cowboys and freaking me out but finally my Infiniti came to stop – right in the middle of the intersection. I had passed the crosswalk and collected the $200. (If only).
I’m pretending to steer but, in fact, the car is just doing whatever the deeply embedded grooves will allow it. Why am I even behind the steering wheel I thought? I guess because that’s the only way I will make connection with the gas pedal. Speaking of which I really didn’t want to step on the gas pedal – it’s a scary experience in these conditions. Of course I have High Blood Pressure. Why wouldn’t I have high blood pressure? Monday morning I thought I was driving through a winter wonderland and was content to be stuck in bumper to bumper traffic as it was nice and slow and that I can handle. But today I was oblivious to the beauty (except that burgundy, hot pink, purple and blue sunrise on the horizon dotted by a million sparkling jewel lights). Ok…enough of that nonsense. Eyes on the road.
I found myself longing for a red light so I could re-adjust the multiple layers of clothing ones wears when its -35 with wind-chill. You know that panic when you feel constrained because you are sitting on your coat the wrong way and you cannot move your arm? I managed to get a moment to undo my seat belt and pull my coat and whatever other garments were mummifying me, out from under me and push myself in a more focused upright position, requiring me to move the seat further forward to make sure I had a good connection to the brake and the gas pedal. This was a battle and I had to be prepared. I was doing pretty good until I came to the corner of Blackfoot and 58th and was the lucky recipient of a turning light. The turning light came on about 6 cars in front of me and I thought, I’ll never make it and I can wait until the next turning light but all the cars in front of me made it through and there was a semi behind me so… I had to go. It was glare ice so took a deep breath and turned wide and slow (sort of felt like I was in one of those slow motion car wreck scenes from the Fast & Furious) and made it through while the arrow was still green and blinking. After I started to breathe again, my eyes caught sight of the yellow CANA sign on our building and I knew I was in the home stretch. I turned two more icy corners and the Infiniti came to rest in my favorite parking spot. I turned off the lights and undid my seat belt pushed my seat back and just sat there breathing deeply and thanking the Lord that I was at  a standstill, still alive, Infiniti still in same condition as when I left home. Now I know what SULLY felt like when he landed that plane in the Hudson River.

When my children were quite small I belonged to several groups at our church. I eagerly signed up because both groups were offering babysitting which left me free to sit at the refined table of my peers taking in a bible study or making a craft and enjoying a lovely hot beverage. Usually these crafts were elementary compared to what I was churning out at home but I didn’t care. That wasn’t the point. I do remember one morning painting was involved and absentmindedly (which was how I did a lot of things back then) I was dipping my paint brush in someone’s coffee thinking it was water. When I saw her reach for it to take a sip I bellowed ‘don’t drink that’ to the surprise and shock of everyone at the table nearly spilling the cup a ruining everyone’s works of art. AH, but I digress…. One of these groups was called MOPS which was an acronym for Mothers of Preschoolers. I cleverly joined the executive of this group so I wouldn’t have to be on the babysitting team (although I think we did eventually hire younger and older women without children to do the babysitting). Being on the executive meant organizing our gatherings and socials. I usually thrived on being involved. I needed an outlet for the creative ideas which were oozing our of every pore of my body. We had decided to have a brunch for the moms (made by the moms), sort of a potluck kind of deal. We wanted it to be something none of us were too familiar with in this season of our lives…elegant. A deviation from eating the rest of the kids cheerios off the floor or drinking the rest of their Sunny Delight (Yikes – edible oil product) out of a sticky Batman sippy cup as you ran out the door half dressed with a curler still in your hair. I’m sure the menu probably included fruit salad, quiche, cheeses/grapes…that sort of thing. I suggested we have scones, complete with devonshire cream and lovely homemade jam. And where, pray tell, were we getting the homemade jam? I volunteered to raid my mother’s pantry. We laid out the menu to the moms and then asked for volunteers for each item. I am sure the scone volunteers thought they were getting away easy. I passed out the exact recipe I wanted them to use for the scones (I didn’t want any of these rock hard white hockey pucks showing up). I was a bit bossy and arrogant when I think of it now. I also instructed them to bake the scones the morning of the brunch. Get up early and make them fresh and bring them warm. The way they looked at me you’d have thought I had antennae sticking out of my head and one eye in the middle of my face. What? True British scones had to be fresh and melt in your mouth. Off you go, I shooed them away.

Well the morning of the brunch arrived and I set the alarm early to make my scones. As I gathered the ingredients together I realized I there was not a speck or crumb of baking powder in the pantry. Not even an empty box. Hello? Scones are the sophisticated cousin of baking powder biscuits. I couldn’t possibly make scones without baking powder. The stores weren’t open yet and besides, by the time I got a 2 year old and a 6 year old ready to go to the store, not to mention myself, well…just not happening. If you are/were a mom, you know what I mean. I urgently called up my dear friend who lived in close proximity in the neighborhood. I timidly asked if she had any baking powder I could use for the scones. She was also involved in the brunch and she just howled when she learned of my predicament. The high and mighty scone organizer didn’t think to check her supply of baking powder the night before? Sadly, I did not. When she finished laughing, my friend agreed to send her 9 year son over on his bike with the much coveted baking powder. When he arrived, I threw open the door to give him a hug and PONGO, our brainless Dalmatian bolted through the space and tore into the park across the street. He was always looking for ways to escape. I most certainly did not have time for this. I asked my delivery boy to stay in the house with the kids while I ran over to the park in my pajamas and cajoled our family pet to come home. He was not falling for it. I ran back to the house to get the leash and some dog treats. If I wanted to get the leash on him, first I was going to have to catch him. I am sure the neighbors were enjoying their breakfast entertainment immensely. Finally I managed to wrestle the unruly spotted canine to the ground by the collar and stuffed him full of treats. I latched the leash to his collar and stood up straight and said ‘heel’. He had no idea what I was talking about – he wasn’t trained. Although, he must have understood some connotation of word ‘heel’ as he dug his own heels (do dogs have heels?) into the ground and decided he wasn’t going anywhere. I was pulling on the leash with all my strength and his paws were digging up dirt trenches in the grass as I tried to inch him toward the edge of the park. I don’t know how I finally got him back in the yard because he was far too huge to actually pick up. He was probably loving this game. He’d never had so much fun in his life – which was getting shorter by the moment I might add. I spent many wasted hours chasing that dog around the neighborhood, looking for him, not looking for him, hoping he was lost forever. I remember one time when he was nowhere to be found, I finally resigned myself to ‘not finding him’ and was starting to imagine my glorious life without the dumber half of dumb and dumber and the phone rang. It was the SPCA “somebody found your dog and brought him to the shelter, would you like to come and pick him up and pay $100 for the shots we had to give him in order to let him mingle with the rest of the dogs?” NO – I would not. I couldn’t even begin to imagine how somebody caught that crazy animal and was able to stuff him into a car. Jeesh.

Where was I? Oh yes…the brunch. Somehow I eventually managed to get my scones baked, the kids ready and dash off for the brunch. I was a bit late but, by God, my scones were fresh. In fact they were still warm. There was still steam rising from the basket of buttery biscuits laced with dried cranberries and white chocolate when I entered the church. While I was arranging my scones on the brunch table, I overheard a couple of moms giggling and whispering amongst themselves. They were just close enough or loud enough for me to realize that they were mocking me. They had pulled the wool over my eyes. They had made their scones the night before and waited until morning to bake them while they were getting ready. Why didn’t I think of that?

SCONES

2 cups flour
2 Tablespoons sugar
1 Tablespoon baking powder (for the love of 1 TBSP of baking powder)
1/2 Teaspoon salt
1/2 Teaspoon baking Soda
1/2 Cup of butter
1/2 Cup sour creme
1/4 Cup milk
Dried Cranberries and white chocolate chunks – to taste.

Combine flour, sugar, BP, salt and BS. Cut butter in finely (with hands). Combine sour creme and milk in another dish then make a well in the dry mixture and pour in the sour creme and milk. Stir with a fork and eventually use your hands to make a soft, slightly sticky dough. Gather in a ball and on a lightly floured surface pat the ball flat (1/2 thick). Cut out circles with a glass cup. Use any size you prefer. Place on a baking sheet (I now use parchment paper) and brush tops with milk and sprinkle sugar. Bake at 350% for 15-20 minutes. Don’t let them get brown. Brown edges only.

TIP: Make them in the evening and bake them the morning of your event

A good friend and I set out to change our lifestyle by eating real food. Clean food. Food that was not processed and wasn’t presented in a bag, a can, a carton or a plastic take out tray from the nearest Costco. No offense Costo. I love you. And all those prepared foods you have can come in really handy when you are planning a huge event and you already are overwhelmed with preparations. But on a daily basis, we wanted to eat real food. Food that acted as medicine in our bodies and food that healed. Food that didn’t contribute to chronic inflammation. Food that wasn’t poisoning us. This is no easy task when we are bombarded by marketing ploys of convenience and flavor and economics and are brainwashed into thinking that our lives will be so much more fun and our relationships so much richer if we eat Fat Burgers together as a family. So we bit the unprocessed bullet.

By spring we had the offer of a friend of a friend’s private garden plot in the backyard of her new home. She was going to be travelling most of the summer and the plot would go fallow. We jumped at the chance to try our hand at growing things. We’d kept babies alive, surely we could keep a few vegetables alive. Of course first we had to get them alive. The garden plot came complete with a sprinkling system so we didn’t have to drive out to the garden every day. Other than gas and time going to the garden was not going to be a hardship as the yard overlooked the lush valley with the river and the view stretched beyond the tree line and settled on the majestic Rocky mountains. We thought we were gardening in the Napa Valley. We toyed with the idea of growing grapes for wine but knew full well that we were not in the proper growing zone. A compromise would just be buying wine, setting up lawn chairs and watching the sun go down from the vantage point of our secret garden.

The owner of the plot gave us the list of what she had planted last year and what had done well and what had not. It only made sense to follow her lead. We bought seed packets for green beans, purple beans, peas, white bulb onions, green onions and radishes. We bought spinach, kale, butter lettuce and romaine lettuce. Beets, carrots, and zucchini. We even bought some tomato plants that were called “French fries and Ketchup” because the top of the plant grew tomatoes and the roots were potatoes. We finished it off with cucumber and bell pepper plants. We bought heirloom carrots in 3 different colors and while we were at it, thought we’d try gold beets and candy cane beets. It was a huge plot so we had more than enough soil to till and planting to do. We brought in the big guns. Our husbands.

Our first Saturday afternoon in the garden was an eye opener. It was cotton plantation hot and the men were turning over the soil with their bare hands and a trowel or a hoe. Earthworms were abundant. We knew this was a good sign. Over half our seeds were already premeasured on strips for planting. This helped immensely. We pounded in stakes so we could run string for the beans, peas and sweat peas to climb on. We pounded in more stakes at the end of every row and fastened our empty colorful seed packets to them so we would know what we planted and where while we were waiting for it to grow. AND we left enough space between each row of seeds for replanting later in the season to ensure a continuous harvest. We planted carrots next to tomatoes as this is supposed to spur each on to better growth. Outfitted with rubber boots and gardening gloves, we had sweat dripping from our brows in no time. After an afternoon of back breaking work that we weren’t used to we retreated to Starbucks for refreshments where we bragged about the success of our project. A little like counting your carrots before they’re sprouted. The hard work was done and now all we had to do what wait.

The urge to drive back to visit the garden in a couple of days was great but we restrained ourselves. Obviously nothing would have surfaced yet. The waiting began. Who of us likes to wait? We want everything right now but a garden is not an instant gratification kind of thing. As I think about waiting, I think about all the results and answers I am currently waiting for in my life. With the garden, if I’ve done my part – planted the seed and continue to water those seeds – provide nourishment and am willing to take on the upkeep -the weeding and working the soil, something will eventually grow. I have no control over the speed and abundance of the harvest. I just wait and trust the process. It’s the same with my life. If I trust God for the answers and solutions and I’ve done everything that He requires me to do then He will do His part and come through for me. Faith involves waiting. Faith IS waiting. Waiting with hope. If my friend and I had said ‘we want a garden’ and then just sat in front of a pile of dirt all summer doing nothing but staring at it we would be sadly disappointed. That would be hopeless waiting. I guess if we liked weeds we might have been excited.

Since our garden was being watered every morning by the built in sprinkler system we waited a week to go peek. There was nothing but our perfectly organized stakes, strings and empty seed packet signs. But when I returned the following weekend there were rows of the tiniest green sprouts. I was so excited I took gobs of photos and posted them on social media. I’m sure others were wondering why I was getting so excited over dirt. We went back in another 10 days or so and it was obvious we had a garden on our hands. We even had to do a little weeding. More pictures were taken.

Then it started to rain. Noah’s ark kind of rain. It rained for several weeks with no let up. It was so rainy we could not even visit the garden. It was monsooning. We certainly couldn’t work in all that mud. Finally, after about 3 weeks we dared to discover the damage. Many vegetables had florished while others were drowned. The concept that if a little water is good then a lot of water is better didn’t really play out here. Too much of a good thing. How often have I bought into that myth in my life? If a little is good then a whole bunch will be better? A myth that reverberates every 6 months or so as I purge my house yet again and continue to have too much… stuff.

Of course this overabundance of water from above fell on the weeds as well and now we were having difficulty distinguishing between the weeds and the plants. The men didn’t seem to easily recognize lettuce and were pulling it out along with the weeds. That reminded me of a young cashier at the grocery store when I came through with zucchini and cilantro. He asked me if this was a cucumber? And what was this green stuff called? So we had to educate them on the different leaves plus we pointed out that the lettuce was growing in fairly straight rows so let that be their guide. Although I’m pretty sure we ate a few salads that were mostly dandelion greens.

This caused me to wonder if people could tell the difference between me and everyone else. As a Christ follower did I just blend in with the rest of the world? Or do people notice a distinguishable difference? Because they should. If I end up in a salad of dandelion greens I’m doing something wrong.

We planted the garden in May, the weekend before Victoria Day. By the end of June we were officially labeled ourselves farmers,taking home harvests of romaine, spinach, butter lettuce, onions, radish. So colorful and fresh and no pesticides I might add? Doesn’t this make them organic? Or does there have to be a lot of compost in the soil? Kind of reminds me of the movie The Martian, stuck on Mars for 7 years with nothing to eat but potatoes grown in his own… well you get the picture.

We continued to visit our garden all through July… still raining. Why hadn’t God asked us to start building a big boat yet? The beans and snap peas were growing on the vines but some varmint was feasting on them and the pods were full of holes so we finally just cut our losses on the lentils. I replanted some spinach and added kale. We unearthed some carrots and beets but the actual vegetables were very small compared to their foliage. Very showy with not much substance. As I contemplated this discovery I started to wonder about my own character. Sometimes I can tend to be like that. We’ve all met people that make an amazing first impression but when you dig deeper there’s not much there. I’d rather be the kind of person that surprises you when you look deeper than the coif, the face paint, the trendy fashion. I’d like you to find a mature, seasoned, colorful, fully grown healthy person of substance.

A strange thing happened next. That rich, moist, soil, patronized by the earthworms and nourished by the monsoon rains turned rock hard. In August I went over to do a little harvesting as the carrots were growing on top of one another. As I tried to pull the carrots from the ground the greens kept breaking off and the carrots remained buried in clay. So I put on my gloves and with a hand spade grasped tightly I began digging those carrots out. By the time I was done and removed my gloves my blistered palms were bleeding and raw. Our rich soil from May had turned to clay by August. This can happen to us sometimes. We start out pleasant, pliable and promising and after we have dealt with the unwelcome storms and the driving rain we harden our hearts to the possibility of reaping anything worthwhile. We become so hard that we have to be broken in order for the rich harvest to emerge. I don’t want the storms to make me hard. But if they do, then I want God to put on His gardening gloves and pursue me with a vengeance.

By the end of August our sweet peas started to grow before our very eyes almost. They were crawling up the ropes like professional rock climbers. Nostalgic and nimble with their fushia, pink, white and purple velvet petals and heavenly scent. Mostly I was just so darn proud of them for not giving up even though their growth was slow. The brave and tenacious sweet peas that graced our kitchens and offices until the end of September.

By now we were harvesting zucchini, cherry tomatoes, small beets and carrots. We just kept pulling the carrots from the ground and they seemed to be multiplying. I think the owner had planted some extra rows of carrots in the garden for us. They were amazingly sweet, we were eating them right out of the ground, a little dirt never killed us (well we did run them under the hose so it was clean dirt). Unfortunately the bell peppers and cucumbers had been destroyed. They started out as plants … did I mention the hail? I was starting to understand the delicate dance of the farmer. The excitement of new life, the anticipation (and necessity) of growth, the pride of harvest and the grieving for what’s been lost.

All in all, the garden was a success. A chance to risk. A lesson in patience, waiting and hope. An opportunity to reap most of what we sowed. A season to reflect. An experience to understand growth and a time to be grateful for the harvest. A schooling in hope and a testing in faith. These are the secrets of the garden.

I want to write it down.  All of it.  I find, more often than not, that a healing (and very often a revelation) occurs after each entry into my journal or each telling of some small part of my story.  Is my life so spectacular that I think everyone will be clamoring to read about it?  A resounding no.  Is my life so important?  I know I have value but what have I done to change the world?  Probably not much.  Is my life full of adventure and daring?  I wish it was.   No…I am more of an ‘every woman’.  My life could be described as….Valuable but not noticeable.   Important but not legendary.  Known but not famous. Loved but not publicly adored. Fun but not always.  Rich but not monetarily.   Hard pressed but not crushed. Perplexed but not in despair.  Persecuted but not abandoned.  Struck down but not destroyed.

My life has been peppered with blessing as well as hardship.  My life has not evolved into the dreams of my childhood. Oh the dreams.  I am most definitely am a dreamer.  A creator, a dreamer, an idealist.  I see the possibilities no matter how ridiculous the idea.  People say it can’t be done and I say why not? Anything is possible.  I am so grateful that God gave me a personality that can pick herself back up again.  After ridicule.  After loss.  After disappointment.  After anger.  After failure.  Otherwise I’d be lying in the ditch somewhere.  But Paul said he’d learned the secret of contentment in any situation and that secret is “I can do anything through Christ who gives me strength”.  So its not really a secret after all, at least not since Paul told the whole world.

My head is bulging with grandiose ideas and plans at any given moment.  Often people have asked me where do you get all these ideas? and I’m chuckling to myself as I run through the list written on the inside of my head – choking on all the ones I didn’t even share.  There and from Pinterest.

I am what new psychology calls an extroverted introvert.  I have always been intimidated by people.  However, I was always told when I was a child that I talked far too much and even now I seem to be a chronic over sharer.   Is it because I am so excited about everything that’s going on in my heart and mind and soul or is it a cover for the fear and horror of people finding out who I really am inside. I guess that would make me a phony. I’ve always considered myself on the rounder side of big boned but maybe its the insecurities crammed inside fighting for space.  I have no ambition to represent myself falsely or set up pretenses.  I’m probably more like everyone else than I care to admit.  Everyone likes to think of themselves as special in some way and we ARE all special in some way to somebody.

And this is where I want to gather fodder for my blog.  From my normal, unspectacular, hard knocks but extremely blessed life because I think many more people can relate to what looks boring on the outside but is full of richness on the inside.  I want to draw attention to the richness and the memories that maybe ordinary folk don’t even see or feel in their own lives.  We all have a journey to walk…all different and yet so much the same.  We don’t know the details of everyone’s journeys but I am sure we all experience much of the same emotions along the way.

We crave love and purpose.  And for whatever reason,  I feel strongly, that part of my purpose is to put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) and share what I have learned along the way on the off chance that these stories will resonate with someone and will be the encouragement and laughter they needed in that moment.  Some of the stories will just be stories to make us both feel good and there is no harm in that. And some entries will be to let you know you’re not the only one.