A Feast

We lounge around the room playing “Battle of the Sexes” and a quick round of “Hook-the-Visor-Over-the-Vacuum” and people I love occupy nearly every square inch of couch, chair and floor. We’re a hodgepodge of doctors, farmers, professionals, students, artists and children. There is a rhythm to our laughter and a visual feast for this mother’s eyes. Our lives intersect in this space for a moment in time so full of clarity that it rings out like a bell in my soul. Lives of meaningful enterprise converge to pause and celebrate our humanity– our connection–our family.

Tomorrow we will enter a house of worship and be stunned into silence as God pours out His glory and grace on men–young and old–as they stand. He beams His pleasure, “These are my men.” We walk away full. The emotional and spiritual response spills into the acts of preparing a meal. Shucking corn in the heat, silly conversation with a child, chopping greens grown by a husband–all meditative and graceful–become sacred in the glow of God’s presence.

Our gathered family shimmers in my heart. Our work in the world cultivates a covenant of sorts–each path important to the kingdom–deepened as we share our history in the context of our ongoing lives. Broad avenues for the expression of our faith open before each one–steeped in love and guided by the Spirit. Wildly different styles paint a rich landscape that converges in genuine community on this day. Mark expresses his gratitude to the Father for broken cycles of pain and healing on his journey–his acknowledgment a nourishing benediction. And we feast.

The next day

I am looking at Mark–husband of 30 years—asleep on the leather couch. Soundscape plays “Amazonia” by Paul Lawler, a bluesy electric guitar piece overlaid with soft techno tones—a gentle adult lullaby with an undertone of bass that nearly syncs with Mark’s light snore.

Dolly, our sweet Golden, lay on the floor below him—the sun through the window makes a bar of light across her body. Her head tilted to one side and resting on one paw—the other tucked neatly under.

The room is littered with plastic party cups left where yesterday’s baby shower guests sat perched or settled in their seats to watch Cynthia, 8 months pregnant, open gifts. A few gifts too large to fit in the car still sit like sentries overlooking the den and Mark’s Sunday nap. We will pack them with us when we head down to see them again for the holidays.

I am thinking of the laughter and chatter that filled these rooms yesterday. Women wall-to-wall from all over the city—some from Dayton—to stand behind my baby girl as she begins her journey into the world of mothering. These are women who have raised their children well. All smile widely with open faces full of hope that this baby will be well loved and brought into our community of women to be a strong woman herself.

Cynthia is grateful, but a hint of uncertainty plays around her eyes—uncertainty about motherhood in the face of so much experience surrounding her. Bits of fear creep on the edges of her voice as she speaks of the labor, delivery and the myriad of decisions to be made for a newborn—and this, coming from a doctor trained in the ways of the body. But like generations before her and the ones to come—she will arrive on the other side of being delivered—stronger, with the new name of mother. The rest of her life will be different. She will never be the same. There will be—from that moment on—a love so large it will color her entire world.

"What's your favorite..."

Last Saturday I went to Donegal Town down in the Republic of Ireland for a day with some other Magee students.

We were cute. Though none of us knew each other well, we made quite a nice grouping: two Irish, two French and two Americans.

We spent the entire day wandering around the little town. We saw the old graveyard that was also a very old abbey which had once been overtaken and used as a military outpost, as are many religious spaces here. We walked (the wrong direction at first) about 2 miles to get to a place called The Craft Village. It's an outpost for handcrafting artists to maintain a shop and keep a living.

We had two great meals: lunch at a teahouse and scones and Irish Coffee at a Pub. Because none of us knew each other that well, I contributed to conversation around the meals by asking people about themselves. Sometimes this took the form of "What's your favorite..." Apparently the others thought this was funny and they started in; "What's your favorite game? Whats your favorite color?" They laughed in good fun and looked at me for a response. I proceeded to make everyone answer the questions.

In a final attempt to joke about the "favorites" questions, the French boy, Max, asked, "What's your favorite smell." Everyone laughed. When the small chorus died down, I said, "But wait! You have to let me answer." Silence. "The smell of my mom's apple pie."

The Ultimate Comfort Food

Fall is here. The first few crisp weather mornings have passed us by here in Tennessee (better late than never) and I have an overwhelming desire to make mom's apple pie. There's something you need to know about me...I have two comfort foods that that clung to me since childhood that I turn to in times of nostalgia  and...well...just plain gluttonous indulgence. Those two foods are:

1. Grilled cheese sandwiches with tomato or potato soup
2. Mom's apple pie a la mode

I have so many memories of coming home during the autumn/winter months with the deliciously warm and inviting smells of this apple pie wafting throughout the house. It's one of those smells that makes you salivate the second it hits your nose. It's one of those smells that reminds you that Christmas filled with family, presents, snow, and no school is just around the corner. It's one of those smells that puts me home.

My first attempt at baking this pie (including the crust) was an ugly site. It was our first fall as a married couple and we had about a 1 foot square countertop available for preparation in our tiny apartment kitchen. The entire process to bake these two pies took approximately 4.5 hours. I think 2.5 were on trying to get the crust to be just the right moisture to roll and not break, but not overly moist so it becomes tough. It's a very delicate balance that one could easily mess up, but the reward is oh-so worth it.

Here's the recipe in the words of my mother. Try not to freak out by the amount of butter/crisco it calls for. Again. it's worth it.

Mom's Apple Pie
Filling

• 6-8 apples, pared, cored and thinly sliced
• 1 cup of sugar
• 2 Tablespoons flour
• 1 teaspoon cinnamon (or a tad more)
• dash nutmeg (and a wee dash of cloves if you have it)
• wee dash of salt
• 1 Tablespoon lemon juice
• Stick of butter - to be added at the end.

Slice apples, sprinkle with lemon juice. Pour sugar, spices over top and mix. Set aside while you make the crust. (Once apples are in the pan, slice the stick of butter over top.)

Pastry Crust (makes one pie -top and bottom crust) 

• 2 slightly generous cups of flour (mounded)
• 1 teaspoon salt
• generous 2/3 cup shortening (cold - I keep mine in the fridge)
• bowl of ice water

Put ice in a bowl of water and set aside.

Put the flour in a medium sized bowl and put the salt on top then use the pastry blender to mix it in.

Take about half of the generous (heaped up) 2/3 cup of cold shortening and use the pastry blender to cut the shortening into the flour until it is small granules (like grits or cornmeal) then add the remaining cold shortening and cut into the flour until there are pieces left that are about the size of peas. (These melt between layers of flour as the pie bakes and makes it flaky.)

Sprinkle the ice water over the flour/shortening mix and then use a fork to sort of toss/stir. You kind of push it to the side as it get moistened. Continue adding water to the more floury parts and gently toss/stir until the dough can be formed into two balls.

On a floured surface (countertop) place one ball and press it down by hand to form a flat circle. Then use the rolling pin to roll from center out until it is large enough to cover the pan.

Use a flat spatula to gently unstick it and fold it over in half then unstick the other half and lift it into the crust.

Roll out the other half of the crust and let it sit on the counter while you put the apples in the pan. They will have juice to pour over the top by now.

Then - and this is IMPORTANT - I have forgotten many times - cut up a stick of butter on top of the apples before you put the top crust in place.

Use a knife handle to make the scalloped edges (or thumb and pointer and pinch it). Or seal with a fork and then use a knife to cut the excess off.

Bake at 400° for 50 - 60 minutes. Sometimes I put foil around the outside edge of the crust, but not always. The crust may get too brown if you don't, but I usually don't.

Change (first post in about eight years)

Change.

For most people this word incites mild panic and excessive perspiration.

Stutters develop and the most level minded adults become

severely tongue tied.

I'm just about the opposite.

Change is a new beginning in my book.

Most of my yesterdays are not quite what I had planed

and if there's a soul on the planet who wouldn't say the

same, just I'd like to read their book.

New things bring new first tries.

And the up side to any first try is the security of excuses.

"Oh, beginners luck." or "Rome wasn't built in a day"

Either way you have an out.

You fail, that's ok, it was your first time up to bat.

You succeed and you aren't necessarily required to repeat that performance.

Easy.

Change is the ADD kids best friend.

I'm not ADD but sometimes I think my dreams are.

One day I will be an actress, and the next a writer.

I will be a volleyball star, then I will be a marathon runner.

It's not a bad thing to try new things, but does it mean anything

if instead of winning the '12 seasons of greatness' award at your

school, you've been offered the '12 Sports Attempted' prize?

Some call it running away,

Others call in branching out.

I'm not sure where I fall, but I do

truely enjoy frequent change in my life.

I would do a little experiment to test if change

has positive of negative effects on my life, but

Things would probably change too soon for me to really tell.

Living a Better Story Seminar from All Things Converge Podcast on Vimeo.

Living a Better Story

I am a 52-year-old woman who has spent the majority of my life making a home for my husband and four daughters. The courage and passion I held to through the years staying home to raise my own children looks awkward and provincial to people now. I stand up tall and declare it was not a mistake. God has honored the choice and we have suffered very little materially for it. I would do it all again. I am ferocious about this.

As my daughters have grown up I have gotten absorbed in their history, as if life happened to me without my awareness. Why, even this blog is a shared one between my daughters and I. But beneath the surface, I have been undergoing and embracing the shift in my focus away from them. My youngest daughter is now a senior in high school and I have been mulling over in my mind what kind of life I will live now that time opens up its arms to me. Since reading A Million Miles in a Thousand Years I have thought about this future in terms of “my story.”

As a child, being an artist was a big part of my identity. One of my earliest memories is drawing in church. (I still doodle through sermons—it helps me focus.) My favorite gifts to receive were always the exceptional colored pencils with rich color saturation and the deluxe paint sets. As an adult, the words naturally fall from my lips, “I’m a follower of Jesus, a wife, mother and an artist.” Over the years I developed a career that contributes to the family income and allows me to be home while I design and create—I am a graphic designer.

Although I have never entirely abandon my art (http://www.facebook.com/patty.ewing?v=photos#!/album.php?aid=17833&id=502401007) or writing, I believe my “story” in the future will be chock full of artful writing and painting.

But, here is the rub: I see myself as a nonentity—shadowy—nearly invisible.
I have gotten quite shabby in appearance. Not that I was ever a looker, but I used to have a certain sharpness to my person that I have allowed to mellow and settle. I was putting on my makeup yesterday and thought, “Why bother?” I don’t think anyone really looks at me anymore. All this without even the dignity of any real old age to accompany and account for it.

What I want more than anything and resolve to do: lose weight and repair my esteem and health WHILE I nurture my creative bent.

I know I can write (maybe not publish—but I CAN write). I will need to commit a space of time each day to write. I’ll get a laptop at some point in order to move about freely and compose in more interesting places. I can read books about writing and books about writers! (I love reading. This can now be a valid reason to read during the day: Research!) I can sign up for creative writing classes and workshops.

I know I can make art that I love and others will enjoy. I can take classes that will force me to produce and give me the physical arena in which to make a mess. I will need to turn one of the rooms into a studio fit for paint to fling about. I’ll stretch canvases and buy quantities of paint. I’ll get a small paint pad to carry about and a small quality set of paints to bring along and paint at whim.

But my undertakings will inevitably be sabotaged by my weight. So. My better story looks like this: I begin to live a healthy lifestyle while I pursue stimulating and aesthetic endeavors. I will write. I will paint. I will live an artful, satisfying season of years quickened and energized by increased health, loss of burdensome weight and a new sense of self.

Of course the obstacles ahead are the same faced by millions of overweight Americans. The road ahead is well documented. I have done this before—twice I lost over 100 pounds—only to regain it. I set my face to it. I’ll fix a big pot of vegetable soup, fill a glass of water and hop on my stationary bike. Later I will write about it.

I am hoping the Living a Better Story seminar (www.donmilleris.com/conference) will be a launching place—a catalyst to the momentum to begin my story with clarity. In the way writing this piece has been motivating and empowering; I expect the seminar to be exponentially more so.