Category Archives: Prayer

Small Comforts

14 Saturday Feb 2009

Posted by in Home Restoration, In the Kitchen, Life at Home, Prayer, Soul Care

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dsc01212aPainting and death may seem strange bedfellows, but in my life they’ve been coming together like two peas in a pod.   It’s happened twice now in fifteen months.  With my mom, I painted my way through seven weeks of ICU and  five months following her death.  When I ran out of rooms, I stopped.

 

Last Sunday, with a free can of paint in hand, I began my second painting rotation, limiting myself to the vestibule walls.  I had no designs on painting its ceiling or smallish open cloakroom, as I thought the new grayish blue would become a good neighbor.  Monday’s morning light proved how unfriendly it was — as I was waking up to two more days of painting, my Aunt Carol was waking up to something so much worse – without a notion that her husband of fifty-five years would soon be dead of a heart attack.  I heard the news Tuesday morning.

 

As I slipped into my old familiar mourning attire – a pair of old paint-smeared sweats – I slipped into that much familiar practice of grieving with a paintbrush.  And as the cloakroom became a soft black and the vestibule ceiling a creamy white, I thought of Carol and Sonny, holding both close to my heart, and of the many days of summer vacation I had whiled away at their house and all the wonderful memories they had gifted me with– like swims at Twilight Beach and eating watermelon at the Rush Springs Festival.  Painting is a good way to say goodbye.  My mind empties of everything else, so that I am free to settle into peace and quiet, centered on the task before me.  Fully in the present, I sense God in a manner that’s both healing and comforting.   It’s just me and God, creating a little beauty together.  And each and every time I paint, I recall those comforting words written in the book of Revelations.

“Behold, I make all things new.”

My paintbrush teaches me that transformations happen quickly – in the blink of an eye—as quick as a hand can brush up and down the wall.  My faith tells me that death brings resurrection for the dead in the same fashion.

 

It will sound strange not to speak their names together.  These peas in a pod are no more; just as my painting is no more — both just for a while.  With the comfort of painting gone, it’s time to think comfort foods.  And what better, than Aunt Carol’s own recipe for home-made yeast rolls–one of life’s small comforts.

 

Aunt Carol’s Yeast Rolls

 

1.  In a cup, mix ¼ cup of lukewarm water, a pkg. of active dry yeast and 1 T. sugar.  Set aside – Let rise. 

2.  In a large bowl, mix ¾ cup of lukewarm water and ¼ cup of Milnot Cream.  Stir in 1 cup of all purpose flour.  Fold in the yeast mixture.

3. Add 2 more cups of all purpose flour.  Mix – Knead – Let it rise.  After one rising, punch holes in dough with your fingers and let rise once more.  (Allow 2 to 3 hours for both risings)

4.  Butter your hands to shape the dough into small balls, place in a buttered pan.  Let rise once more.  (Up to an hour)   Bake at 375 for 30 minutes. 

 

Telling Tales from the Cell

03 Tuesday Feb 2009

Posted by in Life at Home, Prayer, Soul Care

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Listening – real listening – is becoming a lost art.  While plenty of reasons exist, the whys of it mean less to me than the what, who, where, when and how of it.  That is, what matters most to me are the personal stories that go untold for the lack of a listening ear…and the lack in our own impoverished lives that results from their untelling.

Listening knows no boundaries.  Two strangers on an airplane strike up a meaningful conversation while lovers go deaf to the other’s cry.  While I’ve lived both stories, I’d rather tell tales on two others.  Who wouldn’t?

The first is on a very good but busy friend I recently called – and knowing her very busy lifestyle, I asked right off, “Am I catching you at a bad time?”  “Oh no… not at all”, she assured me.  But while catching up on each other’s lives, I now know my friend was also waiting in line to catch a quick bite to eat at a fast food restaurant.  In the midst of my voicing some life concern, a piercing voice rang out, “May I take your order please?”  Ouch.  Her cell, while convenient, became a conversation killer.  It’s more than a tad ironic that my friend carries her cell in a holster.

The second tale is a cell of a different order, as my sister Christi doesn’t really believe in cell phones.  Mind, she does own one – she even carries it in her purse.  But no one has her number – not even her.  She has this phone only for her own convenience and safety.  If someone needs to reach her, they know to call her at home and – unless an OU football game is on –she’s ready to cozy up on her couch for a good listen.  Ever since she was little, my sister has been interested in other people’s lives.  If listening is one of her gifts, it grew stronger over her fourteen years on Main Street, where she kept a small gift shop.  Customers dropped in as much to see Christi as to shop – for these women, it was a little like going to the ‘local’ for a cup of coffee and a visit, but without the coffee.  They walked out – often without making a purchase–simply feeling better because Christi had listened to their story.

My sister is a throwback to the past, but in a good way.  I love how Christi doesn’t know her own cell number but how she’s always ready to use her space as a cell of a kinder kind – as in a little spiritual room of a holy person type of cell.  As Christi listens to others from her cell, she offers callers a sense of spaciousness to time and place that invites digging deep into the rich meaning of life, even at the cost of getting messy.  A cell for a cell – but her order of cell has a better ear for listening,

Happy birthday, sis.

Ding Dong

01 Sunday Feb 2009

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My friend Dianne called on Tuesday to tell me she was coming to town on Friday.  Her daughter Lara would soon be working and living in OKC, so it was time to find an apartment.  And, while they were here, Dianne was hoping to see me and my old house and introduce me to Lara.  She thought Lara might just like to have a “second string mom” in her new OKC life.  Perhaps I could fill that niche?              

For the next three days, I relished the thought of Dianne’s visit.  I thought about Lara and her upcoming move, and hoped she would feel comfortable enough to call on me if local “mom” services were needed.  But I also wanted Lara to hold no false impressions – if she were going to call on me, she needed to know the real me — a person still getting comfortable with self, who’s not afraid to admit she’s a dreamer and who easily loses track of time.   

As I prayed to wear my real self in an everyday comfortable way, I wanted my house to shine in its Sunday best.   Windows needed to be cleaned, wood surfaces needed to be dusted and my floors needed to be mopped.  But being a born procrastinator, I kept putting it off until postponements ran into Friday morning and my planned spa day for the house had to shrink to more realisitc proportions — a quick bath and dressing up for friends with some nice steaming potpourri on the stove.  As I finished my last bit of poofing, I glanced out the window to see — oh no I thought…. it can’t be….but, no….there they were — Dianne and Lara were pulling up in front of my house.  Oh, well.  It seemed that my unfortunate tendency to stuff ten pounds of life into my five pound sack had once again caught up with me — and the evidence was now standing on my front porch, wearing smiles on their lovely faces.  In a way I could never have imagined in my wildest dreams, Lara was getting a chance to meet the real me.  As the door bell rang, all I could do was shrug at my attire and steel myself for the riotous laughter I knew would follow.   Exposed and vulnerable, I opened the door.  And as I reached out to hug Dianne, still wearing my pajamas and robe, we both began to laugh.    

They say our first impressions of a person are lasting.  I pray this is so.  Because with the benefit that comes only with hindsight, I see it was me wearing my Sunday best, as the guise of nightclothes in a late morning light shined faint with exposed humility.