Category Archives: Soul Care

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. 

 

There Be Dragons

11 Wednesday Feb 2009

Posted by in In the Garden, Soul Care

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Out in the back garden, my citrus trees are in a blissful state of recovery.  No longer trapped indoors by freezing temperatures, one might think they were on spring break, as these days of fresh balmy air filled with sun and rain have chased away all their winter blues.  Meanwhile, holed up in my house, I too am in recovery with plenty of woes of my own.  With my pride in shreds and more than a few doubts about the joys of becoming a certified master gardener, I fear my winter woes may not resolve so easily.

 

It began last week at my final master gardening class.  Aready mid-way through the certification process, I’ve received seventy hours of instruction from some of the state’s finest horticultural instructors.  So what stands before me are sixty hours of service behind the county extension’s master gardening help desk. And to help prepare me for this –under the guise of this lowly training class–was my most important lesson lying in wait. 

 

It took place in the quiet hours of a cold Oklahoma morning, with phone lines grown silent with winter.  The first two hours flew by without incident.  But that all ended when my phone began to ring.  As I listened to the problem being described, I began to realize that I knew absolutely nothing about this first caller’s question.  I racked my brain for answers, only to discover that all my gardening knowledge had vacated the premises.  Trying to hold on to the last vestiges of a calm façade, I hurriedly turned to the voluminous set of OSU Fact Sheets that sat on my desk, frantically flipping page after page in search of an answer for the poor soul who had the unfortunate luck to get stuck with me as their “expert.” Oh noooooo, Mr. Bill. These fact sheets do not hold all the answers.  It was only then that I realized that there comes a time in every master gardener’s life when it’s time to abandon the pride of your own help desk and go crawling for your own help.  When I left my desk, with tiny pieces of pride shattered all across it, I found my answer easily off the top of my trainer’s head.  

  

There is a God…..the One that is a whole lot easier to find down on my knees, whether at the help desk…..or in my garden kneeling within the rich dirt of humus.  No matter which, there is much to beware of in master gardening… as hiding under that ‘puffed’ up title I have desired for so long were some of my worst enemes — pride and honor and glory.  Yes, there be dragons in yonder garden.  But there’ll be no need to do battle on my own.  The help desk will help slay them, or at last beat them into submission.     

 

Editors Note:  Bill Geer is Oklahoma County Extension Director

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.