One Body

Tonight as I was making supper, singing my lungs out and chopping onion, the butcher knife I was using slipped and I chopped my finger. I don't remember the first few seconds, but soon after that I was white knuckle holding my finger, afraid to unclasp my trembling hands and look at how bad it was.

A split second from song to unnerving silence and suddenly I was guessing how long the wait in the ER would be, and wondering why I couldn't feel pain. And then a dull ache started keeping pace with my pulse, and the world started spinning, and I had to lay down on the floor while my baby tore the kitchen cupboards apart and call my husband to come home.

When I finally had the courage to look, I saw that I had neatly sliced a small chunk off the side of my middle finger, and because I can't handle looking at open wounds of any sort, I nearly fainted all over again and when my husband got home (in about 5 minutes flat) he put me to bed because I was grey and dizzy.

And now, hours later, I still feel a bit woozy.

The thought strikes me that this is very significant.

I mean how big is that slice of finger I just cut? maybe .3% of my body? Not much, that's for sure. And yet this whole night has been altered by its injury and I know that in the days to come, every time I use this finger I will be reminded of its injury because it will ache.

In a certain book I like to read, there is a comparison between the church and a body. It says that every part is important and connected. Each person is like a part of this body - some beautiful and lovely to see, and some tucked away with important jobs that you don't notice but would die without.

As my finger aches tonight, I think of people from my own community of believers who ache, or have been cut off, or are sick. I think of house mom's who feel lost in the mundane chores of child rearing and of husbands tangled up in money worries and job struggles. And I just wanted to say to you, tonight, that you are so important - wether you are the nose, the armpit or the shpinkter. If my little finger can effect my whole body, then you are certainly a significant part of yours, no matter how unimportant you may feel you are right now.

( and because my finger is throbbing because I keep accidentally typing with it, I have to sign out now)

Rememberance Day

My Grandpa was a veteran - he lied about his age when he was 14 or something and got into the Navy. He never talked about it to me, but I know that a piece of shrapnel hit him in the face and he had really bad nosebleeds for the rest of his life. Some of the photographs he shot of battleships sinking are in history books. He had bad dreams about it until the day he died. Today I wish I had been able to ask him about his experiences and honor his sacrifices.

I would tell him I am grateful that he was so brave so I could live so free.

When it is all worth it

I was in the middle of making black bean soup this morning when the phone rang. My daughter was pulling at the hem of my robe, the beans were burning, I was sweating like a pig and I answered mid-task.

I am one of the people who scream WHYYYYYYYYY!?!?!!?!?!!!! at the night sky. I don't suffer silently. I rail against fate and pain and suffering. Im not much for resignation and patience. I'm not saying those things are bad, just that they don't come easily to me. It's hard for me to accept the Just-Because answers. In fact, I lose respect for the people who give them.

During a recent difficult time, I lost sight of my trust in God. As an adult I've come to terms (for the most part) with the fact that life is painful, but beautiful nonetheless. But in the midst of my pain, I confess that I wondered if perhaps God was hurting me on purpose. There's a verse in the Bible that says God made vessels for different purposes. Some for glory and some for wrath. And I seriously wondered for some time if He hadn't made me for His wrath. I was hurting so bad, I just couldn't make sense of it, and the answers that had comforted me through other dark times didn't make the cut.

I am healing up now, but I've still been unsure of what purpose my hurt was serving. It's not a sharp pain for the most part, but a dull constant ache. For weeks, just this throb in my heart as I heal but not heal.

And then, the phone rings in the middle of an ordinary day.

A friend.

My joyful greeting is cut short by stilted words squeezed out of a throat that's aching with tears.

In the midst of her pain, she called me.

Suddenly I am filled with gratitude. For all I have suffered and the scars I wear and the battles I've lost. Because this is where I have always found my reason. My suffering helps me help her. My pain helps me love her. My wins and losses help me fight for her. It isn't an office with a title and a six figure salary, but it has always been a post that I am honored to fill. Because I've been beaten, bruised and bloodied, when someone else lands there, they often come for me.

It isn't a reason that takes all the hurt away and makes the sky sunshining and glorious - but it makes something inside of me solid, determined and stronger somehow. I realize that if I give up on me, I'm giving up on them, too.

A Solitary Wednesday Evening

Wednesday evening. In the solitude of my basement craft room.

Just like every other wednesday evening, the house is empty but for my sleeping infant. Husband out gigging. MC student out at youth.

And me soaking up the solitude.

Not a wife or a mom or a janitor or a cook.

A lone wolf on the prowl. But not really prowling, just enjoying the prowl. You know.

Thinking. And thinking in solitude is like shopping with unlimited money. Really nice.

So I have been thinking about crochet. Oh, yes. My two precious hours of alone time spent on crochet. Anyways, I was thinking about how today I wrote 3 crochet patterns (cowl, lariat and hand warmers) and I think that that's pretty amazing. And I was thinking that one day that is going to come in handy. Perhaps even financially. And then I was thinking that I could probably be a script writer, too.

And then I was thinking about how I recently turned down this dream opportunity to get re-involved in theater, because I am sick in my body from stress and have had a FREAKIN CRAZY year, and I know that I know that I know that it was the right choice because I feel so relieved when I think about it - but that's so weird because it was an amazing opportunity and I should be so sad to have missed it.

And then I was thinking about how I have been begging God for a pocket of time where I can just live life and not have bizarre circumstances sideswiping me and making me crazy and sick and taking my sleep away and giving me back pain. Just a little season of rest and freedom from stress. And I have felt so GUILTY about wanting this, and not being so busy that my fingers are bleeding stubs.

And I realized that it's okay. To want it and to have it. Rest. Peace. A happy, contented home. I don't have to feel guilty that all I did today was crochet, make my husband dinner and take care of my baby bear. I didn't waste the day or fall behind or make a lazy slug of myself.

I healed.

I rested.

I bonded.

I nested.

I loved.

I created.

And thank God for all of that.

You can beg God for something that He's already made yours.

Part of the responsibility is ours - to accept it, and make space for it.

Marsh-hell-o R.I.P.

Dear Readers,

I write to you tonight a tale of hair curling despair, the bitterness of thwarted lusts, and an disturbing account of expired food stuffs. Please, go get a cup of tea, your slippers and make sure the lights are on. You are going to want comfort and security as you read this. And on through the long night ahead.

Today was a 'git-er-done'n'dirty day. I stole [all of the] money from my daughter's college fund to pay the bills (better uneducated than homeless), re-worked the re-worked budget, called revenue canada to try to get my hands on the $700 they owe me (do suicide rates spike at tax time? Seriously.), contacted my accountant, prayed for a free turkey, and begged on facebook for a sewing machine because the one I am using to try help out with the money making crapped out and will cost just $90 for them to look at it, never mind fix.

Please understand, I am not complaining, I just want you to get a feel for where my mind was at the end of all of that. And my mind was at: GIVE ME SOMETHING SINFULLY FATTENING AND TASTY NOW, DAMMIT!! But it was also at: I AM SO STINKING TIRED I DON'T EVEN HAVE THE ENERGY TO WIPE MY OWN BUM.

And because I am chubby, I do not buy items that satisfy the former particular urge (NO!). But because I am domestic, I am able to make said items (YES!). But because of the latter urge, I did not have the strength to accomplish such an arduous undertaking (NOOOO!). But again, because of the DAMMIT, I had little choice (That's right!). So I settled on making rice crispy squares; a reasonable compromise between two unreasonable urges.

I keep my mini marshmallows in a decorative jar on the kitchen counter, along with my chocolate chips and raisins; I think it adds interest and color to the utilitarian starkness of your average kitchen. Unfortunately, the downside to this particular brand of vanity is that there is no where to write the expiry date on a glass jar. Fortunately, I keep my large marshmallows in their bag in a drawer. Unfortunately, I didn't read their expiry date before I began. Worse still, I needed all the marshmallows in the house to meet my recipe requirement, posted expiry date or no.

The recipe on the back of the cereal box is simplicity itself:

1/4 cup Margarine

250 g Large Marshmallows (about 40)

1/2 tsp Vanilla

6 cups Rice Crispies.

Melt butter and marshmallows on low heat until blended. Remove from heat. Add vanilla. Stir in cereal. Press into greased pan.

How many recipes can you memorize after one read through? Not many. Only REALLY easy ones. So why is an experienced baker such as myself sitting here with peppermint tea, blogging of all things, instead of greasily laying on the couch, sugar urge sated, watching romantic comedy?

Expiry. Date.

For interest sake, as the pan cooled and the garbage can melted, I googled 'expired marshmallows'. A whopping 474,000 entries. A whole world out there wanting to know "Can I use/eat/bake-with them?" And at least the first 10 entries would lead you to believe you can. But that is not true.

I know this because, firstly: If your large marshmallows expired nine months ago, they will melt, but not into marshmallow gooey goodness. No, they will melt into a dusty smelling sort of carmel colored goo. And, secondly because: If your mini marshmallows have expired beyond remembrance, they will NOT MELT AT ALL. Even as the dusty carmel goo boils around them. Stranger still, the butter will not mix with either of these entities.

And you will stare with growing horror as the mass begins to adhere to your best pan. And then to your favorite spatula. So in a blind horror you will pour the whole kit and caboodle (still boiling) into the garbage and pray rubbermaid has some seriously dedicated product testers.

Only then, did I realize that I had used my last 1/4 cup of butter to melt my garbage bin.

So here I sit, with a homicidal sugar jones, an unsweetened cup of herbal tea, cold feet, the smell of dusty carmel and burnt rubber in my hair, and the night ahead of me.

What joy.

Haus Frau-scurity

Today I was white picket fenced-in

I talked about teething, x-rays and immunizations

I bought groceries on special

Washed clothing, floors and chubby hands

Cooked, folded, comforted, swept and organized

I relayed messages, arranged schedules and pondered recipes

And at eight o'clock tonight

I realized my whole day had been lived

spent completely

on the care and feeding of others

which is a really good, Christian thing

and a day well spent

but, truth told?

I feel so a touch lost

lost in the obscurity of the haus frau

Disappointment

This morning, I should be busy

with the business of beautifying

but I am sitting, in my husbands robe

trying to use a cup of hot tea to melt down

the cold cube of disappointment

I carry in the left side of my chest.

There are places I am due at

people to be spoken to

tasks to be finished

and my daughter to be tended to

But those terribly important To-Do's

loose their 'terribly important'

as bitterness knocks on my door

grinning wolvishly as she leans over the bodies of

scarcely-dared-to dream's I dreamed

I am the tiniest vessel on the ocean

unequal to each peak, each valley

I don't want to lie

but the truth is rather disturbing

and I am weary of disappointment