So we have now been in Honduras for two weeks. Two weeks of learning to slow. Two weeks of every meal at this same
table. Two weeks of no “let’s just
go out for dinner” option, and once-a-week trips to the grocery store.
You see, The La Rancho Ebenezer is over an hour away from
the city. And it is not just any
hour drive. A large portion of it
is a steep climb over gravel roads that are unlike anything I have ever
traveled upon. It is the kind of
bumpy ride that makes you very wary of sitting next to the window in the van,
because if you are not compensating for the potholes and unexpected swerves,
your head will smack the glass. I
know this from experience. I feel
like a bobble head all the way down the insanely washed out road. My kids throw up their hands like they
are on a roller coaster and cry “weeeee – weeeee – weeeee” all the way
home. And last week, Ellie threw
up at the bottom. She was just all
shook up. Mmmm –mmm – mmm – mmm –
mmm - yeah – eh – eh.
And here’s the really tricky thing for me. We only go to town once a week. Oh, yeah. I did not realize the implications of this on every day living. Simple questions like “Can we have
milk?” results in me whipping open the fridge door and suspiciously eyeing the
level of the opaque white gallon container, mentally counting the days until
the next wagon ride down the Hon-D’Oregon trail, and trying to figure out if we
are going to make it, as if our very survival depends on milk. But let’s just say there have been multiple meals in which I stand over the pot stirring or over the
dough kneading and praying God will stretch it to feed our expanded family of 8
(or more, as we have welcomed many to our table), because the pantry is nearly
empty and I am running out of tricks up my sleeve to MacGyver into meals.
Add to this the very exciting element of undependable power
lines and the now very familiar black outs of varying lengths. Oh yeah, baby. I miss OG&E (Oklahoma Gas and
Electric) and the beauty of a well-constructed infrastructure. Those guys are like my new super heroes
and next time they drive up in their loud beeping yellow light blinking bucket
truck to the breaker outside my house I will go inside immediately and bake them
cookies with real butter and the
expensive chocolate chips, providing they can fix the juice so my oven will
bake. See, at home, when the power
occasionally goes out due to a fallen limb, electric storm, or the occasional
insane four-day ice storm or freezing rain that encapsulates everything in
sparkly death, those guys don hard hats and arm themselves with chain
saws. They work around the clock
to set things right in the grid and bring the Force back into balance. I think I will now carry a secret flame
in my heart for those scrappy pole climbers. They deserve a parade.
Here, electricity is a privilege, not a right. Even writing that out shames me, as I
consider the way I know most of the
world lives. But how many times
have I felt more than a bit miffed that I can’t download very important things
fast enough, like the latest Autotune of the news from YouTube (I love those
guys!!), or that my show gets interrupted because there is a tornado in the
next county and the weather man just has to give us an excruciating blow by blow (it’s an Oklahoma thing), or
heaven forbid – the picture is fuzzy?
The time we are spending up on this jungle-y mild weathered
mountain is killing something ugly in me.
It is not just the power outages that are chipping away at some deeply
entrenched pride and self-sufficiency, but also things like, oh - the resulting
loss of the some of the precious food reserves I already am worried will not
last us the whole week, the feeling like we will not have enough, and the
blasted inconvenience of the power fizzling out one hour before I have to feed
eight very hungry people when I am tired and only want to get through dinner so
I can plop all the grouchy folks, including me, in front of a feature film and
zone out from my caged misery for at least two good hours, then tuck everyone
in bed before my hair self-ignites and I outwardly morph into the angry freak
of nature I have brewing inside.
Among other things.
But yes, Friday evening rolled around and I found myself
staring into a nearly empty fridge and counting the meals to make and mouths to
feed until the after-church Sunday shopping trip. My options were quite limited. As I struggled with a nagging fear of starving to death (As
if! I could live off the reserves in my thighs for a good four weeks), I
struggled with the greater sin of ingratitude. Of looking into my pantry and my life at the moment and
accusing my precious Father that this, whatever it was before me, was not good
enough.
Last year my precious mentor, Diane, and I read the book,
“One Thousand Gifts” by Ann Voskamp.
If one reads it with a heart open and a desire to embrace the heady
truths it poetically weaves, it is a game changer indeed. But Friday, I found myself in front of
the open cabinets, rummaging through my sub-par stores and grumbling in my
heart. All I wanted to do was pick
up my sweet little iPhone, punch the single magic button that offers a world of
ease and information at just one little touch and sweetly command it through
gritted teeth, “Call Pizza Shuttle” and pick up a hot dinner in less than 20
minutes. But this was not an
option, not in the least. So, I
was forced to deal with my ugly heart.
I stood there and pulled down flour, yeast, and oil. My only option. Bread. Yes, we can live on bread. A stale plan formed in my mind: some sort of fusion focaccia
trio (not at all able to be mistaken for pizza for there was very little
cheese) one with leftover chicken bits and lots of spices to cover over its
barrenness, one sprinkled with a handful of slightly slimy lunch meat and the
remaining cheddar scraps, and one with cinnamon, butter and brown sugar to try
and end well to redeem the poverty of my offering. Done.
But my heart was still angry. Still accusing. Still not still. I kneaded that triple batch of dough
with gritted teeth, wondering if we would have enough, and feeling more than a
little trapped on The La Ranch.
The sounds of a wild game of futball wafted into my kitchen from the
campo just above our Casa Shalom.
But my heart would not reach for the joy the moment held.
Halfway through my very aggressive dough making, the Spirit
(Friend, Helper, Teacher) whispered to my heart, “Kristin, what is in your
hands?” I looked down, my scarred
hands covered in white flour, submerged in warm, soft, heavy dough, and plenty
of it. Daily bread. Manna. Just enough for today, but more than enough really. My bowl was full of it, my hands
immersed in it, up to my elbows in it.
My heart softened and turned to the Bread of Life. And I picked up again the training of
my heart towards eucharisteo, taking whatever is given and giving thanks for
it, no matter what. For you see God is always
good and I am always loved. Always.
The bread transformed into a mound of promise, a bowl full
of joy. Warm, fragrant and delightful,
it held the nutrients and everything my expanded table of 8 needed for
today. I held what was given to
me, the option I had, and I gave thanks.
I thought of the widow in the bible whom Elijah was sent to, who
originally had only a little flour and oil, just enough to make one last meal
to feed she and her son, and then slowly starve, and suddenly my meager meal
turned into a feast of provision.
If given to the Lord, it would be enough, just enough each day to
sustain us. It wasn’t about bread
anyways, it was about gratitude and trust, both of which I had less of than
pantry stores. I patted our dinner
now with gentle gratitude, covered it with a clean towel in an oiled bowl, and
set it on the oven to rise. And
right as I was reaching out to preheat the oven to aide the rising of our
dinner and the moment’s redemption of my deflated heart, the power zipped off.
Oh yeah.
Bleep. Nothing. Zip. Nada.
Crickets, baby.
My left eyebrow shot up, and my lips puckered. Ah-ha. I turned inward and I swear the Helper had a little holy
smirk upon his ethereal visage.
“Very funny, God. I
appreciate the humor of your timing, but seriously now, bring it back on. I gotta bake this holy manna you have
given.” And his very smarty pants
response? “Ah, Kristin, but man
does not live by bread alone…”
Very funny, oh Master of all the Universe. Very funny.
I waited, no dice.
I went out onto the campo to watch the late afternoon futball
frolicking. I just knew that the
power would zip on right when I really
needed it. God was just having a
little fun with me. He’s funny
like that, you know.
But an hour later, when I really needed it to heat my oven, the electricity remained
off. The clock was ticking, the
seven pairs of shoes were 30 minutes away from being kicked off outside and the
little people they carried inside would be hovering in my personal space in the
not-so-big kitchen asking the inevitable “What’s for dinner?” line every
mother loooooooves to hear when
the plan is not working out as, well, planned.
I needed some serious help. I assessed the situation and went to the front closet to
rummage through my options. I
needed a stovetop idea, for we have a gas range. I came up with one dusty can of diced tomatoes, one tube of
tomato paste, and two sleeves of pasta – one spaghetti and one linguini. Voila! It’s I-talian night, people. I found an emergency loaf of white bread in the deep freeze
and toasted it on the tortilla flat iron as the pasta boiled and I tried to
conjure red sauce out of my random tomato products.
As evening fell the darkness encroached quickly with no
lights to be flicked on at the touch of a finger. Everyone came in hungry and tired, washed hands and sat down
to my thrown together meager offering.
The first option I originally begrudgingly formed out of flour and oil
now lovely and moundy and risen looked like the Promised Land, all flowing with
milk and honey. My watery red
sauce and sticky pasta seemed a pitiful plan B, indeed.
Kensi, one of the 10-year-old girls we are caring for,
rummaged under the kitchen sink (I always pray against roaches when I open
those mysterious doors beneath the sink) and produced a random assortment of
candles. We lit the motley crew of
wax with wicks and the table transformed into a child’s delight. Kate, my eldest, nearly began to quiver
with elfin glee, “ooooooooh mom, plain pasta with salt – my favorite! And by candle light…! I hope the power goes out every
night!” And the frustration of the
situation crystallized into unexpected beauty. We bowed our heads to pray and I truly gave thanks for all
of it; the near empty fridge, remaining bag of flour, risen dough punched down
and stuck in the slowly thawing freezer, the pan of weepy red sauce, white
toast, and sticky spaghe-uini.
When seen through the eyes of a child, this dinner was not some
mishappened afterthought – it was a candlelit feast to be treasured and
remembered!
I settled into my chair, my heart quiet and my bowl
full. This was enough. In fact, this was good, very good, for it came from the hands and heart of a very
humorous, unimaginably loving God who is dying to show me that to truly die to
self is to live the fullest life in him.
The richest life. The
not-as-you-planned-or-expected-it-to-be-but-not-in-the-least-disappointing
life. The moment by moment
indwelling of the Teacher who will show me the most excellent way, if I stop to
ask and always hold up whatever I find in my hands as an offering of
thanksgiving and pass it around to share.
And last Friday night, we supped by candlelight atop a mountain
somewhere in Central America on a coffee-roasting, blackberry-growing,
child-rearing ranch and found our hearts crying out, “Best! Dinner! Ever!” Can we
do this again, Papa?
And I would have missed it all if Pizza Shuttle had been
within the realm of possibility.
PS - It took me nearly half an hour to get this thing posted with these two pictures.
