Fire Drill

A raging fire consumes everything in its path.
This fire is relentless. What can protect
against such a blaze?

Call the smoke-eaters.
Don the fireproof gear.
Crawl low, below
the choking fumes.
Do the drill; you know it:

Honesty.

The sinners in Jerusalem shake with fear.
Terror seizes the godless.
“Who can live with this devouring fire?” they cry.
“Who can survive this all-consuming fire?”
Those who are honest and fair,
who refuse to profit by fraud,
who stay far away from bribes,
who refuse to listen to those who plot murder,
who shut their eyes to all enticement to do wrong—

(Isaiah 33:14-16)

Yesterday I Danced

(Because of L.L. Barkat’s Two (Dance) Steps Back and Reflections Dance)

Yesterday I danced a new
beginning kind of dance, hips and hands
exploring, hoping soon to speak.

I danced a language,
hips voicing diphthongs,
feet forming first words,
knees prying open syllables.

When lips and tongue and vocal cords
lay mute and could not translate,
I danced.

Yesterday I danced a kind
of mother tongue, but then
what language must I learn
when limbs no longer speak?

Post-Mount-Carmel Nosedive

(Revised Feb. 9, 2011. Original is here.)

(For Jean, “surfing instructor” and friend)

Though mountaintop is solid earth,
it is to me like the sea
where ocean vastness begins
to meet the up-slope to the sand,
the birthing place of waves
ramping up unreined, like me.

But a wave always, always breaks
and after the crest must come
the trough; the wave is so defined.
The pattern repeats, so I am not taken
by surprise when trailing on mountaintop’s heels
comes Post-Mount-Carmel Nosedive,
by now so familiar I recognize
and expect its coming.

So I learn to surf, to ride the wave.
Instructor teaches when to plant feet
soon enough and stand steady–
balanced and controlled stance
on incoming wave.

The wave must break, but I
do not. I ride in to rest
(until the next
crest).

Food Love

The realization came while preparing a Thai curry chicken dish: I love my knives. I hold my knives in such high regard that I name them. Because it came from Japan, my cleaver is “Aiko.” From taking college Japanese (sixteen years ago), I have a vague feeling that “ai” means love, and “ko” is a diminutive suffix for a female. Hence, “Aiko” (I think) is an endearing term meaning something like “little love.” Oh, yes. I love my knives.

Back to the Thai dinner. I bash the skin off garlic, clove after clove, the way my older sisters taught me when I was a girl. The heel of my hand comes down on the flat side of my Henckels 8″ chef’s knife (yet unnamed; I never learned German) which in turn rests over a garlic clove. If the hand motion is swift and the garlic with its convex side up, like a rainbow, the skin will come off easily with minimal bruising to the “meat.” I remove the cores, for (I once read in a breastfeeding how-to book) the core—the part that sprouts when garlic gets old—is what causes digestive problems. I quadruple the cookbook’s prescribed amount.

Though the recipe doesn’t call for water chestnuts, I add them. (All my boys love water chestnuts.) For dessert: oatmeal raisin cookies—extra raisins, for my husband who calls them “the heavenly fruit” and nearly panics when we run out.

Cooking, baking, peeling, chopping, stir-frying—these are my acts of love. New family at church? Let’s have them over! Neighbor feels stressed? I’ll bring her cinnamon-banana bread! Friends are having trouble? Give them something to eat!

I love my knives because they help me to love. I love people with food.

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As usual, I was lying belly-down on the living room carpet. The double-spaced, wide-margin manuscript pages of Genesis 45 were before me, and the words grabbed my attention:

So they went up out of Egypt and came to the land of Canaan to their father Jacob. And they told him, “Joseph is still alive, and he is ruler over all the land of Egypt.”

And his heart became numb, for he did not believe them. (Genesis 45:25-26)

Of course not. Why should Jacob believe them? Joseph is dead to him—has been dead all this time.

But when they told him all the words of Joseph, which he had said to them, and when he saw the wagons that Joseph had sent to carry him, the spirit of their father Jacob revived. And Israel said, “It is enough; Joseph my son is still alive. I will go and see him before I die.” (Genesis 45:27-28)

This time, he believed them! What made the difference? What brought Jacob from numb-hearted disbelief, to believing—knowing—that Joseph was indeed alive and ruler of Egypt?

But when they told him all the words of Joseph… It was the details of the story, the very words and phrases Joseph spoke. And, what else? When he saw the wagons… What was in the wagons? Joseph commanded their filling. What did they contain?

Joseph gave them wagons, according to the command of Pharaoh, and gave them provisions for the journey . . . To his father he sent as follows: ten donkeys loaded with the good things of Egypt, and ten female donkeys loaded with grain, bread, and provision for his father on the journey… (Genesis 45:21,23)

The food! Joseph loved his father with food, and the generously filled wagons caused Jacob to believe, My son lives! I have always said I love people with food, and I can say that Joseph did, too.

If I take off my chef’s hat and apron and move myself from the kitchen to the table, the love is there just as strong. Not only do I love people with food, I also feel loved when people feed me. Food must be one of my “love languages.”

God uses scenes and scenarios from people’s daily lives to reveal His character. Parables help me know Him better. As I write these words I realize that, because I love to cook and feed others, He uses this part of me as a parable. I know what it feels like to love others from the kitchen, and I consider God’s love. Does He love me?

I have never before referred to God as a Master Chef, but it’s true. He feeds me with the best delicacies and richest, most nourishing fare. This is God’s culinary masterpiece: His Word.

How sweet are your words to my taste,
sweeter than honey to my mouth!

(Psalm 119:103)

He prepared His Word, a full menu exactly as it should be, and He prepared it for me because He loves me. On this I will feed, and it is a feast!

(Linking with both The High Calling book club and Bonnie Gray this week.)

Silver, Gold, and . . . Paper

According to a list that designates a particular material for each year of marriage, my 25th anniversary will be Silver and my 50th, Gold. Whether medieval Germanic peoples, Victorian-era monarch admirers, Chicago librarians, members of the American National Retail Jeweler Association, or some time- and culture-melding combination of the above, whoever compiled the list of traditional wedding anniversary gifts had a businessman’s shrewdness and a good head for marketing. Gem dealers and jewelers secured the most spots (Turquoise at 18th, Aquamarine at 19th, Ruby at 40th, etc.). Paper mill owners made out pretty well with Paper taking the #1 spot, since the 1st anniversary is the most frequently celebrated.

Apparently, my last anniversary (16th) was Tourmaline, which I had to look up. (It’s a “mineral of variable color that consists of a complex silicate and makes a striking gem when transparent and cut.” If you’re into atoms and molecules, tourmaline is (Na,Ca)(Li,Mg,Fe,Al)(Al,Fe)₆B₃Si₆O₂₇(O,Oh,F)— “complex” silicate, indeed.)

My husband and I certainly will not celebrate our next anniversary with a party, lest all the guests abide by this list and bestow upon us gifts of Furniture (17th). Charles and I, being minimalist “non-consumers” (as recent dinner guests put it—but we’re more tickled by our friend David’s tag: “tightwads for God”), would count Furniture gifts more a burden than a blessing.

The 17th anniversary tradition is not the only one we’ll break. For us, Leather was the “negative 1st” anniversary (instead of the traditional 3rd). As a sort of engagement gift, Charles (two-time Montrose County Fair Grand Champion in leathercraft) gave me a knock-me-down-gorgeous leather Bible cover approximately one year before our wedding day. He made that Bible cover in 76 hours within two weeks (impressive for a college student on summer vacation).

I might have wanted an 11th anniversary party, though. The 11th is Steel, and time would prove that a few extra stainless steel pots would have come in handy. (Have you ever tried to steam green beans . . . without first putting water in the pot? Professor Brainard of “The Absent-Minded Professor” wasn’t the only absent-minded one.) May those 4-quart Farberwares rest in peace.

Depending on your marital longevity, you can receive gifts of Wood (5th), Ivory (14th, but we strongly discourage poaching), Lace (13th, but what would the husband get?), or Oak (80th). Like the Steel anniversary, the Oak appeals to me. I would love some oak bookcases, less striking in color but stronger in build than the teak shelves in our living room. But on our 80th anniversary we’ll be 101-going-on-102 and may have some trouble moving heavy furniture.

Those with a more practical bent (what would we do with all that Pearl on our 30th?) might prefer the “modern” list over the “traditional.” For example, the modern alternative for Paper (1st) is Clocks (to symbolize timeless, eternal love, which some may find more gag-inducing than inspirational). The husband-wife writer or artist duo would especially look forward to their 7th anniversary (Desk Sets/Pen & Pencil Sets).

If I created this gift list, every year would be Paper. As a girl, I used every bit of paper available for doodling and lettering. My mother liked to enter those 1980s mail-in sweepstakes; every 3″-by-5″ index card you turned in with your name and address hand-printed in block letters counted as one entry (no maximum). Mom, knowing I loved to put pen on paper, “let me” write her sweepstakes entry cards. My brother’s first gift to me was a blank journal (“For doodling,” he specified). I taught myself calligraphy. I gorge on origami projects, especially Nick Robinson’s. Browsing the paper selection at Meininger Art Supply had me literally salivating as if I were perusing Marigold Cafe‘s menu instead. I secretly wrote poems (which, minus the “secretly” part, I still do) and piled those sheets in a closet shoebox. I once wrote a poem about paper, but I can’t imagine myself being inspired to write on, say, sapphires or diamonds.

Yet to say that every anniversary should be Paper is not the same as saying that every year of marriage should be like the first. Our honeymoon didn’t last forever, nor would I want it to. I was a giddy newlywed who floated through the romantic heights of our first year or so, but to have every year like that is like leaving the apple seedling in a little pot. Where would be the upward growth or the depth of anchoring roots? We would be stuck in the shallows of superficial relationship. Only by walking through the heat of refining marriage-fires could we come out stronger. No wonder the 80th is Oak.

And yet, from the trees we make . . . paper.

Jip and Me

(A poem for David Wheelers prompt at The High Calling: “For this week’s Random Acts of Poetry, write a poem to, or in honor of, an orphan, someone you know who has adopted one, or your own adopter.”)

Some orphans know their own
date of birth or mother’s name
or that she drank too much or was loved
too little. But Jip, he had no idea even
what was his own name, first or last neither,
both being told him as a piece
of the tale of the day he said his life
began; they called him “Jip West” on account of
he was a baby fallen off a gypsy (get it?) wagon
on the West Hill Road (that’s how the story got told).

But you’d have to read the rest to get
why it really was a good thing Jip ended
up a Vermont poor-farm orphan, best friends
with a lunatic, and when his mother abandoned
her baby at the curve of a dirt road,
it was her great and selfless gift.

And I wonder now, having been with Jip
so many times I lost count, I wonder how
it could even be that though I’m no orphan,
never knew Jip’s kind of life and terrors—
how could it be that if you’ve read about Jip
you’ve read about me?

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(With much gratitude to Katherine Paterson who wrote Jip: His Story. Thank you, Mrs. Paterson.)