Kachi's recipe for bacon

 Yesterday morning, Kachi asked if I would take him for a walk. "Just the two of us, mama?" he asked, and I had 20 minutes while the bacon cooked so I said yes.

We had friends over last month, and the bacon took a really long time to cook - longer than I expected. So I've been experimenting with different bacon, different pans, and different times. (It's a rough job, but someone's got to do it.) I popped thick-sliced bacon on a parchment-lined, cheap cookie sheet and set the timer for 20 minutes, setting the oven at 400*F.  With a glass pan, I need closer to 30 minutes. With thin-sliced bacon, 15. But I thought this should be perfect.

We stepped out into the surprisingly bright, very warm morning. Baking hot sunshine poured over everything. "Can you hear that osprey?" Kachi asked. (Ospreys - or is it osprey? - have a surprisingly cheerful, un-predator-like song. It's pretty and full of delight.) We could hear one, and Kachi spotted it perched high in a dead tree at the water's edge.

We'd seen them all week long, while we were in the park for French camp, the parents teaching the babies how to fly. They soared and swooped and sang to each other. 

Flying lessons complete, the adult was teaching the young one how to fish. It would chirp madly, then swoop, then dive - then retreat to the other side of the river, waiting for the smaller one to do the same. We watched the scene for far too long before remembering the bacon and hurrying home, alight with wonder.

We could smell the bacon and hear the timer beeping from the driveway.

I opened the oven door in trepidation, worried we had ruined breakfast - but the bacon was perfect. I scrambled some eggs while Pascal ran outside to catch a glimpse of the birds fishing.

It was delicious.

(I give Kachi's recipe 5/5 stars, definitely recommend.)

here is love, vast as the ocean

I miss my ocean.

I miss the salt tang in the air.

I miss the way the enormous crash and shhh of the surf pounds pettiness to dust and settles my heart.

I come to the shore with a heart full of tossing and the vastness steadies me, thrills me.

Sometimes we get a huge storm here that gives me a similar feeling: a little perspective adjustment and awe. But still, I miss my ocean.

It's no secret that the past few years have been hard. Difficulties have crashed down, wave after wave, and my body keeps the score. The hair at my temples has turned white, age spots and wrinkles are etched into my face. I've been grinding my teeth at night and breaking old fillings. Struggles have pressed themselves indelibly into my body, and I feel like I've aged ten years in the past three.

So last week when a teenager at camp showed me the prison tat she had given herself, and offered to give me my first tattoo, I said yes. 

I know it's all kinds of crazy, but -

Sorrow has left its mark: I want to leave a mark of joy and reminder of goodness too.

So she inked a line of waves across my shoulder: my own little ocean. Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it. 

I have been held and buoyed up.

I have been hard pressed but not overcome.

My heart is at the feet of the One who walks on water.

And now, my body keeps that score too.

❤️xo

The foxhound out on a summer night

 Today I tumbled straight from one job into the next, with only the briefest of pauses for a quick scrambled-egg supper. I stayed typing in my chair while Patrick put each of the kids to bed, filling his evening with pyjamas and cozes and bedtime stories while I listened to councilors debate. So when Eevee stretched out her long paws and put them on the door with a wheedly little whine I said yes, and put my work on hold.

We stepped outside into that backwards time of night that feels dark when you're inside, but light when you're outside. The sky still held a bit of light and it was not too dark, yet, to follow my dog down a woodsy path. Fireflies twinkled madly, and I laughed to myself as I remembered the first time Pascal saw them alight in a field. (He watched the lights appear and disappear, glowing here and glowing there. He clung to my neck for a while, and then asked, in a voice absolutely shattered with shock, how they could teleport.)

Eevee's nose was keeping her busy, whooshing into bushes and snapping into pointer pose, and bats swooped and flapped overhead. Out in the river, a beaver's head appeared and then slipped back down underwater. A frog leaped, plooping into the water. Squirrels chased each other through the trees, and, according to Eevee's constant alerts, bunnies were lurking in almost every shadow.

The world aches and horrifies me far too often.
The news is harsh and people are harsher.

But every now and then, taking a walk can feel like velvet. The evening air tastes sweet, and something flits and flashes through the trees. And every twist of the path is magic.

xo.

First Fireworks After Covid

The eastern sky was a periwinkle blue, then purple, then navy.

In the west, streaks of pink and yellow and faded to grey.

The park air was heavy with the scent of bug spray, but bright with the sound of laughter and shouts of hello. Friends offered welcome, sharing blankets and Off and snacks. Osprey peered nervously down from their perch.

 In small-town style, kids ran and found each other, gleefully hugging friends they hadn't seen in a scant week since school closed for the summer. They played on swings and monkey bars, squealing and shrieking and loving the strange magic of being out late, and being out late with everyone.

It felt like the entire town was there, hunkered down on blankets, relaxed into camp chairs, perched on picnic tables. 

Somebody lit whizz-bangs in the tennis court, an appetizer of delight that set off little waves of glee. "Was that the fireworks?" a high little voice asked, and a chuckle rippled kindly in its wake.

And then the first firework shot into the sky, fizzling and sssh-ing and exploding with a blam.

All eyes were transfixed, as the whole town stared at the lights shimmering and booming and blooming in the sky.

I think the firework technician had the best view. Lights playing and dancing across a thousand uplifted faces; the crowd plunging into darkness and then suddenly alight with awe and joy.

The fireworks were beautiful.

But a park full of people sparkling with wonder? Glory.

breath after breath

My daughter is scared, and so

I am sitting with her as she falls asleep.

I'm hunkered down in a large cardboard box,

Full of stuffies, next to the only accessible plug

With my dying phone.

Her breath is slowing, growing more even; 

Rough still, from a cold this week,

From the coughing reminder that

Every breath is a gift

From the giver of air, and lungs.

Nephesh: the soul, the throat;

The air breathed in and life given.

I place her soul into Your care for the night

For all her nights, for dawns and days 

Breath after breath after breath after breath.

Cover Me in Sunshine

Vava's been listening to Pink's Cover Me in Sunshine a lot lately, and my favourite lyrics go 

"tell me that the world's been spinning

since the beginning

and everything will be alright.

Cover me in sunshine."

This is like the refrain of my heart. 

I am not very good at persistent joy. You know when Peter got out of the boat and walked on the water to Jesus and then realized his surroundings and gasped and sank? Samesies. 

Jesus was right there. Peter had already been walking ON WATER, and not like years ago in faded memory but right now. He was actively in the middle of a miracle.

But the wonder and proof of it wasn't enough to buoy him up in the face of the storm. 

I sit in my home and hear my kids laugh and see the wonder of this life that I asked God for - through many dangers toils and snares I have already come, yes - but then I read the news and I hear rumbles of a recession rolling in and I tremble. He has held me and blessed me through dangers, toils, and snares - but still my foot steps down through the water like it must, it must - look at it, it's water - if the water does not hold me up, will grace still lead me home? 

And my answer must be the same as Peter's, the same as Pink's -

tell me that the world's been spinning since the beginning and everything will be alright - save me, Lord -

I need to know He's got it all in His hands. 

The world. My world. Me. 

Cover me in sunshine.

Glory and Flowers and Joyness

Thank you, God, for glory and flowers and joyness - Pascal, praying before bed. 

Usually he says nothing when I ask if anyone wants to talk to God together. 

That's okay too. But it made me pay attention when he did decide to speak, the little rock.

 I saw God's glory all over the place this week, but didn't stop to think about it until he spoke.

Vava, challenging herself to do a one-handed cartwheel. 

Sam, respectfully voicing his disagreement with someone in power. 

Kachi, so excited about his friend's birthday party he can barely sleep. 

Pascal, so intent on reading a book he didn't notice me calling. 

Eevee, running free with other dogs at the off-leash park. 

A friend's new baby. 

A friend's new business. 

Yeah. Thank you, God, for glory and flowers and joyness.

She, too

Sometimes, sunshine comes tumbling out of the phone

An invitation, a proposal

Of friendship.

Sometimes, love wraps its arms around you

Across miles and borders

From a kindred spirit.

She, too, knows the presence that tugs

And flows like a river

And sings in solitude.

She, too, knows.

 

--

Happy birthday, my friend.

I thank God for you.

for Patrick, Happy Anniversary my love!

An Ode to Your Body

I love your body

Because of those delicious broad shoulders

And my favourite dents

And those long arms that wrap me so close.

The way you laugh, so kindly, when I talk too much

I love the way your eyes seem full of light

And the way they close so quickly into sleep.

But mostly what I love

Is the fact that your body

Keeps going and going

In love for me, for these kids.

To work, of course, and back again

Over and over no matter what you feel like,

To the store, the playground, the beach,

And out of bed and down the stairs when I've forgotten my puffer.

I love those hands that give so generously,

Those legs that welcome my icy toes,

The crinkle lines that capture your laughter 

The grey hair that is just starting to show up, to keep mine company.

The muscles that lift and carry

Boxes of parts and miles of hose

The heart that bears the burden of management

The hands that type succinct, efficient emails

The arms that clear snow and ice off windshields in the dark all winter long.

I love your hands that make our coffee and pick up pizza and pick up a million pairs of abandoned socks off the floor.

I have witnessed your body 

Carrying your laughter and quiet words and kindness

In and out of days for sixteen years

And I love it.

Conversations before bed

 

I just feel like I was made for something amazing

She told me

Eyes a little defensive, cagey.

(It's hard to bare the soul.)

You were, I told her.

I just want to see God

He told me

Eyes, tired, crinkled closed.

(It's hard to bear the soul.)

You will, I told him.

I just want to see you and do something amazing,

I sighed

Sinking into bed.

(It's hard to bear, to bare the soul.)

You have, he told me, you do.

He is not here

The angel spoke to the women: “There is nothing to fear here. I know you’re looking for Jesus, the One they nailed to the cross. He is not here. He was raised, just as he said. Come and look at the place where he was placed.

Matthew 28:5‭-‬6 MSG

Ohhh, doesn't this verse just groan with glory? 

My heart is flooded with the weight of it.

I am sure everyone is tired of hearing me talk about what a weight, what a struggle the past 2 years have been. No kitchen, no kitchen, blah blah blah. Depression, bullying, blah blah blah. Covid, covid, blah blah blah. 

But, tired or not, the truth is: My heart has never been so low, so alone. 

Does God care? Are his ears stopped to my cry? Where is he? I have nothing left.

These words of comfort to grieving women are so gentle, so affirming, radiating hope.

There is nothing to fear here. I know you're looking for Jesus, the One they nailed to be the cross. He is not here.

He is not held by death, and certainly not by this tomb. 

He is not bound by my kitchen, not driven away by my bullying, not silenced by my depression, or rendered powerless by isolation or lockdown. He is not here.

He is raised, just as he said.

He is raised, just as he said.

He is raised, just as he said.

Come and look at the place where he was placed.

The tomb that this year has been? It does not hold him. The tomb of buried hopes and buried hope? It does not hold him. Death and quiet despair? He is not here. Look.

He is not here.

He is not here.

He is raised, just as he said.

Happy Easter, my friends.

xo.

A little dirt couldn't hurt

Sometimes we need a little fun

And sun

And the dog has to run.

Sometimes we take a day off

And scoff

At the clang of the clock.

Sometimes we skip out and shirk

Our work

Cuz a little dirt never hurt.