“Enter through the narrow gate,” Jesus told his disciples. I’ve been thinking about this narrow gate for a long time, bewildered that God would make a small entrance into his kingdom on purpose to keep people out. Jesus says the only way to the Father is through the Son, that the Son is the Way, the Truth, and the Life, and so the way is very narrow, the gate only Jesus.
The verses that wrap around this short passage of Scripture instruct the followers of Jesus not to judge others, to knock and the door will be opened, to judge a tree by its fruit, to watch out for hollow disciples who say “Lord, Lord,” but don’t practice what they preach, to build on a solid foundation and not a foundation of sand. They come on the heels of the beatitudes and conclude the Sermon on the Mount (Matthew 5-7).
I’ve been reading the narrow gate verses as morality warnings: do the right things, and you can enter; do the wrong things, and you’ll be left out. But what “things” are we actually talking about here? What message has Jesus preached all throughout the gospels? Does he lead with the law, or with love?
Which brings me to this question: Why is there a gate in the first place?
There needs to be a gate because humans love to build walls. We build walls and fences to keep the unwanted out. Every brick and block is a “thou shalt not” we stack—thou shalt not be this color, this gender, this sex, this poor, this hungry, this smart, this nationality, this sinful, this class, this disabled, this political party. Brick by brick, we define who is allowed in and who must stay out. The walls grow ever higher. We perch on top, legs dangling, and scoff at those who can’t scale the fence to enter.
The Pharisees spent the entire gospel story trying to catch Jesus. Their laws hung on the walls, plain as day, but somehow Jesus kept evading them. “The law says… what do you say?” they asked. They wanted to trap him and say, “Ah, see? You’re breaking the law.” But Jesus knew a different way, a way past the walls. A way beyond the fences.
Jesus installed a gate through all of our “thou shalt nots.” It’s narrow, because there is just one great thing that is required to pass through all of that judgment: Love. The way is narrow. It’s one God wide.
The narrow gate opens to a broad field of freedom, rolling hills of mercy, forests of grace. On the other side of the gate is unconditional love, love that is wide and long and high and deep (Ephesians 3:17-19). Forget those walls: There is absolutely nothing that can separate us from the love that is in Christ Jesus our Lord (Romans 8:35-39).
That’s the paradox of the narrow gate. “Enter through the narrow gate,” Jesus instructed his followers. “For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it” (Matthew 7:13). What gates and roads does the world recommend we take for success? Power and corruption trample over innocents and deprive the weak of food, shelter, and freedom to stock the wealthy’s storehouses with more money than they know what to do with. The paths of the world preach fear and hate. They spin conspiracies and poison water. They perpetuate lies and evade justice. They use the lives of others to advance their own agendas. They tell anyone who will listen, “Be afraid,” “Watch out,” “Be outraged.” The paths of power are broad and the gates of hate are wide.
“But small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life,” Jesus declares, “and only a few find it” (Matthew 7:14). Jesus tells his disciples that he is the way, the truth, and the life (John 14:6). He tells his followers they will have trouble in this world, but they should take heart: Jesus has overcome the world and its walls (John 16:33). He says through him there is an abundant life (John 10:9-10). He says in him there is freedom (Luke 4:18). He calls the poor in spirit, the mourners, the meek, the ones who hunger and thirst for righteousness, the merciful, the pure at heart, the peacemakers, and those who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness blessed. Actively blessed. Loved by God. Inheritors of the kingdom of heaven (Matthew 5).
The narrow gate isn’t barred by a list of rules and laws you have to answer correctly before entering—that’s the walls on either side. The narrow gate is open to those who ask, seek, and knock. It is through this narrow gate that we discover the most expansive, inclusive path of love.
The narrow gate is narrow because it is hard to knock down the walls we’ve constructed, walls thick with prejudices and discriminations, hatred and fears. It is hard to chisel loose the junk that’s cemented there and dump it at the foot of the cross. But there’s a narrow gate of love that welcomes us in, calls us to set the dynamite against our walls and detonate. The narrow gate of love asks us to surrender our guarded opinions over to the Lord so that he can make that whitewashed wall bright with the graffiti of mercy, redemption, and love.
This week, my daughter, Lydia, broke one of her arms for the fourth time in six years. There’s never a great time to break a bone, but in my opinion, the start of the summer is the worst time. As I scurried down to church camp to pick her up the day after dropping her off, I ran through the list of every single thing that will have to be canceled or amended because of her broken wrist: golf, vacation, amusement parks, swimming, golf, bike riding, skateboarding, golf. Also, golf.
We checked in at the urgent care, got x-rays, and headed home to wait for our appointment with the orthopedic surgeon. Two days later, I gave one final quick shout-out to Jesus, “Lord, please don’t let Lydia need surgery,” as we walked toward the front door of the orthopedic surgeon’s office. Neither of us were particularly hopeful—she had to have surgery on this same wrist a couple of years back.
For as often as we’ve been to this office, we might as well be on a first-name basis with the doc. He reviewed her x-rays and then came in to move her wrist around in ways that Lydia found slightly uncomfortable (okay, she flinched, but she has a high pain tolerance).
He finished his assessment and then said, “I don’t think it’s broken.”
“Really?” I was shocked.
“The radiologist thought it was broken, and I can see why in the x-ray, but when we compare it to the last x-ray of the last break,” he flipped between x-ray screens, “I don’t see anything different. We can either splint it for two weeks and get you back for another x-ray then to make sure, or we can do a CT scan for confirmation. One of these things will cost you or someone else $500.”
“We’ll take the option that doesn’t cost $500,” Lydia said.
So, Lydia’s wrist is not broken. After the appointment, I drove her back to camp so she could be with her pals the rest of the week. And that appears to be the end of that!
I believe in the power of prayer. When our son, Elvis, was born, the nurses and doctors were sure he had respiratory distress syndrome and pulmonary hypertension (a baby heart attack), but the next day, they found no sign of the hypertension. Must’ve been a misdiagnosis. Or maybe it was God?
I’ve prayed for healing for family and friends with cancer, people in serious accidents, my own health. To my knowledge, no one I’ve prayed for has experienced a miraculous healing. Does that mean God does not heal?
I believe in the power of prayer to heal, but I think healing according to God often looks different, bigger, and more complex than what we want. We want physical healing. We want the pain and suffering we are in to be taken away. We want the nature of our circumstances to change. That’s what we’re asking for from God, that’s what we plead: just make my life a little bit easier, would you, O Great Lord of the Universe?
Even Jesus prayed for his own suffering to be taken from him.
As much as we wish it, God is not in the wave a magic wand, genie in the lamp business. When I prayed for Lydia’s wrist, I didn’t expect physical healing. I really don’t believe that God miraculously healed Lydia’s wrist—it probably was a misread by a radiologist unfamiliar with her history of broken wrists. With that knowledge, I could have been irritated that the radiologist made a mistake reading the x-ray and as a result, Lydia was stuck moping at home, discouraged about her ruined summer and ruined week at camp. I could have been frustrated that she had to miss camp. All of this inconvenience and disruption for nothing.
Prayer doesn’t often change our circumstances, but prayer does change our perspective. In that way, God healed Lydia and me on Wednesday; he restored hope and brought peace and joy. Jesus faced his own suffering with incredible empathy and compassion, wholehearted love and grace for the entire world, even those who were hurting him. That is miraculous. That is healing.
The last few weeks, I’ve found myself overcome by grief in the most random of moments: washing the dishes, talking on the phone, walking the dog. Everything will seem fine. And then I begin to weep. One of my family members and another of my friends are quite possibly nearing the end of their lives because cancer is stubborn and relentless. Neither circumstance is fair. Both are terrible.
And yet, the two individuals couldn’t have more different perspectives. One of these people seems open and free. One seems closed and trapped. One of these people is filled with grace and peace, love and gratitude, wrapped in the arms of the Holy Spirit and held in the midst of her pain and exhaustion. The other is twisted in fear and blame, anger and confusion, bitterness and regret.
Prayer is powerful. I believe that, no matter what happens in the coming days and weeks, prayer has healed one of these people, and prayer can heal the other. Maybe they will both get their miracles, miracles of science or of God, or of both. The least I can do is offer up my own prayer for comfort, healing, and peace, along with this plea: that God would prop open my heart so that hope and gratitude might always abide with me.
There’s a national debate taking place in the US of A about raising the minimum wage. While the politicians argue over the idea, some businesses—from major retailers to banks to private universities—have grown impatient and taken matters into their own hands over the last few years. Amazon increased its minimum wage to $15/hour almost five years ago now. This “resulted in a 4.7% increase in the average hourly wage among other employers in the same labor market (commuting zone).” Amazon says that research shows these kinds of increases fuel local economies and create growth.
Where I live, there’s no shortage of jobs available for people. There does seem to be a shortage of people who want to work 40 hours a week and still live near or below the poverty line.
For reference, because it kind of shocked me, the poverty line for a family of four is $26,500. A person who works full-time at our current national minimum wage earns $15,078 annually.
People point to the increase in the unemployment benefit this last year as the reason no one wants to work, but even before COVID, there were plenty of places hiring that couldn’t attract enough workers.
I’m not an economist, and I’m not that into politics most of the time, so why do I care about all of this? Because Jesus cares about fairness, and sometimes the Holy Spirit shoves stuff in front of my nose and says, “Write about this.” So. That’s what I’m doing today.
In the last couple of weeks, I read Kristin Hannah’s The Four Winds. The story follows a woman—Elsa—born in Texas right before the Great Depression. After years of trying to save the farm and stay on the land, she migrates out of the Dust Bowl with her family to California, the Promised Land, the land of milk and honey. Except California isn’t all that it was cracked up to be. Elsa wants to work, but the locals are afraid the “Okies”—the domestic migrants from the Dust Bowl—are going to take away their jobs and destroy their local economy. They are afraid they carry disease. They are afraid they will steal from them. They are afraid what they have will be taken and they’ll have nothing left.
It’s a scarcity mentality.
The people in the book who landed in California want to work. They desperately want to provide for their family. They don’t want to take the government’s handouts, but they have no other choice. Because there is no work that will pay them enough to survive, they have to take government relief aid. The alternative is starvation. The workers are willing to work for nearly nothing in order to just have something. Farm owners take advantage of their need and the glut of desperate workers available and keep dropping what they’re willing to pay.
Just last night, Brandon and I watched Episode 5 of Country Music, a documentary from Ken Burns available through PBS Documentaries on Amazon Prime. In it, Merle Haggard says, “The human being has a history of being awful cruel to something different. ‘Okie’ was not a good word, you know? They were talked down to, looked down on, might’ve been something comparable to the way they treated the blacks.”
Haggard was born in 1937 near Bakersfield where his parents had lived for three years, after a fire had destroyed their farm in Oklahoma. According to the documentary, Haggard’s father had found work on the railroad but still needed to find a permanent place to live. “There was a lady named Ms. Bona, who owned a lot with a boxcar on it, refrigerator car,” Haggard reflects. “And she said, ‘If you have the mind to be a hard enough worker you could probably make this into a pretty nice home,’ she said, ‘but I’ve never heard of an Okie that would work.’ And my dad took a little offense to that and he said, ‘Well, ma’am, I’ve never heard of one that wouldn’t work.’”
Aren’t these the words we’ve heard to describe “those people,” whoever they are, the low-lifes, the down-and-outs, the lazy whatevers who are riding the government dollar, taking advantage of the system, the people who just don’t want to work?
I’m sure there are “those people,” but just like everything broken in the world, people who are born down and out aren’t always given a beacon of hope to show them what it looks like to get up. They only see what’s working (or not working) around them and assume that’s it. This is how the world works. “Without vision,” says the Teacher in Proverbs 29:18, “the people perish.” Without someone to illuminate an alternative pathway, all we can see is whatever steps have been taken by the people immediately ahead of us.
“But those jobs,” we say about minimum wage gigs like food service, hotel housekeepers, personal care assistants, childcare workers, and retail workers, “were not intended for people who needed to make a living off of them.” We think of those positions as “supplemental income” types of jobs, and maybe for some people, they are. But teens don’t want those jobs—they have sports and clubs and babysitting gigs that pay cash-money, homey.
The teens and adults who want those jobs have to work. The teens have to work while they’re in school instead of playing sports or marching in the band or acting in the play, to try to help their families make it on below-poverty-level incomes, to try to buy a rundown car, to try to pay their way into community college, to try to escape the poverty they were probably born into. And the adults who need those jobs aren’t doing it for fun. They’re trying to patch together two or three different gigs to make ends meet while they raise their children single-handedly.
Right after I finished The Four Winds, I picked up a book I’ve been meaning to read for a couple of years now because a friend of mine has a chapter in it, called Can I Get a Witness? Thirteen Peacemakers, Community Builders, and Agitators for Faith & Justice. The very first chapter is about Cesar Chavez, who was “a shrewd union and community organizer who, with gritty creativity, sustained a quest for justice among farmworkers,” writes Daniel P. Rhodes. Cesar was an advocate for people like Elsa in The Four Winds, like Haggard’s family outside of Bakersfield. He worked alongside the fearful farmworkers who were stuck in a horrible loop of poverty and abuse to get them fair wages and unity against the corrupt farmers who had been taking advantage of their labor.
“Chavez always understood the movement to be about more than wages or contracts; it was a spiritual campaign. For him, the work of the union was woven inextricably into a fabric of religious significance,” writes Rhodes.
So what does Jesus have to do with it? Enter the Parable of the Workers in the Vineyard, or, as Kenneth Bailey in his wonderful book, Jesus through Middle Eastern Eyes, preferred, the Parable of the Compassionate Employer:
“For the kingdom of heaven is like a landowner who went out early in the morning to hire workers for his vineyard. He agreed to pay them a denarius for the day and sent them into his vineyard.
“About nine in the morning he went out and saw others standing in the marketplace doing nothing. He told them, ‘You also go and work in my vineyard, and I will pay you whatever is right.’ So they went.
“He went out again about noon and about three in the afternoon and did the same thing. About five in the afternoon he went out and found still others standing around. He asked them, ‘Why have you been standing here all day long doing nothing?’
“‘Because no one has hired us,’ they answered.
“He said to them, ‘You also go and work in my vineyard.’
“When evening came, the owner of the vineyard said to his foreman, ‘Call the workers and pay them their wages, beginning with the last ones hired and going on to the first.’
“The workers who were hired about five in the afternoon came and each received a denarius. So when those came who were hired first, they expected to receive more. But each one of them also received a denarius. When they received it, they began to grumble against the landowner. ‘These who were hired last worked only one hour,’ they said, ‘and you have made them equal to us who have borne the burden of the work and the heat of the day.’
“But he answered one of them, ‘I am not being unfair to you, friend. Didn’t you agree to work for a denarius? Take your pay and go. I want to give the one who was hired last the same as I gave you. Don’t I have the right to do what I want with my own money? Or are you envious because I am generous?’
“So the last will be first, and the first will be last.”
We are in the habit of valuing someone’s worth based on how much they can contribute, how much value they add. The vineyard owner in the parable is the great leveler who values all of the workers equally, no matter how much labor they were able to contribute.
The circumstances of the parable are not unlike the circumstances of the migrant workers in the West: they sat in a particular spot each day and waited for an opportunity to work. Of those who were hired last, Kenneth Bailey writes, “All that remains for the brave few left in the market is the humiliation of returning home to an anxious wife and hungry children with the bad news of another day of frustration and disappointment.”
He continues, “‘Equal pay for equal work’ is a centuries-old understanding of justice. But that is not the issue here. This parable presents the overpaid, not the underpaid. The story focuses on an equation filled with amazing grace, which is resented by those who feel that they have earned their way to more.”
The denarius was a full day’s wage, and all of them received that same pay. “This is not the cry of the underpaid,” writes Bailey. “No one is underpaid in this parable. The complaint is from the justly paid who cannot tolerate grace!”
In the face of the one who cries out, It’s not fair, God’s justice is scandalously generous, full of mercy and compassion.
Once again, I’m no economist. But if I take Jesus at his word, then as a follower of Christ, I must resist the scarcity mentality. I must not be afraid. If someone else gets more, that does not mean I’ll have less, or be less.
Maybe instead, I can help someone down on their luck draw a few steps closer to hope.
The compassionate vineyard owner sees the value of a soul, and gives him his daily bread, no matter how small or great the job.
We have two teenagers in our house right now, and there are many, many, many conversations we’d rather not have with them. It would be so much easier to just… let it be. They’ll be fine. They’ll figure it out. Maybe if we ignore it, it’ll go away.
There’s a model in the Bible for this exact parenting tactic: King David.
One of the most gut wrenching stories in Scripture is that of Absalom, Amnon, Tamar, and David (2 Samuel 13-18). The number of wrongs committed in this section of Scripture is kind of appalling.
Absalom and Tamar were brother and sister, and Amnon was their half-brother. The three of them were David’s children. Amnon fell in love with Tamar, tricked her into being alone with him, and raped her. Wrong #1.
When Tamar’s brother, Absalom, heard what happened, in the millenia old tradition of silencing violated women, he told her, “Shh, be quiet.” Wrong #2.
When King David heard everything, he was mad. But no one did anything. Wrong #3.
Two years passed. Not two days, or two weeks, or two months. Two years. All that time, David ignored his son’s sin, his other son’s fury, and his daughter’s desolation. Even at the invitation of his son, Absalom, David refused to spend time with him, avoiding a confrontation. Wrong #4.
So Absalom convinced David to send Amnon and the rest of his brothers along for a sheep shearing and coordinated the murder of Amnon. Wrong #5.
David grieved the loss of his son, Amnon. And the loss of his son, Absalom. Chapter 13 ends with these words, “After Absalom fled and went to Geshur, he stayed there three years. And King David longed to go to Absalom, for he was consoled concerning Amnon’s death.”
Absalom stayed away three years. There was no reason why David couldn’t go to Absalom. In the next chapter, Absalom returned to Jerusalem and lived in the same city for two more years without seeing his father’s face. He has to literally light a field on fire to get the king’s attention. The story of Absalom ends five chapters later, when the commander of David’s army, Joab, kills Absalom, even after the king had asked them to spare Absalom’s life.
Perhaps the most anguished cries in the Old Testament come out of David at the end of chapter 18, “The king was shaken. He went up to the room over the gateway and wept. As he went, he said: ‘O my son Absalom! My son, my son Absalom! If only I had died instead of you—O Absalom, my son, my son!’” (2 Samuel 18:33).
What stopped the king from going to his son? Fear of confrontation. Conflict avoidance.
David resisted the hard conversations, and by doing so, he ignored his daughter’s pain and lost both of his sons. Absalom’s anger festered into bitterness and grew into vengeful fury. David’s fear and sorrow snowballed into grief upon grief upon grief.
Brene Brown offers this tactic for breaking through and telling our stories: preface what’s going on in our minds with this statement: “The story I’m telling myself is…” This is what’s going on inside of me.
Desmond Tutu offers a fourfold path to forgiveness in The Book of Forgiving: Tell the Story, Name the Hurt, Grant Forgiveness, and Renew or Release the Relationship. This is what happened, this is how it made me feel, I forgive you, I release you.
David gets stuck in step one. He can’t even look “what happened” in the face.
In our house, the tactic that’s working best for me these days is this introductory statement, “This makes me uncomfortable, but…” and then I ask whatever it is I need to ask, or say whatever it is I need to say. There are so many questions I don’t want to know the answer to these days because of how badly I know it might hurt if the answer is something I would rather not hear.
But questions are gateways to healing, health, and hope. If we don’t go there, then “there” is the untended garden where the seeds of bitter roots and giants go to grow.
As a parent, it’s my responsibility to pay attention to the unasked questions, create a safe space, and then ask the questions. I’ve noticed you’re struggling. I’ve noticed you’re avoiding me. You know I love you and will never reject you. What is going on in your life?
The God of the Universe models this same tactic. In the face of Elijah’s fear, God meets him in a gentle whisper, “What are you doing here, Elijah?” (1 Kings 19:12-13).
How can I help? How can I walk with you through your story?
Parenting teenagers is harder than any other stage of parenting we’ve encountered, with far more tears and fears than either of us anticipated. In the midst of those fears, we must not be like David. We must be brave, remind them they are loved, and hold out hope in its brightly lit lantern so they can see it just beyond the terrors and fears they’re also facing. We have a longer view on their future; we are farther ahead on the road. Don’t allow fear of confrontation to wrest those that matter most from your life. Ask the hard questions. Even if it makes you uncomfortable.
I’m participating in the #NaPoWriMo challenge to write a poem a day during National Poetry Month. So far, it’s off to a fun start. I’ve been using Carolee Bennett’s poetry prompts, and today’s I thought I’d share because it’s so wacky and off the wall and not at all the kind of poem I normally write (although, you’ll note, it does feature birds and nature and water and my children and my husband, so I suppose it isn’t that much of a departure from my usual stuff).
Here’s the prompt:
And here is the result of that prompt:
I’ve become somewhat of a fanatic for the feathered, so I bring binoculars and a bird watching field guide, even into the galactic
for this one-way trip to Mars. They say they’ve found evidence of H2O on the rocky red surface, but I don’t expect to spot any mallards,
herons, swans, egrets, or pelicans. Maybe some robins, a macaw or two? I brought Rio, just in case the view does not afford a habitat that birds can
tolerate. Blu is afraid to fly, and if I’m being honest, so am I, which makes this space trip seem amiss. The guy in the seat next to me can’t
figure out his earbuds. He’s watching 2012 over and over. I’ve about had it with John Cusack and can’t imagine another seven months of this. I think
he brought tuna for his one snack, too. I’ll have to find another seat partner. There are few things I’ll miss on Earth— spring greens, fall leaves, morning dew—
but the ones I love the most I brought clips to watch, my cousins in the creek, my husband river walking our first week, our children skipping stones. I thought
of all the water memories, all the waves and ripples, trickles, streams, and falls, all the waterfowl and wildlife calls we’ve heard and how in so many ways
the water has saved me, here I am abandoning the planet where it flows so freely. I see it shrinking out my window seat. Now, I can’t stop weeping. Ma’am,
I call the flight attendant, can I get a couple tissues and a can of Pepsi to go with my Chex Mix? I’m so thirsty. I pop in the one where my sopping wet
children pick up pieces of shale rock and frisbee fling them over the surface of bound molecules and they bounce. I watch it in reverse and it’s as if the rocks
are magnetically bound to my children, bound to the water, bound to the Earth, drawn back in by gravity. For what it’s worth, I’d be happy to see even just one house wren.
Do you think they can make that happen?
There you go! Today’s poem exercise. I hope you have a chance to play with creativity today, whatever form it takes, for no purpose at all except for the sheer delight of creating.
Growing up, my family watched a lot of NASCAR. Our driver was Awesome Bill from Dawsonville, Bill Elliott, and we would cheer him on every Sunday, whether he was the #9 Coors car, the #11 Budweiser car, or the #94 McDonalds car. I had t-shirts and posters, people. It was serious.
Whenever there were wrecks, which of course is what us kids were really there to watch, out would come the steady and reliable pace car to make sure the pack took it easy while the accident was cleared. It was literally the car that set the pace. Eventually all would be good to go and the race could resume, until another inevitable wreck.
These last two months, I‘ve mostly followed the rules of my pace car, called POTS, and when I haven’t, I’ve paid for it with trips to the pits to refuel and restore. There has only been one crash or maybe two that sent me back to the garage for a week or so until the next race.
Okay, I’m not feeling this metaphor anymore.
The point is, I am learning how to navigate my new life as a freelance writer with a chronic illness that seems to wave its finger at me any time I try to push beyond what it thinks I should do.
Although there are lots of things I can’t do anymore, I’ve been focusing on all the things I can do that are bringing me so much joy. Preparing meals for my family, taking walks with Brandon, Henry, and Izzy (the other two don’t really like taking walks, although I’d certainly welcome them), exploring area parks, drinking tea, reading, and most of all, writing. I am doing so much writing!
I’m now a contributing writer for Root & Vine News, where I’ve been able to write everything from spotlights on business owners who are doing beautiful things for their community and the earth, to devotional entries, to book reflections, to movie reviews. I am excited to join this community and look forward to seeing what develops there in the coming months. You can follow them on Facebook and Instagram for regular updates.
I’m also writing occasionally for God Hears Her, a women’s ministry of Our Daily Bread, and continuing to write for Spire.
Aaaaaand, I started writing a novel. This has been my passion project, something I’m totally obsessed about. I’m writing about my grandmother on my dad’s side from her point of view, learning a lot through research and having so much fun experimenting with fiction for the first time. I spend entirely too much time on ancestry.com.
And that’s about it. That about defines the current pace of life. It is different. And it is good.
If you’d like to check out some of my recent projects for Root & Vine, you can find them here.
I have twice opened and shut every kitchen cabinet drawer it could have been stuffed into by one of three children annoyed by the daily chore of unloadingthedishwashergroooooan. Maybe it was the jesterly husband with all his high-minded opinions about where and how certain dishes ought to be stacked. Perhaps an unaware parent, eager to help but unsure where her grown daughter stores such vessels, placed it in the most unlikely place.
Why is the place they think makes the most sense never where I would have stashed it? I’ve even searched the other realms where our children hide things: bathroom vanities, the basement sink, the “Man Cave” where all the empty snack bags and candy wrappers congregate.
I have asked all three children and, wouldn’t you know it, none of them know the whereabouts of the pancake batter bowl. It has gone the way of other things that have disappeared this year: the lid to my husband’s travel mug, cookie cutters, the KitchenAid mixer bowl, one of four African dwarf frogs from our fish tank, the functionality of my autonomic nervous system, 45 other halves to unmatched socks, the 872 words and actors and movie titles I’ve misplaced, enough bits to make a villanelle to rival Elizabeth Bishop.
Add it to the long line of leavers this year, the grandparents and songwriters and lovers, the lost jobs and lost businesses and lost health and lost dogs and lost balance, everything Lost now huddling somewhere together safely and sadly but soundly in the Found.
One of them is hiding my pancake batter bowl, I just know it.
There are other bowls, of course, stainless steel and glass in various sizes and depths, but this one had a handle and spout. It had a flat bottom perfect for mashing bananas with a potato masher, perfect for every Saturday banana pancake morning, perfect for pouring onto the electric griddle where the batter sizzled and bubbled and popped in its puddle of melted butter. It’s what we hoped to do this morning, my youngest son and I, make the banana pancakes, pretend like it’s the weekend now, Jack Johnson style.
We must make do with a lesser container. The metal of the masher smacks against the curved edge and misses large chunks of banana. My youngest son cracks the eggs and begins whisking the batter while the griddle warms. He doesn’t seem to understand my distress. While he whisks, I open and shut the cabinet drawers I’ve already checked once more. He is nine. The last ten months of remote learning have been divine hours spent home with Mom and Minecraft, making banana pancakes and pretending like it’s the weekend just about every day. We pray and hug and ritually kiss forehead then chin then cheek then cheek then nose then lips each night. He prays for the virus to go away, prays for the vaccine to come, prays his mom will feel better, prays the sick people will be healed, prays the leaders would just listen for once, prays for friends and children of Lost ones to be comforted.
It is cruel, the way so much has been stolen, whether snatched from us or trashed, or abandoned in the fort the kids built in the woods (I still suspect the conniving wide-eyed convicts who live here), so much just simply and profoundly lost no one in all this remote and distanced space can find the space to make sense of it. The writers send perilous tweets and private messages, abandon hopes of narrative. The artists paint faces with missing appendages. The satellite news commentators fill the screen with ticker tape and numbers I fear will start turning over as I watch, like an old-fashioned trip odometer, turning over in real-time like the real-time loss that’s actually happening instead of the quiet, sad update a graphics coordinator must do during commercial breaks.
I search my bookshelf for answers but come up short on titles I must have lent to friends, this one you must read, I said, missives of hope and light packed tight between paperback covers. These ones aren’t lost but borrowed, perhaps passed on and dog-eared, each one a little gospel I’ve sent and preached as powerful against the darkness. I finished one such book today by Brian Doyle, a writer lost to cancer, the posthumous work One Long River of Song aptly subtitled, Notes on Wonder.
“Lost” something one gets inside these pages, “lost” somewhere one finds oneself again.
“I think I am a miracle,” my youngest son says, while whisking the eggs and banana and vanilla and peanut butter that will turn from frothy liquid into solid, flat and flippable cakes we’ll smother in maple syrup in a minute. “I think I’m a miracle, because when I give you Henry hugs I make you feel better.”
All, it turns out, is not lost.
I have lost the pancake batter bowl, or the pancake batter bowl was taken, or the pancake batter bowl is stashed in the most unreasonable place and will turn up again someday, after it’s been replaced, the interior scratched from these last 17 years of being beaten for pancake batter. It will limp up the front walk with a crutch under its one handle. It will have that look in its eye, that look that knows nothing can ever be again as it once was, but at least it’s home. At least it’s home.
Do come in for a spot of tea. I have not seen you for so long. —Emily Post, Etiquette, in Society, in Business, in Politics, and at Home (1922)
After the throes of a global pandemic, who wouldn’t dedicate 38 chapters to defining Best Society’s etiquette? There’s so much room to write the rules for social life when socializing comes with a side of Spanish flu. I want to be four years removed from anti-mask debates, death counts, and dining room curfews, immersed in curtsies and bows and the proper ways to dress my maids I plan to hire with a butler, his suit tailored and ready to receive my hoards of visitors. These days, I spend long hours handscripting invitations to the attention of dozens of different couples, dates left blank in case of new coronavirus variants. Be ready, friends, to talk only of what we all find pleasant, no more ills or misfortune, our laughter absent of cynical wit. Instead, we will spend long hours sipping a spot of tea and perpetually shaking each other’s perfectly clasped hands.
At the beginning of 2020 and again at the beginning of the advent season, I wrote about the call to “make space” this year. This phrase manifested itself in a dozen different and surprising ways this year, but perhaps none more unexpected for me than my decision to step down from my role as Director of Content Marketing at Spire.
If you had told me a year ago that in 2020, I’d decide not to work full-time anymore, I would have laughed in your face. I’ve always worked full-time, ever since Lydia was an infant. I have always loved the thrill of accomplishment, of taking responsibility and ownership for the things entrusted to me. I love leading people into whatever next steps they see for themselves, instilling confidence in those who need a boost to take those next steps. I love every member of my team at Spire, love the values and vision and goals we’ve worked hard to define and work even harder to achieve.
And yet, here I am. After months of prayer and a million small doubts and worries resolving themselves in serendipitous and mysterious ways, I have a real sense of peace that this is the right thing for me and for the Spire team, as hard as it is.
I’m happy to say that this isn’t goodbye, but it is a shift out of leadership to provide more space (make space, right?) for recovery, for my family, and for writing. I am so grateful for the people that I’ve been able to work with these last four years, honored to have served so many different organizations in Ashland and beyond, and thrilled that I will be continuing to serve the team in a freelance relationship however I can contribute. I’m also excited about what this new year will bring for Spire. I think there are very exciting things on the horizon for Spire, and I’m glad to still be a passionate cheerleader for all that Spire does.
Here on the home front, I see many days ahead with Izzy tucked close to my side as I click-clack away on my keyboard, a hot cup of tea within reach. This has been the pattern of most days this year, too, except the work occupying my mind and the pace at which I take it next year will look different. I look forward with hope to even quieter days, even more peace, ever gradual recovery, and space. More and more space made for whatever the Lord requires of me.
I remembered this poem this Christmas Eve morning as a I cracked an egg from our friend, Bill’s, chickens to make cinnamon rolls as part of our family tradition of cinnamon rolls for Christmas morning. There are so many little miracles every day, the holy incarnate among us, if we just keep our eyes and hearts open. Merry Christmas, friends!
I took the fruit of some body, mixed it with the fruit of earth, birthed harmony in each small cookie—
Mary’s sowing, reaping, crushing, sifting, the cow with milk to give, hen with eggs to fold in. This season announces the melding of flesh with spirit. Remember
our miracles blossom from trauma
and this baking is beating ingredients, separating dough in heaping spoonfuls, elements indivisible— egg and sugar, wheat and water.
Bite in, lick the crumb from your upper lip, partake in this communion. Now we are all here: laborer, consumer, life-giver, hovering over the tray.