sunshine muffins.

The weather has been a bit out of control this month. And right now, it is rather cold and dark once again in my little region of the world.

And also, life is hard.

Thus, I feel it is time for some baked goodness on this site.

We had that little blip of warmer weather, which was so lovely, and although I knew it wouldn't last, I felt sadder than expected when the bitter cold smacked me in the face this past Sunday afternoon, to be followed shortly by snow, and lots of it. But it is still February, after all. Those short days were just a gentle whisper reminding me that spring will come--remember? this is what it feels like--and all shall be well. And I enjoyed it while it lasted, wearing flats outdoors and going for a long run on Saturday morning outside! on dry sidewalks! in sunshine that gloriously tempered the returning cold. That made Sunday, when the storm came in full force, and the early weekday mornings that followed, when I struggled to dislodge my car from its curbside mound of snow and wondered what I would do if I couldn't get out, more bearable. (Note: bearable. Not awesome, but bearable.)

And regarding these cold temperatures, I am, for the record, attempting to keep things in perspective. In the wee hours one morning in early February, as I ran on the treadmill at the Y, the weather channel informed me that the temperature was hovering at two degrees below zero. Yeah. Cold. I was feeling all sorry for myself as I burrowed my hands in my mittens and my wet hair froze in the thirty-second walk from the doors of the gym to my car. But then, I learned that the morning had dawned in my sister and brother-in-law's current home of Renville, Minnesota with temperatures seventeen degrees below zero.

Oh.

I realized that (1) I am a wimp and (2) I need to calm down and stop complaining.

So I'm working on that. But in the meantime, since I am still a wimp, I have found that baking does wonders for my soul during these cold months, and the oven warming my apartment doesn't hurt, either. Plus, the only things I've really wanted to eat this winter are soup and baked goods. I've been appeasing my body, making and eating a good deal of both.

I made these muffins whilst snowed in under sixteen inches of white during that crazy storm at the beginning of February. The night before the storm, my office decided it wouldn't open that next day, and I thought, Is that really necessary? I'm sure it won't be that bad. But when I awoke to impassable roads and a world buried deep in snow, I realized that yes, yes it was necessary. And then I made these muffins.

If you also find yourself cold, snowed in and/or generally in need of some sunshine, these muffins will make your life a bit brighter. Like those occasional days of sunshine and rising temperatures, they will remind you that spring is coming and all shall be well. They won't solve all of your problems--my cheering up that snowy day required a walk out in the actual sunshine, a bit of human interaction with the many neighbors I encountered unearthing cars and clearing sidewalks and that wonderful man in my life who traipsed through the snow to visit me--but they are certainly an excellent start.

I made a few changes to the original recipe, replacing the sugar with honey, half of the all-purpose flour with spelt, the currents with raisins and the lemon extract with a slightly greater amount of lemon juice. With the honey and spelt, I aimed for a bit more healthfulness; the raisins and lemon juice were what I happened to have on hand. (It was a blizzard, people.) The spelt added a lovely nuttiness, but I imagine the muffins would be a bit airier and delicate without. I've noted some of the changes below; you can do as you wish. Follow your heart.

I liked these little bursts of sunshine very much, particularly, in fact, once they had cooled completely, and I actually think they may have been even better the day after. They froze well also, to be defrosted for delightful midweek breakfasts.

To sunshine!

Citrus-Currant Sunshine Muffins
Adapted from Dorie Greenspan's Baking: From my home to yours

1/2 cup sugar or honey
Zest from 1 orange
2 cups all-purpose flour or 1 cup all-purpose flour + 1 cup spelt flour
2 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
Pinch of salt
1 cup orange juice (reduce amount slightly if you used honey rather than sugar)
2 tablespoons lemon juice
1/4 teaspoon pure lemon extract (if you make a substitution here, check the web for advice from folks who know more about such things than I)
1 stick (8 tablespoons) unsalted butter, melted and cooled
2 large eggs
3/4 cup dried currants or raisins

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F. Butter the twelve molds of a muffin pan of regular size. Place the muffin pan on a baking sheet (to be honest, I'm not yet convinced that this makes a significant difference, but since it's a little tiny step that creates no additional mess, I've been doing it anyway lately).

In a large bowl, rub the sugar and orange zest together with your fingertips until the sugar is moist and the orange zest fragrant (if you use honey and/or purchased rather than fresh zest, make do with vigorous mixing. Also, if you use honey, include it with the wet ingredients rather than the dry). Whisk in the flour(s), baking powder, baking soda and salt.

In another bowl, whisk together the orange and lemon juices, lemon extract, melted butter and eggs.

Pour the wet ingredients over the dry and mix gently but quickly until blended. Lumps are fine and preferable to overmixing. Fold in the currants or raisins. Divide the batter evenly among the muffin cups.

Bake for about 20 minutes (watch closely if you used honey rather than sugar; baked goods with honey tend to brown more quickly), or until the tops of the muffins are golden and a knife inserted in the center of one comes out clean. Transfer the pan to a rack and cool for about 5 minutes before removing the muffins from the molds.

Eat warm or at room temperature, top with jam or butter, pair with coffee, think of sunshine.

Yield: 12 muffins

be gentle with yourself.

I have these two bruises on my left thigh, tinted various and unpleasant shades of darkness, and I have no idea where they came from. I assume I ran into something, or, more likely, two somethings, which is not all that shocking, although I have no recollection of it.

But watching them turn a sickly shade of green, I thought, you ought to be a bit more gentle with yourself.

One morning last week, I attempted a new and, I hoped, shorter route to work from the Y downtown. I embarked on my journey in high spirits, poised to reach my office in a timely manner with my run for the day finished, a much-diminished feeling of wrath toward running around the indoor track acquired and my mittened hand holding warm coffee from the little kiosk at the Y (people! if you bring a mug, the coffee costs just fifty cents!). I had positivity in abundance, which, the previous week considered, was quite a feat. I got on the first highway of my new path going in the correct direction, patting myself on the back for knowing my city so well. (I recognize that this was, in actuality, a teeny tiny accomplishment at best. But I take happiness on winter mornings pretty much regardless of its source.)

However. My positivity was short-lived.

I will abstain from relaying the details, but in the end, I learned that 96 and I-96 are not, in fact, the same highway and that simply "going west" will not necessarily take a person from downtown Grand Rapids to Grandville. Terrifying little flakes fell persistently from the sky, making the highway slick and treacherous. First, I thought I might die. Then, I just felt like an idiot.

I arrived very late to work.

I apologized to the appropriate parties, who were nowhere near as upset as I had assumed they would be (perhaps because they don't have to pay me when I'm not there) and made my way to the safety of my desk. Throughout the next several hours, I mentally reviewed my laundry list of latest offenses: I have a very long to do list at work; surely I could be accomplishing things more quickly, and probably better. Though I think I handled a recent professional situation as well as could be expected, I'm afraid I didn't, or, at the least, that I left a destructive wake behind me. I recently overslept, late that day as well. Running hasn't felt great lately. The image in the mirror is not meeting my demands for perfection. I keep having emotional breakdowns, imposing my weepy self on the poor folks who care about me...

And on and on I went, crafting an ugly composite of every flaw, shortcoming, mistake and bad morning...until I felt a gentle whisper rising above my inner tirade:

Be gentle with yourself.

I paused. Are you sure, God? I questioned.

Honestly. Of course he's sure.

But behind that question, I realize, lies another one, a deeper one: Do I really deserve gentleness?

Most often, instead of seeing the very best of who we are or, even better, a healthy, realistic mixture of the good and bad, we see only the worst, and we think that's appropriate, because we don't believe we deserve gentleness anyway. And, frankly, that much is true: we don't deserve gentleness. But it's given to us, and who are we to argue with God?

It is one thing to be humble, to work to strengthen our weak areas, to improve and grow and strive to be more loving and more like Christ. But it is quite another to truly dislike ourselves, image-bearers and much-loved children of God. It is quite another to refuse the gifts of gentleness, grace and mercy.

I recently spoke with a woman who goes to my church and who I've long admired. We were talking about life and balance, how we get into a really great rhythm for, oh, six seconds, and then it all falls apart once again. Even though she has, you know, a husband and small children and probably many more commitments than I and also great hair and excellent style, she seemed much less fazed by this aspect of life than I have been feeling--though she had clearly experienced it, too. She shared the simple words that God has given her:

This is enough.

What we can give, what we can do, the coffee dates we have time for, the errands we check off our lists, the work we accomplish in a day...whatever it might be, it is enough.

That seems like gentleness to me. That seems right.

And so, when I do something less than brilliant, when I'm confronted with my not-favorite aspect of myself, when I gaze at a long to do list, when I fail...I will try to be gentle. I urge you to do the same. Perhaps we'll impose less bruises on our fragile souls.

winter blues and reveling.

I have been feeling rather blue.

There are various contributing factors, of course, some of them related to life, most of them related to work and/or my professional angst and unrest, but there is also winter. And as much as I love four seasons and pretty snowflakes and big drifts of white, the cold always seems to reach its icy fingers past the warmth of my scarves and into my life.

It is very cold here in Michigan. It is also very dark. Perhaps if I were better at pretending I was warm, I might not experience the cold so fiercely, but I'm not sure I'm capable of that. Perhaps if I had a window in my office at work, I'd feel cheerier, but I don't think anyone would look kindly on my punching a hole through the ceiling to reach the outdoors. Thus, my experience of life right now is very cold and very dark.

Furthermore, my front steps remain coated in ice, regardless of how much salt I toss over them, because the roof keeps drip drip dripping whenever the temperature rises, and the cold world keeps freezing again.

And also, I am tired of darting around the track at the Y, where instead of interesting old houses and people walking their dogs to look at and my favorite bakeries' windows to peer into, I have only the same four walls to examine as I go around and around, seven times to a mile, as well as more darkness beyond the windows and all kinds of fit people to compare myself to.

But let me attempt positivity: the Y is also bright, warm and sans slippery ice. Also, on certain days, I have the mass of women (plus four or so men) doing Zumba to entertain me, which I guess is pretty great. I am particularly fond of the old ladies, who I cheer on enthusiastically in my mind.

Last night, through tears, I was talking to my sweetheart about all of the things that are contributing to my sadness, and I recalled this time last year, when I had only recently moved into my current apartment, my very first situation living alone. I was thoroughly enjoying my new living quarters, sparsely decorated at the time, and deeply appreciating being employed full time and having health insurance. But I also remember the evenings when I would come home from work, go for a long run, make dinner, sit down to eat well past nine or ten and realize how soon I would be returning to the office. I remember crying on the phone to my mother when I hit my first true season of monotony, with its sad rhythm and mornings I wasn't really looking forward to waking for.

And what then? This is always my question, because I know that this is the stuff of life, as is inexplicable joy, which hopefully comes with greater frequency than sadness, and as are those times when everything, every comment and snowflake and encounter with a stranger, feels full of beauty and meaning. But what do we do when we wake one morning, our souls aching for whatever compilation of reasons, thinking, is this really it? Is "okay" the most I can reasonably ask for? What do we do when we want nothing more than for things to be somehow different, though we cannot explain what it is that we want, or perhaps just to go back to bed until the sun is shining again?

I don't have a concrete answer.

But today, one of my dearest friends responded to an email relaying my every realized cause for sadness with an invitation to be with her this evening. So I forced myself to the gym after work to circle the aforementioned silly track twenty-one times, and after a warm shower, I put on my coziest sweater, compliments of my dear aunt in Phoenix, and reminded myself of her vibrancy, trying to bring a bit of it, as well as a few rays of the Arizona sun, into my soul.

And then came the answer to my current version of the winter blues. My dear friend and I enjoyed warm drinks and biscotti at a bookstore while tiny snowflakes fell from the sky outside, and she listened to everything I needed to say and responded with exactly what I needed to hear. She gave me freedom to feel and hurt and share and then comforted me, telling me that things are and will be okay, giving me the reasons why.

I suddenly felt the opposite of melancholy.

And this is the inexplicable joy I spoke of.

So what is the cure for sadness and winter blues? I'm still not sure. Probably something about love and honesty and the Holy Spirit. But whatever it is, I just experienced it.

Tomorrow is my birthday, and birthdays are times for reveling in the joy of being alive. It is cold and dark, and life is hard, but I will revel nonetheless. Because even in the darkness, I keep encountering beauty and love and warmth and truth spoken by those dearest to me.

All is well indeed.

not what anyone expected.

During Christmastime, with all its familiarity and the season's flurry of activity, it is easy to drift into our routine of celebration without seeing the source of celebration with new eyes. Last year, though, I was struck afresh by the hope of Advent. So this year, I was searching for something to make it new for me again. I was joyfully waltzing through the season, but I wanted it to be deep and beautiful and newly profound. And by some kind of grace, that newness finally came on Christmas Eve.

At work, I've been updating our Survey of the Bible course, and last week, I edited, revised and began skimming through the entire thing. As I followed its tracing of the drama of redemption from the beginning, outlined in the early chapters of Genesis, to the present day, I was reminded of the words of the prophets and the oldest recorded promises of God...promises about the one who would come, the Prince of Peace who would reign and make all things right. I recalled the lineage of Jesus, his family tree full of sinners and marginalized folks and very few that we would choose as precursors to the king of everything.

On Christmas Eve at my parents' church, the church I grew up in, the liturgy included a video of a little white line blazing through a dark screen, accompanied by captivating piano music, tracing a picture of Bethlehem and the star, Mary and Joseph traveling, shepherds, angels...and then, the small baby Jesus in the manger.

And it was so simple. But at moment 1:50 of the video, when that tiny manger and outline of a baby were traced on the screen above me, with the promises of the prophets still on my mind, I thought, This wasn't what anyone expected.

They were waiting for a king. They were waiting for power and grandeur and fanfare. I imagine that they watched the rulers and leaders of the day, wondering, Is he the one? Is he? How about this king? This prince? This priest?

No one was looking at insignificant young girls in Nazareth. No one expecting a king would have been paying attention to the life of a poor carpenter. Who would have connected the census to the most monumental religious event ever to occur? Who would have been watching the births of infant boys in rural villages? Who would have kept an eye on the stables in the countryside?

This wasn't what they expected. This wasn't what I would have expected.

But this was it. This was what every single prophecy pointed toward. The tiny baby conceived by a virgin, born in a stable, placed in a feeding trough, resting on a mattress of hay, comforted by the moans of cattle, gazed on by dirty shepherds, with a lineage marked by prostitutes and sinners and nobodies...this was the Savior.

And frankly, a god who would orchestrate a story as unexpected as that to bring about our salvation is the kind of god I want to follow.

I want to serve an unpredictable, unconventional god. I want to serve a god who would write that kind of narrative, full of adventure and heart and nothing anyone anticipated.

And that's what I have been dwelling on this season. I know that all of this has been said before, in one way or another, but as I step back and think rationally, I am remembering once again that this is one incredible story.

So. Merry Christmas. For me, these past days have been marked by quality time and good food and much laughter, and I hope you've been experiencing the same. I've been enjoying time with my family, all the five of us together, and I still have a few more days to revel in the joy of these dear ones and others close to my heart.

By the way, I know I didn't deliver on my promises of fall summaries and snapshots. Something of the sort might still appear, but this coming year, I'm resolving to keep shorter to do lists and minimize the demands I place on myself. So in the spirit of just living, I shall make no promises!

An now, enjoy these last few days of 2010, my friends.

happy december!

As if prompted by the turning of calendar pages and the pending opening of that first tiny door of the Advent calendar, snow began to fall on Tuesday night, and December greeted me with a thin blanket of white and a shaken snow globe of sky.

After a rainy Tuesday, I had gone to bed hoping for snow to greet me in the morning. And as soon as I could force myself out of my warm bed on Wednesday, the first of December, I scampered to the front window to peek outside--and lo! a winter wonderland. (I know, I'm five. But really, people, it's enchanting.)

Over the past few days, I pushed inches of snow off my windshield, narrowly avoided slipping on icy steps, holiday shop hopped and purchased a Christmas gift. This weekend, I plan to go to a holiday artists' market, make Christmas cookies and help pick out another Christmas tree.

And so, with those festive activities, snow, the month of December and food bloggers the world 'round posting cookie recipes, the season now begins in earnest! To inspire you, two photographs from Thanksgiving weekend:

(What, isn't this what your family does at the Christmas tree farm?)

I plan to return with a few fall summary/flashback posts this weekend, and then, I promise you, I will focus solely on the current season.

In sum: It's December! There is snow! Life is beautiful! Merry Christmastime!

springtime, hope, purple cabbage

It doesn't seem that long ago that I was writing of the shifting of summer into fall. And yet, as I reflect on that season of my life and think of all that has happened since, it suddenly seems as though years and worlds have gone by. We have indeed traveled from fall through winter and into spring, and now it is official.

Happy springtime, my friends.

I probably spent, oh, the entire second half of winter reminding myself and others that I like having four seasons and that we couldn't possibly appreciate the warmth and sunshine of spring and summer as much as we do if not for the cold and dark winter that comes before. And this is true. But I am very, very glad that spring is here.

"Here," of course, is a relative term, and spring in Michigan is a fluid concept. An illustration from this past week: on several weekday evenings, I shed the running tights, Under Armour and gloves to run in shorts and a t-shirt, enjoying balmy temperatures in the high sixties, sunshine and completely dry sidewalks. I walked with a friend to a nearby bar. I marveled at the leaves of tiny tulips emerging from the ground. My bike-enthusiast friends joyfully returned to their favorite means of transportation. And then. And then Saturday came, the first day of spring marked by snow coming steadily down all the day long, blanketing the ground and pelting my face with freezing flakes as I rounded Reeds Lake on the week's longest run (of course I planned that one for Saturday).

However, today brought more sunshine, and the snow melted. And I think we're all quite aware that the official commencement of spring has nothing to do with temperatures and precipitation anyway. I look forward to all this season will bring: the return of the blessed farmers' market, bikes, tulips, sweaters and light jackets, the turned-up cuffs of my jeans, long walks, brighter evenings, hope.

And in the end, I think that's really it: what I most love about the changing of the seasons is the hope that comes with the transition. It's like a promise. Things are shifting. Greater joy, greater fullness, more beauty are yet to come...

I am well aware that we may not have seen the last of the snow/cold, so until spring proclaims its sustained presence, I will welcome it in other ways. Along with the bikes and sweaters and such, springtime makes me think of brightly colored produce. And scones. (Really, I'm serious. It does.) Since my sister covered the scones already today, I will leave you with a recipe that involves the beautiful purple cabbage I have been rather obsessed with as of late, a winter vegetable whose brilliant color speaks of more than dark skies and the moldy snowdrifts of late winter.

To me, it speaks also of hope.

Purple Cabbage Salad with Lemon and Parmesan

Adapted from Molly Wizenberg's A Homemade Life: Stories and Recipes from My Kitchen Table

Meticulous baker and perfectionist I may be, but surprisingly, I don't follow any calculated formula for my version of this salad. I most often just throw it together in one bowl, taste and adjust to my liking and then pop it in some tupperware for part of a workday lunch. I generally go pretty light on the olive oil and heavier with the lemon, and I always season quite thoroughly with the salt and pepper. I also think it's quite excellent with a handful of garbanzos thrown in, but I do have a bit of a thing for garbanzo beans (and by this I mean that sometimes I eat them straight from the can), so I recognize that this might not be to your liking.

All that to say approximations and variation work quite well with this recipe. I've given Molly's measurements here, though, so as not to leave you completely in the dark. As always, Molly does not disappoint... this salad is bright and lovely, just like springtime and hope.

2 tablespoons olive oil

2 tablespoons lemon juice

1 clove garlic, or to taste, pressed

1/8 teaspoon (or so) salt

1 small head (about 1 1/2 pounds) purple cabbage

1/4 cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano (or another hard cheese)

ground black pepper

Whisk together the olive oil, lemon juice, garlic and salt in a small bowl. Set aside.

Prepare the cabbage by removing any bruised or wrinkled outer leaves and trimming the root end. Cut the cabbage into quarters, and then, one quarter at a time, slice the cabbage as thinly as possible (aim for 1/4 inch slivers).

In a serving bowl (or, to skip a step, your tupperware lunch container), toss the cabbage with a large spoonful or two of dressing (you will likely have some left over, but it will keep in the refrigerator and nicely top another salad or, along with a grated hard cheese such as Parmesan, a bowl of garbanzos. And please note: the latter is a brilliant and well-tested suggestion first of Molly, not of this clearly biased garbanzo-aficionado!). Add the Parmigiano-Reggiano and toss gently. Season with pepper. Taste and adjust the various components as needed.

Serve, enjoy and be filled with sustenance and joy and hope and all manner of good things.

Yield: about 4 servings as a side; about 2 as lunch

to the full.

On Wednesday, I had one of those days in which all of life came upon me at once. My sister and brother-in-law are in Uganda, as many or most of you know, and I had a few DVDs in my possession, a Christmas gift from my parents, that we were in the process of passing through the extended families to eventually get them to someone who was visiting Uganda this spring. (I don't even remember how that was going to happen, to be honest. It was complicated.) But Wednesday morning, my brother-in-law emailed to tell us that a Ugandan friend of theirs from the Seminary here in GR would be visiting Mbale unexpectedly as his sister just passed away. He asked if I could get the DVDs to this friend.

We were figuring out the logistics through emails, and then my sister CALLED MY PHONE. (Remember: she is in Uganda. This is not typical.) However, I missed the call because I was out of my office. When I listened to the voicemail she left and heard her voice, sounding so clear and deceptively close, I nearly burst into tears. My heart hurt. I miss her so much.

At the end of the workday, I scrambled home to get in a run before I lost the last of daylight. I showered and hurried out the door to go out and pick up one more thing that I wanted to send along to Uganda (it isn't every day I don't have to worry about an unreliable mail system when trying to get something to my furthest-off loved ones). It was snowing, big white flakes drifting down slowly from the now-dark sky. I stood in the road next to my car and felt as though the whole screwed-up world was sitting atop my shoulders, weighing a million pounds. I wanted to cry.

After running my errand, I came home and wrote some notes to send along to Uganda, plus one for the family of this kind stranger-turned-postman, and bundled everything up. I drove to this man's house, wondering all the while what I could possibly say to this stranger, whose sister was suddenly and tragically gone, as I handed him some DVDs of comedy shows to tuck in his luggage as he began a bittersweet journey home to mourn. When I got there, his wife invited me in, wearing a green fuzzy robe and slippers shaped like animals. Laughing, she apologized for her clothes and for the state of the (not-that-)messy house. As if it mattered at all. She invited me to sit; her husband was on the phone. I expressed my condolences. She wanted to hear about my life, what I do, where I live, who I am. She was beautiful and joyful. Her husband soon joined us. He hugged me as I told him I was sorry for his loss. The three of us chatted, and they told me about their lives and their children. We talked about the trials of not being Dutch yet living in West Michigan, and I told them how much Sara and Anthony love their country. We discussed the strangeness of country borders and visas, these human-made systems that complicate movement around our globe. We talked about life.

When he talked about going home, the face of my new friend sobered. He told me he was both looking forward to and absolutely dreading the trip. And then he looked at his wife, and in his eyes I could see that he was suddenly far away in a world I don't know, and he wasn't really talking to me anymore. He said, "I just cannot believe that she is gone. I cannot imagine my sister no longer being there." He paused. "She was always so full of life."

I had stepped right into the middle of the tragedy of strangers. Beautiful strangers. It was a surreal experience.

And although I felt slightly uncomfortable giving this man the delivery entrusted to me, which seemed so silly in the face of the loss of a loved one, I realized that all of this is life. Watching a familiar show while in an unfamiliar country, things that bring laughter, a reminder of family... this is important. And all of this, tragedy and simplicity and the seemingly-inconsequential... all of this is life.

I hadn't eaten dinner, and it was after 10 pm. I went home and cooked something and thought about life. I went to bed feeling strange and both upset and comforted by my encounter that evening. The next morning, the sun was shining.

Last night, I went to a new friend's house. When I came in, she told me that her brother had passed away unexpectedly two weeks ago and she was just recovering from a case of shingles that came on after the funeral, but she hadn't told me any of this before because she had still wanted me to come. I stood in the doorway. I didn't know what to do. I think I wanted to bolt and run forever. But instead, I took off my coat. She made lattes for us, and we talked for a long time. As I talked to this trusted friend, she helped me recognize the Holy Spirit in everything that happened this week. She helped me remember how the presence of God comes to us through the complication and mess and weightiness of life.

This morning, I was thinking about the verse in John 10 where Jesus says that he came "that they may have life, and have it to the full." Now, I am sure he was, at least in one sense, talking about eternity and salvation, but I think that maybe he was also talking about life on earth to the full... which is this. Life to the full includes good and bad, exciting and mundane, tragedy and joy, significant and seemingly inconsequential, morning and evening, going and staying, living and dying. Therein is God. And though I feel a bit overwhelmed and frazzled and not-quite-present still today, I also realize that this is real... this is life to the full. And I think that in the end, this is part of what Jesus came for us to have.

and so we build our lives.

Perhaps it is because I just finished reading this book by this man, which on top of making me cry every time I sat down to read (and I'm talking about the audible, gasping, non-attractive kind of crying here), made me think a great deal about story and what it is that makes something epic and beautiful. Perhaps it is because I am finally entering a relatively calm stage of this early post-collegiate-20-something-with-a-full-time-job life. Or perhaps it is because living alone affords me an opportunity to be more introspective and thoughtful.

Whatever the reason, I have been thinking lately about life in general. When people ask me for an update on my life, I tell them I am learning about balance. And frankly, this is about all I can handle right now, this project of learning how to safely juggle the flaming clubs of a full-time work week, sleep, exercise, preparing food, growing my relationships with those I care for, engaging in my community, keeping my sinks and floors clean and maintaining my education and awareness of current events (many thanks to NPR and the BBC).

I've also been thinking about how important it has become to me to have what I consider a meaningful career, though I get stuck on this one, because I realize that it is an incredible privilege to be that picky. Many do not have the education or social positioning to be choosy about a job, even in a good economy. And it doesn't seem right or fair that people have to devote 40+ hours a week to work that they don't find meaningful in order to keep the heat on and put the food in the refrigerator to enable them to live another day to wake and return to that job and make the most and wait for the weekend.

But I do think that we are called to steward well whatever resources we have been given, and this pursuit of vocational calling remains important to me. At present, I have a job I enjoy relatively well, and my organization pursues a mission that has become very important to me. But my work doesn't bring any excess of joy when I start my commute to the office in the morning, clutching my coffee in my mittened hand. And as much as I can wrap my mind and heart around the importance of what we do, it doesn't (routinely) make me choke back tears upon sight of a photograph or a few words of a story. Now, mind you, I am VERY thankful for my job. And I'm not leaving too soon. But I'm also not going to stop seeking a career more directly focused on the things that make my blood run (thanks, KP).

So as I think about life and balance and vocation and with my peers ask the same questions over and over again and become entranced by the lives that people older than I have created throughout their years, I come to this: as we go through our days, making decisions and weaving in and out of one another's stories, we build our lives. And as I stand here in this season, with my plans and dreams still in flux, I am truly beginning to build a life.

This feels like a larger version of my current project of settling into this new home... As I stock my shelves with spices and flours and sugars, so also I piece together the elements of my life, finding how to best fit everything that a healthy and faithful and full life necessitates. As I arrange and rearrange the books on my shelves, so also I made decisions about the shape of my life.

I was thinking about this when I went to get my hair cut on Saturday morning down at my hairdresser's shop/home down on Division, which is filled with the most eclectic and lovely vintage clothing and handmade treasures. As she cut my hair, I thought about how my friend is part of that store, part of why I go there again and again and why I didn't mind getting up early on a Saturday morning to fit an appointment into her busy schedule. The next customer clearly felt the same, bringing baked goods from a local bakery that she shared with both of us, and we talked and laughed and the sun streamed through the windows and the stranger with hair dye on her roots didn't care that I saw the hair dye on her roots. I lingered in the middle of my friend's beautiful life, a life that didn't come easily but rather on the heels of a realization that she didn't find an earlier version of her life fulfilling. So she built a more beautiful story, from vintage boots and silver earrings and carefully swept floors and honesty and laughter.

My friend Nicole has a beautiful life as well. She knows what she is called to, at least in part, and so she lives with confidence. She is a mother and an artist, and she speaks truth all over my life. When I see her sweep into a room with strength and grace and humility, I know I am okay, and when we part, I remember that the world is beautiful and that I have a story to live, too, even if I am not sure of all its elements.

I searched for a tablecloth for the little square table in my front room until I found the perfect one at a nearby antique store: it is a cream colored square of exactly the right size, with brightly colored flowers stitched into a lovely and graceful pattern, the bumpy knobs of thread popping their rounded heads out of the soft fabric. And so also I hang pictures and twinkle lights and silver stars on the walls of my life; I stack my brightly colored bowls and buy ingredients for banana bread and big pots of soup.

And slowly I build a life.

holiday. (hope.)

I apologize for the delay in getting this post up, my friends! The past few weeks have been busy and full to the brim, but I've been happy. Various factors, of course, have contributed to my happiness, but not the least of these is the mere fact that it is Christmastime.

I love this season. I love the sparkling white snowdrifts, the Christmas decorations, the bustle downtown, the homecomings, the gatherings of friends and family, but most of all, I love this season for the hope that it brings, the hope -- and the longing for hope -- made visible in all of those tangible things that I love. At Christmastime, life remains as it always has been, difficult and confusing and hard, but people are happy; they are joyful and hopeful for no reason in particular.

The hope manifests itself everywhere. It is in the flood of red Christmas sweaters donned by the old folks volunteering at my workplace; it is in the holly-and-ivy-patterned Christmas socks peaking out of one woman's black slingback shoes. It is in the enormous Christmas tree downtown by Rosa Parks Circle and the inexplicable joy the good people of Grand Rapids found in lighting its blanket of tiny colored lights. I went downtown for the "lighting ceremony" and observed this firsthand: a large crowd gathered around the tree, small children running around by their parents' feet, the mayor saying something inaudible and muffled, everyone counting down, four three two one, a member of a prominent GR family pulling a lever. The lights were off; the lights were on... it was incredibly anticlimactic. But everyone cheered loudly; everyone was smiling and laughing and talking. Hope. I see hope also in friends gathered around a table filled with different types of Christmas cookies, a plate contributed by each one, and I see and hear and taste and feel deep in my bones the hope in friends gathered to reunite and sing, sharing latest chapters of life and living out community and loving so well. I find hope in Christmas music. I remember the chaos of the holidays during college; each year, I found myself listening to George Winston's December album earlier and earlier in the season as my stress level continued its ascent. Well, I would reason, October is close to December. Post-college, it still makes me hopeful. It reminds me of home. I've added Sufjan's brilliant box set and Rosie Thomas' Christmas album to the list of hope-inducing Christmas favorites, and these remind me of college friends and more recent Christmastimes. There is hope even in aesthetically unpleasing flocks of inflatable yard decorations and mismatched and flashing Christmas lights. Oh, and those big, beautiful colored lights, those do it for me every time. As do nighttime snowfalls and the smell of burning wood in the fireplace and radio stations that for weeks play nothing but Christmas music and evergreen trees and children reveling in the freedom of Christmas vacation...

I could go on and on and on.

My point is this: these things bring not only excitement and a superficial joy but also something deeper, some kind of intangible beauty and longing for something greater and more awe-inspiring. This longing, this waiting, this is Advent, and this is what we see in the prophets, the yearning and the anticipation and the preparation for the One to come. And like the prophets, behind the blinking lights and reindeer sweaters and holiday shop hops, we also are clamoring for something to make us joyful, desperate for something to hope for. We are seeking a reason to be happy and begging the heavens for assurance that all will be well. Christmastime may offer lights and presents and music and holiday apparel, and all of this can be wonderful, but we often mistakenly believe that therein lies the "something" we hope for, when really, we have only to continue looking a moment longer and to reach down just a bit deeper to find the answer that actually responds to the questions of our souls. There is something to be hopeful for, something to anticipate, and it isn't just that gold paper link at the end of the Christmas chain, the one that marks the giving of presents and the culmination of the whole season. Rather, it is the little baby the gospels speak of, the Messiah that came and lived and loved and died and rose and is coming again.

We do not hope in vain.

So this season, let us focus our hope on the God that really will make everything alright. Let us ground our hope in truth. And meanwhile, as we wait, let us live out the redemption that he promises and grasp and remember and share the life-giving hope for something brighter and more beautiful than all Christmas lights and blinking stars combined.

snowstorm.

This is what it looks like outside:

Therefore, after surviving the commute to and from work (and the 8.5 hours in between), I returned home and came inside and stayed. And then I made soup. Really good soup. And these cookies from Heidi Swanson's brilliant blog, 101 Cookbooks. You may notice that hers are prettier than mine, but tonight, what mattered more was that the oven heated up my house (and, as a result, me) quite nicely, and these very gingery cookies with bits of chocolate and a coating of sparkly sugar were festive. I like festive, especially at Christmastime. And especially when life is uncertain.

Now, I am finally warm. Also, well fed. And although it is freezing and windy and blustery outside, it is also quite lovely, particularly when I am inside, peering through the windows at the snow globe of a world in winter.

May you be safe and warm and well-fed and festive and full of joy these mid-December days. Merry Christmastime.