While waiting for bone to knit

 We have a new piece of art – Heavenly Bodies – a painting acquired from Shaun LaRose. The fact that he is our son-in-law has nothing to do with how accomplished he is and how beautiful his work. This particular painting is in a place where I can look at it everyday and be reminded that none of us are alone in the brokenness we bear in our bodies. It also reminds me that no matter how pitiful I think my life – this is not the end of the story as we wait along with so many others for the restoration and healing of all things.

Heavenly Bodies

Heavenly Bodies detail

Shaun explains:

Both my wife and son suffer with chronic illness. At an early age my son has to experience pain, fatigue and sometimes a resulting depression. We pray for healing, longing for healthy bodies but know God’s story often coincides with our suffering. Yet, we long with eager expectation for the heavenly bodies we will receive when all things will be made new.

I painted this over a paint by number of Renoir’s ‘Luncheon of the Boating Party’ to signify the divide, or as my wife puts it The Fog, that lies between those who are in good health and those who are dealing with pain. Bordering each side of the image are x-rays that depict lower esophagitis, the chief source of pain for my son Kaiden. As I worked on this design I considered the regrowth of new flesh through cellular reproduction and thus you will see the pattern of cellular growth in the background. Lastly, the frame itself was constructed with the idea of icons or objects of prayer in mind. I thought about the small catholic prayer petition stations and desired to make an object that evoked intercessory prayer for those around us who experience chronic pain and broken bodies.

This week I had to come to an unwelcome decision - I’m not going to the L’Abri conference in Rochester where we reconnect with people each year. There have been some complications with healing - the incisions on my ankle have become infected and the bone regrowth is slower than we hoped so I’m not yet allowed to put weight on my leg. I thought around all the angles of how to make it work. Perhaps it was the vision of that long hallway with a slight downgrade that runs from the elevators to the ballroom where the lectures are held that made me face reality. I could see myself on my kneeler, brakes smoking, people jumping out of the way as I careened past. The logistics of being there ended up not being feasible.

I am disappointed. At times I have managed to be content with immobility and pain and I tell myself I am determined to learn more about accepting that this is where God has me for now, so relax. But the next moment I say, what the heck? And I toss it out in favor of being depressed with this mess of rotten bones.

Shaun’s painting proposes that we look with a keener eye and heart at bodies that suffer brokenness in this life. I’m looking.

The Perils of Pride

This week (Feb 6) TheNew Yorker published a humorous essay –  “Flight of the Concord” by Jeremy Denk, a classical pianist. It’s not about the French Concorde, nor the Flight of the Conchords, the crazy New Zealand music-comedy duo – it refers to a sonata by Charles Ives and Denk writes about the perils of the recording studio. Really worth reading, even for folks who have no idea what it means to "lay a track."

A critic heard Denk play Concord and insisted he needed to record it; “You’re having A Moment with it, and one never knows how long such things last.” Suddenly, Denk is prey to the idea that he can do this better than any other. And maybe he even did. He writes, “You might imagine that making a recording is a lovely occasion: you go to the studio with your entourage; there is banter; you lay down tracks, locate our groove; the producer gasps in admiration…”   

It’s that gasp of admiration I recognize. Denis gave me one at supper last night, about a pretty little thing. I’d gone to the kitchen about an hour before, looked in the pantry, pulled out wild rice, dried apricots and cranberries, a few other ingredients, toasted some pecans and dished up a savory main-dish salad. It gave me a flash of pleasure for having hit it just right. But that he concurred? Even better.

Is this universal?  That we have moments of thinking we can distill 50 lifetimes of thought and practice into X better than anyone else? I don’t think it’s wrong to find genuine pleasure in doing something well, or in receiving recognition for it, but I think my problem is hungering for that gasp because it cancels a sense of self-doubt. I don’t like to admit it, but it’s a sneaky form of pride.

Bruce Ray Smith’s insights during his battle for humility at least give me hope that I’m not alone in the struggle to ferret out the wounded pride that just crops up everywhere – in writing, raising children, or just living. I even want someone to tell me how well I pay the bills! In WinterLight, He writes,

“As for my pride, what is it I renounce? Myself: that grand self I imagined, an illusion, something which does not exist.

            I said no, I am saying no, to nothingness.”

And so, as we head over to a L’Abri conference that begins tomorrow morning I will be aware of that Grand Self that accompanies me. We will listen to a roster of eloquent speakers, people who love God and love to love people. One of my heroes, Jerram Barrs, will be there. I will plunk myself down among folks who’ve seen every relevant movie, read all books published in the last decade, understand quantum physics and how it applies to postmodern art – and oh, they can also remember all the details – but I will admonish the Grand Self, “You’re listening to a demented voice. They haven’t. They don’t. We all have broken hearts and that’s what this Christian thing is about. We can’t fix ourselves, but we can get a few pointers on which way to go for help.  

Honeysuckle and son drink together

     And so it goes. Unquenchable thirst. On and on and on and on. Two of Honeysuckle's sons are left. Jack-in-the-Pulpit awaits his new home. Jake and Joie Meador will be here for the L'Abri conference Feb. 17 and 18 and he will go home to Lincoln with them. Blackberry, the remaining son does not have a home yet. So if there is anyone out there who would like a clever little guy who can nibble your shoes and eat your apple cores and jump a barrier all at the same time ...  you may apply for ownership.

Good for now

 Sitting at home watching snow gently falling straight down, amassing by the second, almost white-out. Coffee at hand. Oatmeal pancakes digesting. A bit of glory between battles. 

L’Abri conference last weekend. Very good. Wonderful speakers. Especially Denis, of course. Despite the fact that I was relieved of teaching workshops I still talked my head off.  No, not totally true, I listened a lot. Lots of people, as usual – all good. That is, in the way of connecting with people. So much suffering, though. You hear people’s stories. But there seemed to be a balm, an infusion of courage, a seeing with new eyes that comes from being together and being reminded that we are a great company of people living and sharing in the hope of  Regeneration that is coming. Inexorably. It will arrive. On some days this language sounds insane, but not today when I read: “I was filled with delight day after day, rejoicing always in his presence, rejoicing in the whole world…” (Prov. 8:30)

Anita got really sick with the flu starting last Sunday – lasted all week. Amazingly, so far, neither Denis nor I got it. From this week’s cooking we’ve ended up with a lot of left-overs. Like mid-eastern lamb patties, roasted tomato mint salad, saffron rice, hamburger gravy (a comfort food around here) a box full of clementines, and who knows what all. So, yea, no work on this Sabbath day.

Tomorrow Honeysuckle gets sheared. Her wool must be six-seven inches long. And with temps in the 30s she’s feeling hotter n Hades. Panting out there on the back porch. 

Oatmeal Pancakes (with spleen)

With the L’Abri conference coming up this weekend, am prepping for workshop “Cast Iron Rises Again.” I was reminded last night of how often in the past week I’ve complained about PowerPoint, time, idiotic decisions like de-gunking your cast iron in the cleaning cycle of your electric oven, which takes three hours, and can’t be stopped once it starts and just when you need it to make the recipe you promised to bring to your daughter tomorrow so you stay up half the night finishing it. WHAT were you THINKING? No worries, though, just typical spleen for Margie. I’ll get there.

I’m posting a recipe. Perhaps the thought of pancakes with crispy edges and a middle melting in pure maple syrup will restore me to at least a pretence of godliness? Probably asking too much.

In the coming weeks I will regularly post one of the recipes I have used in my cast iron cookware. I know most people probably think pancakes are about it for the iron skillet, so it’s a good place to start.

These are pancakes with a bit of a twist. We really like them and everyone I serve them to snarfs them down and asks for more. First surprise: it is a gluten-free recipe, and oddly enough, it works so well it doesn’t matter if you’re trying to be gluten-free or not you’ll like them. The second surprise is that although I’m a scratch cook, the foundation for this recipe is a mix! Bob’s Red Mill Gluten-Free Cornbread mix. He also has a regular cornbread or corn muffin mix for those who’d rather try it with wheat. But these days with more people showing up with celiac disease it’s nice to have some standard g-f recipes in your choir. You’ll be amazed by how light and tasty these are.

Oatmeal Pancakes Gluten-free

1 ½ cups Bob’s Red Mill Gluten-Free Cornbread mix

¼ cup buckwheat flour* (optional)

1/3 cup oatmeal** mix with 1 cup water and microwave for 1-2 minutes.

1 egg

1 T. vinegar

¾ cup milk

Always begin every batch (of any kind of pancakes) by putting a little vinegar – white or apple cider is best – in a glass measuring cup or dish and adding the milk. Let it sour on the counter while you gather the rest of the ingredients. If you have buttermilk skip the vinegar thing.

Prepare the oatmeal and allow it to cool just a little.

In a bowl, mix the corn meal and buckwheat flour. Stir in the egg and the milk. Add the oatmeal. You don’t need to beat this batter, just make sure it is well mixed. The batter should be fairly thick and it will rise up even in the bowl to be very light. If you prefer a thinner pancake add more milk right from carton.

Heat the skillet to medium high and add a little oil or butter to the pan and when it’s hot, spoon small dollops of pancake batter. Adjust heat a little so they don’t burn. Turn when the bottom is nicely browned.

Serve with maple syrup or strawberry jam and sour cream. Serves 3.

Leftovers with peanut butter and honey make good snacks.

*Buckwheat: You don’t want too much for a small batch of pancakes. It really punches up the flavor. Find it at a whole foods type store. In bulk it’s cheap.

**Oatmeal: Don’t use the pre-packaged instant. Yuck. Use regular or thick-cut for more texture. Again, available in bulk. Organic is good.

Deviled eggs and such

This last weekend Trinity had a good-bye for Sandy Oster. Pending sale of her house, she’s moving to Auckland, NZ, to teach nurse practitioners and join Travis and Brooke’s core group to begin a church in central Auckland. She’s been a close friend since 1987.

The open house was at L’Abri - Nancy did most of the work and I helped.



Prisca and Erin waiting for water to boil and tea to steep.



I thought some orange-y spray roses in teapots would be the thing for Sandy since she was an "A" student helping at Mrs Schaeffer’s high teas back in the day. I’m not so good at tea sandwiches and teeny tiny yittle goodies. More of an AR-ARRR-AR cook. Maybe I’m lazy. I decided to make deviled eggs. Easy.



Denis helped by squishing the filling through a cake decorator thing. Lots of grown-ups like them in spite of years of avoiding eggs, so do kids. They snarf them faster than you can replenish the platter. To deter the little boogers for a second or two I added a sliced olive on top of each. I could see them pause, then recalculate: “I can REMOVE that.” Lots of people dropped in to wish her well.



Here are some of the folk, and Emmaclaire, my fave baby, who dropped by. We're going to miss Sandy a whole lot.

I think there are times when being single is an especially hard, lonely business. It’s difficult enough for a couple to sort, throw, sell, store, keep when moving. Sure, two might argue over what, but when it’s just you deciding about each item and you’re closing down a home…there is something more sorrowful and isolating about the process.

I can’t be as much physical help, but we’re looking forward to the next few weeks, having Sandy join us for supper each evening, and maybe staying with us until the house sells and the remains of the day get put in a container and shipped to New Zealand.