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My turkey story

Apparently, turkeys are like babies and weddings. Everyone has a traumatic story wisdom from a past experience and is just waiting for an excuse to share it. Once people knew I wanted to roast my own turkey, friends were mostly encouraging at first. I heard a chorus of “You can do it!” and started to believe it myself.

But then, the warnings began:

  • “Make sure you get a fresh turkey.” Oh, wait, I already bought a frozen one. Oops. I thought I was doing good just to think about getting my turkey before the stores ran out of them. (Note: It was actually Harry that remembered.)
  • “Don’t forget to brine it. That’s how they have the best flavor. Brining.” Oh, wait, you can’t brine a turkey that’s been frozen. Continue reading “My turkey story”
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Growing up

I bought a turkey today for the first time. The frozen, Butterball kind that you have to thaw in advance. It’s 14 pounds. I may have pulled a muscle dragging it out of Fred Meyer. I’m kind of excited.

Harry and I are both only children, so even a holiday with both of our immediate families is small. Harry remembers a lot of Thanksgivings where the table was covered with Mexican food — did I mention he’s from Texas? Continue reading “Growing up”

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Being uncomfortable

Here’s the post I deleted from Facebook:

Proofreading an academic paper on child soldiers in The Congo. Man. I need a hug. (I’ve already had an oversized molasses cookie.)

Ugh. I’m a little disgusted to even write it here.

My counselor would say it’s not my fault that children in The Congo are forced to join the army, that they are raped and beaten while I sit in a nice coffee shop uncomfortably cold in the A/C, consuming $5-worth of Peach Ginger tea and an oversized cookie someone else made for me. Continue reading “Being uncomfortable”

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A time to say goodbye

Don’t worry, Mom. We’re not moving again.

But, we sure have done a lot of that in the last few years — four years to be exact. It was four years ago this month that we put our house on the market in Nashville. Since then, we’ve had two seasons as nomad-fundraisers, two years in India, a very unsettled year in Nashville and a little over six months in Seattle.

I’ve learned a lot about saying goodbye — none of it the easy way. A few random thoughts that Harry promises me aren’t too preachy: Continue reading “A time to say goodbye”

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I remember September 11

I — like you — remember September 11th, 2001. I was a senior in college at Vanderbilt University in Nashville. I was walking across campus from an early class back to my dorm and I overheard something about a plane hitting a building in New York and thought it sounded weird at the time.

It wasn’t until I got back to the suite that I shared with five other girls that I realized the enormity of it all. There was no denying the heaviness.

A month before, I had flown back from Europe to Nashville after a six-week study abroad program in London. That would be the last time I skipped over customs when entering Germany. (But that’s another story for another day.) Continue reading “I remember September 11”

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Learning to live

Sometimes it’s better not to think too much.

I am the worst kind of planner — the kind who thinks it’s actually possible to have a perfect plan, the kind who feels a sense of failure when the plan doesn’t work, thinking if I could only plan a bit better, I would always be in control of everything and everyone life would always be comfortable and pain-free.

If I had thought about all of the things that could go wrong on my adventure in the city, I wouldn’t have met the guy from East Africa who was waiting for bus #36 or noticed that Psychadeli Cafe was selling freshly made masala dosas for $6 (by the way, these cost like 50 cents in India and my mouth is watering just thinking about them). I also wouldn’t have stood at the wrong bus stop for 30 minutes wondering why my bus never showed and remembering how to assess my safety and considered the challenges homeless people must face. Continue reading “Learning to live”

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Remembering India

I heard the familiar Skype “ding.” I am working toward a writing deadline. So, of course, I looked right away to see who it was.

It was an Indian pastor — we’ll call him Pastor P — I met a little over two years ago on a trip to Mumbai. He plants churches in the slums. Mumbai is home to some of the largest slums in the world. It was the setting for Slum Dog Millionaire. The slums in India are difficult to imagine (or recall to memory) while surrounded by comfortable American homes. Most of them are the size of a small or medium-sized American bathroom and a whole family lives there together. Sleeping on top of each other. No indoor plumbing. No electricity. Continue reading “Remembering India”

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Learning to run

Disclaimer: I have no body image wisdom. I want to say that I’ve learned to see myself the way the Lord sees me and think of myself as beautifully and wonderfully made, but alas, it can sometimes be a daily struggle not to hate my body. I was a late bloomer to my awareness of body image issues, but I’m right there with the rest of us. 

Somehow I missed the day in school when they talk about how you’re going to start gaining weight and feel sloppy after some time if you don’t do something about it — even if you start your life and make it through high school and college without your body changing too much.

Well, I guess maybe I heard older women complain about the dreaded “metabolism,” but they were older. I was younger. So, I figured that was the difference.

Oh, wait. I’m 32 now. Hmmm. Continue reading “Learning to run”

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Whate’er my God ordains is right

I wrote some about grief in my last post and will probably write more another time. In fact, you may get tired of hearing me talk about grief, because it’s something God is using to strip away the parts of my soul He wants to restore.

Allowing myself to grieve is submitting to the life God is giving me. And, no, it’s not easy or passive. It’s painful. A submission of my mind and will to see my circumstances as God’s faithful provision. A stark contrast to my instinctive toddler response of sitting in the middle of the living room, screaming, “I don’t want this. Give me what I want and give it to me now!” or the one where I’m withdrawn, curled up in bed and can’t remember the steps to starting my day.

I love this hymn, Whate’er my God Ordains is Right. I’ve posted the words below. Continue reading “Whate’er my God ordains is right”

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The box

We moved almost three months ago, our third move since May 2012. I’ve gotten pretty good at unpacking. It didn’t take long. What I have forgotten how to do is settle in. The only things left to unpack are boxes of books and mementos I couldn’t throw away.

This weekend, I opened a box of notebooks and binders. Some of those crazy things have been moving with me since I lived in the house on Circle Drive with the people who’ve known me the longest.

Notes from classes I liked. And a few I didn’t.

Most of the contents can be traced back to college (which ended 11 years ago). But, they’ve always been in a box. And always out of sight. Continue reading “The box”