The Lasting Effects of Chocolate Cake

I am standing in my kitchen, frosting a huge dark chocolate fudge cake with Chocolate Lover's frosting, from the frosting recipe on the back of the Hershey Cocoa can.

I am an artist and food is one of my favorite mediums. I must make this cake half a dozen times a year. Whenever the kids see me frosting it they start bouncing off the walls, shouting incoherent silliness about "Mommy's chocolate cakes"...

"You're doing a great thing there, with that cake," Derek suddenly states. I didn't know he was watching me and now I am self-conscious of my sweeping strokes, and sneaked tastes.

He is quiet. I look up and gesture for him to elaborate. "I mean, this isn't just a chocolate cake. This is a memory, a tradition. This is something that the kids will always remember. One day, when they call to say their coming home from college for the weekend, I'll tell them, 'Your mom made a cake', and they'll feel just as loved and excited then as they do now."

He's right. They are excited.

Carson is bouncing around the kitchen, sneaking tastes of frosting from the bowl, which I see but keep to myself, and offering to get the dessert plates and forks, to help, to be a part of the fun of cutting and serving it. We always serve chocolate cake on small fancy glass plates, with small dessert forks.

Lane is shoveling the rest of his dinner into his mouth at lightning speed. After all, delectable desserts cannot be eaten unless your plate is cleaned.

Matthew is clearing his glass dinner plate from the table. It lands in the sink with a resounding crash, causing all of us to jump. Poor kid. He can't help it that the top of his head just barely reaches the counter top. I decide not to say anything about tossing glass into the sink. Not many 4 year olds clear their plates without being asked. And he's not used to having glass - we just started giving him a regular dinner plate instead of plastic.

I absolutely love to cook and bake. Any person who has ever been to my house knows this. I absolutely love good food. But my favorite? Cooking good food for my family. For me, it is one of the most tangible ways that I can show love to them.

Of course, good food does have it's cost. On my hips and thighs (sigh). But for me, it's a small price to pay. I am investing, daily, in the lives and memories of my family. And learning to only have a small slice...

One day they will look back upon their childhood with nostalgia for all those favorite dishes that remind them of love and make them feel known and nurtured.

With that in mind, I welcome with open arms the lasting effects of chocolate cake.

Turkish Delight: A Mother's Day

Derek recently asked me what I would do if he took the kids out and about to have fun and I had a whole day to myself.

First, I told him, I'd faint. I wouldn't believe it was true. I would watch them pulling out of the driveway in the minivan to go to oh, I don't know, the zoo followed by the park followed by a movie followed by ice cream followed by bowling and putt putt golf...and upon contemplating the wild and often fantasized about complete freedom that the next 12 hours seemed to unbelievably promise, I'd probably pass out from the weight, the sheer volume of all that glorious time to myself. Untold riches to a stay at home mom who is currently in rare form by homeschooling.

When I came to, lying sideways on the driveway with my arm asleep and pinned backwards under my body, drooling, with a slight sunburn on my right cheek and an ant crawling up my forehead I'd immediately check my watch in order to assess how much time I had left.

Then I'd go back to bed. I'd sleep and sleep and sleep, neverminding all the laundry that was whining in the baskets or the dishes that were dying to be put away. I would sleep the way I did when I was 15.

Until noon.

After awhile, I'd wake up and eat the rest of the Ben & Jerry's Mud Pie ice cream I'd stashed behind the frozen corn the night before when I got home from the grocery store (and then ate half of it and watched "The Real Housewives of New York" while Derek took a shower, switching it back to the news when he walked back in the room). I think I'd eat it in bed. For breakfast. Then, after yawning and stretching really loudly and maybe doing a downward dog or two, I'd take a really long, indulgently steamy shower and I'd shave my legs and exfoliate my skin. I'd stay in there, writing my name in the condensation on the shower door, like I used to before I was a mom and took speed showers while yelling threats about not choking your sister out the door. I'd write my name in big, looping cursive letters -J-i-l-l-i-a-n- and I'd finish it off with a little flower. Then I might write some other things, or play M.A.S.H., or try my hand at calligraphy. Finally, when all the hot water was gone, I'd get out. I'd stay in a towel for at least an hour and a half, doing a clay mask on my face and painting my toenails with two coats and a topcoat, plucking my eyebrows to unparalleled perfection and even trying out some different facial expressions to impress the checkout clerk at the grocery store the next time she said she couldn't take my coupon. I'd pretend talking to her in all sorts of voices, finally deciding on a really lofty stare, my voice dripping with the condescension that would surely make her quiver in terror while she subtracted one more dollar from my grocery bill.

I'd get dressed in another pair of pajamas, leave all my dirty clothes and wet towel on the bathroom floor, ignore my unmade bed, mosey on into the kitchen and have some coffee with Ben & Jerry's Phish Food ice cream in it, instead of half n half.

Then I'd watch the news. And a quilting show. And a cooking show. And an extra long special on the history channel about the history of medicine and it's contributions to overpopulation. I'd watch some ridiculously liberal political talk show and argue belligerently with the television, putting them all in their place. Then I'd check out the sci-fi channel and watch the latest movie, "Centurion Centipedes" before finally switching to HGTV and leaving it there, yes, leaving the television on, all day while I was in other rooms.

I'd go outside and water my vegetable garden and pick a few weeds. I'd stop and contemplate the way the wind was rushing through the leaves on the trees and I'd run inside for my journal and spend an hour lounging on the trampoline and writing a poem about it.

I'd come back in and play with my fabrics, working out a brightly contrasting palette for a new throw quilt. I'd piece it together with my sewing machine and play Cindy Lauper or Celine Dion or Amy Grant or Taylor Swift on the CD player as loud as it would go.

Then I would change and go for a really long run beside the river, taking my time stretching and warming up, jogging slowly underneath the trees, nodding politely at approaching runners and pedestrians, breathing deeply of the sunny afternoon air. I'd run 6 miles, just to see if I could. When I was finished I'd sit by the river for awhile and watch people and dogs and birds, thinking of ideas for a good novel, daydreaming about international travel.

Back at home, while taking another long and luxurious shower, I'd sing the National Anthem as an opening for the World Series. I'd sing it a few times in different keys, just so I could get it right. After I got out I'd put some more pajamas on.

And then I'd read. I'd start a new book and I'd read all afternoon and into the evening. I'd read on the couch and in bed and in the chair out on the patio. I'd read on the futon and in a bubble bath. I'd read until the sun started to set. Then I would go outside and sit in the backyard on a soft blanket and I'd watch the sun go down. All by myself. I'd listen to the crickets as they began their nightly disco, I'd watch the tiny bats come out and fly around in the dusky air, I'd contemplate building a pergola onto the back of the house and extending my garden a couple feet more, I'd pick long pieces of grass and braid them, I'd examine my fingers for signs of old age, I'd hum the Moonlight Sonata, and watch as the sun and moon high fived each other and traded shifts.

I'd go inside and then, in the pause between commercials on HGTV and Love Songs with Delilah on 92.9, I'd hear the minivan drive up in the driveway.

I'd sigh over a day so rarely and well spent, I'd smile because they were home, and I'd jump up and run out to kiss Derek and tuck my babies into bed, realizing that the whole day I never even said one word.

That's what I'd do.

Harry Potter and the Search for the Perfect Church

I recently finished reading the Harry Potter series. Consequently, our family has also begun an exhausting search for a home church here in Tulsa.

What in the world do these two things have to do with each other?

Glad you asked.

In being an incessant reader, a voracious consumer of classical and modern fiction, I have learned something. It's something you've probably heard your whole life in reference to everything except books, but there it is: You must never judge a book by it's cover. And it's true. Some of my favorite novels are nondescript volumes that I found on dusty shelves in the back of some funky old thrift store with dead cockroaches littering the aisles. Most of these were missing a dust jacket, if they were even fortunate enough to be a hardcover book, and spotted with mold, or food, or yellowed with age. In such a way did I stumble across one of my favorite stories, "The Last Unicorn" by Peter S. Beagle. I think I've probably read that book half a dozen times but it's not much to look at. On the other hand, some of the most beautifully bound, glossy surfaced thirty-dollar books are the biggest wastes of time and energy I have ever endured. I am thinking of a book I read last year about Dracula (don't ask). I don't even think you could call this a book - it was more of a tome. At least 600 pages and it came with a gorgeous cover and glowing reviews and it was a big fat endless waste of my time. I can't believe I bought it, but what's more, I can't believe I finished it. Insane.

For me, Harry Potter was the same way. I found the first book in the series at a garage sale for 25 cents. The cover was tattered, there was a yellow stain on the side, and it was laying in the grass, but I knew all the fame the series had generated and I thought, what the heck. I'll read the first one and see what I think. As an avid reader and aspiring writer I consider it my responsibility to read a lot of what's out there, not only to see what is being created in the fiction world, but also, as a christian, to gauge the temperature of the culture. You can tell a lot about this country by what's on the bestseller list. Of course, I do have my limits. There are certain authors I'll never read. With Harry Potter though, there was more curiosity than usual to add to my normal literary appetite.

I had heard for years polar opposite opinions on the series. Lots of christians believe it's a horribly witchcrafty series that glamourizes the dark side. Lots of other people, many christians included, believe it to be a fun and wonderfully imaginative fantasy collection with wild plots and all the fun of magic. I have noticed that many people who strongly disagree with the content in the books have never read any of them. I am of the school of thought that you aren't allowed to discuss a book unless you've read it or at least a significant enough portion of it to get the overall gist. If you disagree, I will think no less of you (unless of course, you haven't read the books).

As for me and the controversial Harry Potter, I didn't stop with book 1. I personally loved the series. I found the books unpredictable, well-written, excitingly imaginative and full of loveable and tangible characters. When I finished the series I had a day of mourning. I was sad to let go of Harry and Ron, Hermione and Ginny, Neville and Professor Dumbledore. If you read the series and enjoyed it, then you know just what I mean. It reminded me of the sadness I felt when I said goodbye to Laura Ingalls Wilder in the Little House on the Prairie series, or when I bid farewell to Anne Blythe in the final installment of the Anne of Green Gables collection. Finally, I remember the nostalgia I had in reading the final book of The Chronicles of Narnia. I wished wished wished that I could somehow whisk myself into that magical world of talking creatures and ancient magic and endless possibilities. This was the same sense I got in reading the Harry Potter series. Yes, it was full of magic and sorcery, there was evil and some scary stuff, also I found a couple of bad words toward the end books (I guess when Harry had more of a teenage audience), but there was a lot of good too and on the whole it was a wonderful escape into a new and intricate world where magic was not only an occupation but a whole culture and country to discover. The people who lived there were quite like those I talk to every day, their personalities unmistakeable, their human nature as intact as ever it could be, and the plots were wonderful. They swept me up into realms of good and evil, death and life, tough love, the power of friendship, the deceptions of power, and on and on and on. Like any good fiction, they were able to bring me up out of my life while teaching me the moral of the story in the meantime. And, like any good fiction, though the setting was fantastical, they had truth in them. So I think you get the gist. I absolutely loved them. While I think some of the content will need to be discussed with my children when they are old enough to read these books, I see no reason why I will not let them read them.

And this brings me to our search for a church. I've been judging them by their covers, you see. We've tried out so many churches by now, and usually they were the glossy ones. But none of them have really been "the one" yet. I went to a church that had a really good website but I accidentally sat in some old guy's usual seat and he glared at me almost the entire service. I went to another church that seemed like the right one until they kicked us out of the service for bringing our 4 year old into the sanctuary and weren't very nice about it. We've been to a few others, and a couple of them were actually great churches but they weren't for us. I thought I was being too critical. But at the same time, there's nothing wrong with having high standards - I mean it's what helped me marry a good man and not go off the deep end during my teenage years (well, not totally) and decide to stay home with my kids, etc...

Anyhow, I've decided to be more systematic. I've decided to think like a guy engineer. I have a list of churches and we will thoroughly explore each one until we find one that feels like it wants to be our home church. Sometimes you have to go back a few times before you realize it's not the one. That's the exhausting part. Church searching is much like what dating must be like. I never did too much dating so I guess I don't know. I am trying to keep in mind my best loved, dog-eared, tattered books. We are determined not to lose heart. Somewhere in the thrift store of this garage sale world, there is a mediumish sized church with hymns and contemporary songs, young and old people, red, yellow, black and white, cool and uncool, fat and skinny, and life. Being alive is something a church must do. A church that offers spiritual alignment, prayer, friendship, encouragement, ministry opportunity, global perspective, people in jeans and slacks and....life. Blazing, radiant I'mhappytoloveGod LIFE. That's what we're looking for. Do you think my standards are too high? Well I did come from an amazing church that had all those things but I don't think my standards too high.

I think I'm just searching for that dusty book sprawled on the back shelf that's hiding a world of wonder inside. That's all. And I'd like to get it for a quarter.

The Great Switcharoo

The Great Switcharoo

You trudged that lonely hill to find

A foresworn play of cacophonic Grace

In all that noise, the lonely Mind

And ailing curses in their place

Of love were You born, and loved to death

Were sent for stricken, choked off breath

Sweat provoking the smaller flies

That flew and spat and smote Your cries

In foreward angle, foreordained

A backward glance at broken lanes

(in gardens of old, now guarded by flames)

Outside it all You once stood regal

Inside You folded down with beetles

And smaller things, like reverent rust

Found despair's asthmatic trust

Was broken for my sake, and bent

Grave-bound and sold for an earthquaked Lent

Their acid burn of condescension

Did we forget You commanded legions?

A fleet to guard the human race

At Your small word to slash in haste

Or remember when You giant-sang?

And stones slayed monolithic slang?

Always the fool to silence the wise

Always the quieter Babylon demise

But there on crooked creaking beams

That still grow strong from ancient seeds

You, raised to look out, halfway-dead

On the many-haired and numbered heads

Found ashes to Your enveloping beauty

My harlotry known from Advent's ready

We were meant to stand there small, below

And catch from You fresh crimson flow.

The old song meeting on intersection

The new cup of promised resurrection

And on folded knees at the foot of that Moat

We were built to hope for that only Hope.

-Jillian Rose

In the Garden

I am daydreaming about gardens lately.

Having just moved to Oklahoma where there is actually a real winter, after living in Florida for most of my life, I am prancing around in utter excitement for the anticipation of a real live spring! Winter has been nice, but spring oh spring, I can hardly wait for all the green...

I have been planning my spring garden the last few weeks. Well, I may as well be honest; I've been planning my spring garden since pretty much the second I ripped my old one out in Florida in September of last year. I can't help it - I love gardening! There is something so profound, so spiritual and enlightening, so philosophical and energizing about being a part of the process of Creation. I love the act of planting a seed in the soil with the knowledge that it must die there a quarter of an inch under the dirt's surface, in the dark, and only centimeters away from it's rebirth. I love the sight of tiny seedlings unfurling themselves slowly and sleepily from the ground and reaching their tiny tips toward the sun. I am picturing myself running my fingers over the tops of the tips of these baby plants, something I always do when they have sprouted - it feels as though I'm running my fingers through my garden's fuzzy baby scalp.

I love the process of growth, which involves thinning plants that are weak, cultivating the stems and branches that seem to be most productive and healthy, and pruning those that aren't. It is a wonderful and humbling partnership of working alongside the ancient magic that was so artistically instilled in Creation. During the spring and summer months I absolutely cannot stay away from my garden and will usually lure any kind of guest we may have outside to show them my adorable little jalapenos or my cheerful morning glories. If you know me well at all, you have most likely been the victim of my enthusiasm and a flashlight for a late night garden tour. Call me sappy, sentimental, overly in tune with my green thumb, but I won't care. I am completely in love with growing things and I do believe there is no known cure.

So of course, it only follows suit that right now the air hockey table has been overcome with seedling flats. It's also only natural that I'm quite protective of my baby lettuces and tiny tomato plants, so I am often checking on them to make sure their soil is moist, they are getting enough light through the window and standing tall in their little dirt-filled cubes.

In thinking all of these gardening thoughts, my contemplation naturally turns itself to more internal channels of growth. I am also taking stock of my soul in these pre-spring weeks. It seems there are things growing in there too, some good and in need of a little more cultivation, and others might need to be taken down a notch or two with some pruning shears. I've noticed lately that I'm a pretty impatient person. I don't know if I ever would have realized how impatient I am had I not started homeschooling Carson. Homeschooling is such a huge sacrifice for most people who do it that I think it probably brings most faults to the surface pretty quick. I've been trying to chill out a bit, let her really learn something and enjoy it before moving on at lightning speed like I normally would. It's been really good and I can tell she feels better understood and loved.

What about you? In the coming weeks, as winter hands the baton to her teammate spring, who seems to be more of a people person, are you analyzing the internal compartments of your life? I challenge you to do so. Lift the lid on dusty boxes in your heart and take stock. Find good reason, in the season of winter, to plan enthusiastically for all the green that is to come. Let the seasons of your life align themselves peacefully in an order that is beautifully set up by your Creator. Become a gardener in the farthest recesses of your ambitions, stroking into full bloom those most lovely aspirations and severing quickly the habits and weeds that will only hold you captive. A scripture came to mind as I wrote that last sentence: "Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us." (Hebrews 12:1)
My garden in the winter is a desperate sight to behold. There is no indication that anything green would ever want to live there. But beyond what can be seen, there are tiny root systems working their way throgh the nutritious loam, that will one day break free of the dark and grow increasingly toward light and productivity. May we work consistently to do the same, ever stretching our roots down deeper into the foundation of a Creator who loves us and made us with a smile on His face, and only stretching up from the dark and into the piercing, life-giving, warm Light.