Anyone Can Cook

I had everything for a sandwich out on the counter when I decided I wasn't in the mood for salami. I decided to prove to myself (and the world) that I can cook!

"Anyone can cook," as Gusteau in Ratatouille says.

I have never met Gusteau, as evidenced by his statement that anyone can cook. I think I fall in the category Remy argues, "Anyone can cook but that doesn't mean anyone should!"

I decided on a very basic meal and assembled my ingredients. I was in luck! We had everything.

So I began, step by step to assemble my--never mind, I'm not telling you what I didn't actually make.

It's not that I didn't want lunch. It's not that I didn't how to make lunch. It's not that I couldn't make lunch. No, it was the thoughts and questions rolling around in the back of my head.

How do I know when it's done? When it looks like you'll eat it. But what if it isn't done all of the way? What if I get food poisoning and die? It's not working. This isn't what it's supposed to look like. I did something wrong. This isn't safe.

So I changed what I was making. Bonus points for thinking on my feet, right? Yet the questions and doubts continued.

This doesn't look right. Will I smell it if it starts burning? What if I burn the house down? Where is the fire extinguisher? Is it supposed to do that? I don't think this is right. I'm not eating this.

I gave up. I turned off the stove, poured my epic fail into a garbage bag, and took it out to the street. Salami sandwich it would be.

You better learn to like P, B, and J because that's what you'll be eating for the rest of your life. Your kids will be the one with the mom who can't cook. You better make a lot of money so you can afford to eat out regularly because PBJ and frozen lasagnas are going to get old fast. Gusteau lied.

I wasn't sure if I wanted to smack something in frustration or cry in embarrassment. Maybe both.

The kitchen was littered with the dishes from my lunch fail and I sat at the table pouting, salami sandwich on my plate.

Katie.
Not in the mood, God.
Why are you listening to the enemies lies?
You mean the truths?
They're lies. You can cook.
Do you not smell that? Were you not watching me make a mess?
You are a mess. But a beautiful mess. Do you want to know what you did wrong?
I know what I did wrong: I tried to cook.
You didn't wait. Everything you did--except switching "recipes" in the middle--was correct. But you didn't wait. Cooking takes time. Learning to cook takes time.
If You're going to tell me it's like fishing, I don't want to hear it. Not a fisherman, fisherwoman nor a fisher-of-women. Sorry.
Why are you swallowing the lies? Toss them out like you did that half-cooked meal. Be done with them. All of them.

Believe and Trust

Especially in my last days at school, I spent my share of time crying in Neal's office (our campus minister).  I'd usually go in for chit chat and a hug, the conversation would change, and all of the sudden I was crying... again.  Shortly after that, we'd get to a point in when I no longer had a response, an argument.

I would sit and listen while he encouraged me truths about God.  We both acknowledged they were things I already knew but needed reminding.  I had no choice but to nod and agree as he spoke.  If my voice was strong enough or if I felt like I'd been quiet too long, I'd find the strength to whisper,

"I believe that."

It might have been more to convince myself than to convince him.

A few months later, I learned the New Testament word for believe: pisteuo.  It's a verb that can also be translated, "To put one's faith in" or "to trust."

Looking back, part of me feels like I was lying every time I told Neal, "I believe that."  Sure, I knew the truths he was speaking were indeed true.  I acknowledged them, I accepted them, but I was having a hard time trusting them.

After all, if I weren't struggling with trust, I would not have been in his office in tears.

It's hard to trust God when He's forcing you to give up a place you love long before you feel it's time to leave.  It's hard to trust God has a plan when all you're getting is rejection letters.

Honestly, not knowing what happens immediately after graduation, not having a plan makes me feel like a failure.

Maybe in an earthly sense I am.

But, I am leaning a lot about pisteuo.  A lot about belief and trust.  A lot about hope and peace.  A lot about clinging to God.

And that can never be called "failure."

I believe that!

<>< Katie

PS: I learned the word pisteuo from Ann Voskamp's One Thousand Tomorrows.  If you haven't read it, then I suggest you check it out.

ILYTM

In my family, we love Post-It notes.  They decorate our house with their plethora of colors and meanings.  A Post-It on the liquor cabinet contains a phone message.  A Post-It at one's spot on the kitchen table means "Do this as soon as you're done eating breakfast."  A Post-It on the fridge says, "Mom, please go to the store."  A Post-It on the light switch at the top of the stairs stakes claims for the first shower in the morning.  The Post-Its on my bedroom door, bedside table, and pillow are my personal favorite.  They all read the same thing.  I know my sisters each have a collection of the same Post-Its.  That makes them a lie but a cherished lie.

Every time Dad leaves overnight on a business trip or something, he leaves four identical notes across the house.  While we were growing up, they were always tucked in the collars of polo shirts and left on pillows.  What we did with these shirts showed our varying personalities.  Christina wore hers as a nightgown every night until Dad's return.  Laura cuddled with hers like a blanket, enjoying Dad's smell all night long.  I was the first to lose my polo shirt privilege thanks to the constant questioning of whether or not it was clean.

At the end of Dad's trip, the polo was returned, washed, and worn.  The Post-It became a bookmark.  A trophy.  A reminder.

I love you the most.  Dad.

Of course, he can't love four people the most, but he claims he can.  That means we can all claim Dad loves us the most and we have the note to prove it.  After all, he always says his favorite number is "one-two-three."  As Number One, I think he loves me the most since he says my number first.

Happy Father's Day! 
Dad, I love you the most!
<>< Katie

The Pledge

I was already wearing khaki pants when I pulled on the gray polo with my alma mater's name embroidered on it.  I grabbed the navy blue polar fleece pull-over just in case the temperature dropped.  As I was walking out the door, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and couldn't help but laugh.  For years I complained about wearing a uniform to school every day and now here I am, years later, putting it on by choice.  At least it wasn't Friday.  It must be the private school advantage: we know how to dress ourselves in red, white, and blue.

Just for kicks and giggles, I contemplated writing the Honor Code on the top of my test.  "I pledge I will not lie, cheat, or steal.  Nor will I tolerate those who do."  For nine long years "I pledge..." was written at the top of every test I took accompanied by my signature that sometimes included all of the letters to my name.

Now, here I am, years removed from the pledge, the uniform, and the salmon colored bricks, yet they are forcing their way back into my life one collared polo at a time.  Some habits die hard, I guess.  However, it dawned on me today that it's all a lie.  I cheat.  I steal.  I tolerate it from myself and from others.

I am a writer.

I stretch the truth or make it up completely, I steal material from every day conversations, and I tolerate this only because I am a writer; this is what I'm paid to do.  Lying, cheating, and stealing are encouraged.

Eves drop.  Put something in your purse that doesn't exactly belong there (as long as it's only words, Grandma!). Let the tales of others appear in your work.  Don't feel bad about it.  After all, "The Code's more like guidelines than actual rules."

Ok, maybe that's a bit of hyperbole.  That doesn't mean real life is off-limits.  For example, a green laser was repeatedly shot across campus and directly into my eyes apartment this evening.  It gave me a nice headache.  When I write about this, the owner of the green laser pointer will be strangled and his laser buried at the bottom of the lake.  Just sayin'.

Lie, cheat, and steal material in the name of fiction.  Ok, I promise I won't do it while wearing the plaid skirt that makes me look like a Catholic school girl.

<>< Katie

Amazing Love

Six consecutive days and the daily blogging has come to an end. I'm terribly sorry, but I was only home for a grand total of nine hours yesterday (8.5 of them being before 8:30 in the morning). It's ok; it was a fun day!

There's a worship song entitled "Amazing Love" that almost everyone has sung at some point in time. I grew up singing it and don't even know who wrote it. Part of the song goes, "I'm forgiven because You were forsaken. I'm accepted, You were condemned. I'm alive and well, Your spirit is within me because You died and rose again."

I'm forgiven. Check. You were forsaken. Check. I'm accepted. Uncheck.

It's a great song, and I hear it all the time, but sometimes I feel bad singing it. Sometimes I feel like I'm lying to God. Those words, "I am accepted" don't roll off this tongue very well. I always hesitate because there are many days when I don't feel accepted. Many days when I'm picked on, laughed at, and rejected. Singing "I'm accepted" seems untrue.

The next line always catches me, "You were condemned." Maybe I'm not every one's favorite person (Maybe that's for good reason), but I have no been condemned. I haven't had my life threatened. I haven't been forced to die on a wooden cross. Maybe I'm not accepted, but I'm definitely not condemned. Thank God for that. :-D Instead, "I'm alive and well". How so? "Your spirit is within me." Why? "You died and rose again."

"I'm forgiven
because You were forsaken.
I'm accepted.
You were condemned.
I'm alive and well
Your spirit lives with me
Because You died and rose again.

"Amazing love, how can it be?
That You, my King, should die for me?
Amazing love, I know it's true,
and it's my joy to honor You in all I do.
In all I do, I'll honor You.
You are my King.
Jesus, You are my King."

Accepted or Rejected by men, accepted by Him. He is my King.

In Christ,
<>< Katie

"Whenever you are arrested and brought to trial, do not worry beforehand about what to say. Just say whatever is given you at the time, for it is not you speaking, but the Holy Spirit." Mark 13:11