on the banks of lake tahoe

   

      To the bird on the branch—

                     we are alike, you and I.
       You flit from twig to twig
       just as I flit through the day,
       each searching for the surprise blessing
              that awaits,
       discovering with delight the God who is
              the whole tree.
 
To the chipmunk in the rocks—
              we are alike, you and I.
       Exploring, enjoying, making our way
       around boulders and in shadowed nooks,
       anxious to be our whole selves
              and do our work
       just as God made us to do,
       though all we can see is the next right step.
 
To the two jays, brightly blue—
              we are alike, you and I.
       You converse in high and low pitch,
       back and forth in endless squawks,
       just as I seek to be heard in relationship
              to the ones I hold most dear.
       We learn and converse uniquely,
       and find that God is the space between
              and in all we have to say.
 
To the lake, shining and full—
              we are alike, you and I.
       Sometimes blown by the wind,
              stirred and anxious in the chaos around us;
       sometimes settled and serene,
       inviting our Creator to see into the depths
              he created,
       and show us ourselves, colored as a mirror by heaven.
 
Jesus—
              we are alike, you and I.
       Wholly and holy human,
       Beloved before God the Father,
       seen and known for all that we are, and in communion
              with every grace-filled breath,
       alive by the Spirit who is the wind and fire of God

                    in every living thing.

baking bread, breaking bread

If you haven’t watched the Netflix documentary mini-series Cooked yet, go do it now.  Seriously – go binge it immediately.  Take a friend with you.  Then (please) come back and read this. 

Cooked is the visual rendition of Michael Pollen’s new book on the way the four elements of nature—fire, water, air, and earth—have influenced the history of human cooking and culture.  It is fascinating.  Now that you’ve watched it (because of course you did... 😉), you will undoubtedly understand my strong desire of late to bake my own bread, and lots of it. 

Have you ever pounded the palm of your floured hand into a ball of yeasted dough?  Or smelled a fresh free-form loaf come out of the oven, when you can still hear the crust crackling?  Have you broken warm pieces amongst friends and family at the dinner table, sipping red wine or perhaps dipping them into a bowl of homemade soup?  Store-bought bread is great, and I still enjoy picking up local artisan loaves when I need to.  But pulling your own homemade bread out of the steaming oven and letting the smell waft through the kitchen as people walk in asking, “You baked bread?!”… that’s pretty heavenly.  Now I can even more fully appreciate when Jesus said, “I am the bread of life.”  Sustenance for the body, yes; but sustenance for the spirit too.  The baking and the breaking of bread is an entire joyous, communal experience.

Case in point:  We spent the last full week of June this year with our family in Utah.  At Bear Lake, in fact—near where Matt and I got married almost five years ago.  It was wonderful.  In six days I got to bake ten loaves of bread for 19 people.  On three separate occasions, I made two loaves of honey oat bread for toast and sandwiches (Cora and Josh expertly spread the honey on top)...  

And on Thursday night, four simple boule loaves came out of the oven to go with Matt’s signature gazpacho.  (These have been a hit at work, too – the kids I nanny have christened them “Bre Bread”… though I’m fairly certain anyone can mix together flour, yeast, salt, and water.  That’s literally all there is to it!).

    

I loved when everyone got excited about a fresh loaf and could hardly wait for it to cool to cut into it.  I loved that people asked about the baking process.  I loved when the kiddos got their hands sticky with dough and honey.  I loved toasting a piece and eating it with peanut butter and coffee in the morning. 

Please, please, even just once, try baking your own bread.  And while you do it, think about what a small miracle it is.  The wheat grows, and then it dies.  The yeast ‘brings it back to life’ and it grows again, and then we bake it and it cooks and ‘dies’ again. But then, we get to eat it.  We get to break it and share it and enjoy it—around the entire globe—and because of that miracle of bread, we are imparted nourishment and life.  Death, life, death, life… sound familiar?    

Perhaps once I'm on my one hundredth, or one thousandth, loaf many years from now, the excitement will wear off.  But I sure hope not.  I hope that for the rest of my life I get to keep thinking about what a little bread (maybe, on occasion, taken with a little wine) can do. 

"O taste and see that the LORD is good..."  -Psalm 34:8

beach retreat

I’ve always had a thing for water.  Let me clarify:  I don’t particularly like to drink it (much to my dismay) and I’m a mediocre swimmer.  But, for some reason, bodies of water are my sweet spots. 

When I was eight, there was a tiny creek that ran next to our country house.  I used to climb the tree above it, find a spot in the branches, and read for hours.  By high school, one of my favorite places to sit was on my friend’s dock on the lake, feet over the edge and eyes straight up at the night sky.  During my freshman year of college, I found Bowl & Pitcher on the Spokane River where I spent many a day climbing the “pitcher” and watching the current rush under the bridge.  (If any fellow Whitworthians are interested, I highly recommend it—bring good shoes and a journal.) 

All this to say:  there is something humbling about the enormity and autonomy of water that demands stillness and contemplation—especially when you encounter the ocean.

We recently got back from a nine day vacation with Matt’s family on Whidbey Island, just northeast of our sprawling, urban Seattle home.  You could hardly imagine that an hour drive and a ferry ride could land you in a whole new world, but you stand to be surprised.  It wasn’t technically on the ocean, just the Puget Sound… but it still counts.

When the tide was out, we played Frisbee on the beach and explored the sand with our little niece and nephew. 

When the tide was in (by late afternoon), most of us were reading next to the wide windows, making “beach cookies,” or playing endless numbers of board games.     

I wasn’t only amazed that twelve people could survive for a week in the same house with no casualties.  (Yes, we are awesome.)  It was even more surprising to almost never see people on their smart phones or computers.  All of us had them—and I, for one, am nearly addicted to mine—but they took a back seat.  Life outside the present moment wasn’t as “urgent” as it usually seemed.  Looking out on the water every hour of the day seemed to slow all of us down.    

In the end, we had a wonderful time together as a family, as beings experiencing love and rest and joy.  I am indescribably grateful to my mother- and father-in-law for making time like this happen.  And I can only encourage everyone, if you have the time and resources and even if you think you don’t:  take a beach retreat.  Read.  Collect sea shells.  Cook meals together.  Put together a 1,000 piece puzzle.  Draw.  Take naps.  Meditate.  Have arm-wrestling competitions.  Visit the nearest coast town.  Swim in the salt water.  Eat clam chowder.  And, if you have the chance, definitely drink wine with the one you love on the rooftop while you watch the waves…

“Give thanks to the one who shaped the earth on the water—God’s faithful love lasts forever.” (Psalm 136:6, CEB)