A Life Without Cheese

There will probably be some serious intervention happening after I post this blog. I will probably get phone calls asking if I'm okay, if I hit my head, if maybe it's time for me to move out of this Hippie Town. It's like I don't even know who I am anymore-- like aliens abducted me, brainwashed me & inserted cantaloupe-seed-like pods into my skin (I actually sat next to a man on a plane once who experienced that-- but that's anther story).

Even as I write this, I fear for my own sanity, but here goes: I've gone vegan... and I love it.

Now, before you call the authorities, let me tell you that's it's just a temporary thing-- at least, it began that way... and knowing me, I probably will cave sooner rather than later.

It started off innocently enough: wanting to grow spiritually. Sounds noble, right?

I have always been terrible at fasting. First of all, food is a spiritual experience to me-- I am insanely passionate about it. I read cookbooks for fun on Saturday mornings, and baking sends thrills up my spine. Second of all, when I go even a few hours without eating, I will practically deny my faith and kill family members to get a hold of an energy bar. My blood sugar drops, my emotions go crazy, and I become Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde. Fasting does nothing to bring me closer to God. I barely even believe in God when I fast. Gandhi would be most disappointed.

So when I had this epiphany about wanting to grow spiritually, I decided to try a different approach to fasting-- one more like the Jewish prophet Daniel, who ate only vegetables. That way I could still focus my mind & spirit, sacrifice something physical for the sake of something spiritual, and not even have to kill anyone around me. Brilliant.

The "Daniel Fast", as it is called, is essentially just being vegan-- something that people do all the time... and something that I have always scoffed at with a mixture of pity and judgment. A life without meat, I could handle. A life without cheese just isn't worth living. And when you cut out butter, eggs & chocolate, it sounds like my own personal hell.

But strangely, when Chris & I decided to embark on our Daniel Fast for 3-4 weeks, I was excited. Despite my love for chocolate, butter, cheese, and all things French, I also love vegetables... and fruit. I thought it would be nice to eat healthy for a few weeks-- to cleanse my body of all the rich food I eat, to fit into my jeans a little better, and especially (hopefully) to grow spiritually. The first night was hard. I looked in the fridge and wracked my brain for something to eat that didn't involve animal products. The next day, Chris & I took a trip to Trader Joe's, and the local market for produce. It's possible that we spend $160 in groceries that day. Don't tell anyone.

Filled with guilt, we stuffed our kitchen full of tofu, nuts, soy milk, soy yogurt, Cliff Bars, whole wheat pasta, and every kind of veggie known to man. We promised ourselves we wouldn't go shopping again for another month. And then I started cooking. And ladies & gentlemen, let me tell you: if this career as a Professional Christian doesn't work out, I'm becoming a hippie. I make a mighty fine vegan chef, if I do say so myself. Not only that, but I feel great.

Some magic switch flipped inside my brain, and I love being vegan. I don't even want sweets anymore. I do crave yogurt, and a little Parmesan cheese... and maybe some chicken broth-- but really, other than that, I could do this forever!

I know: you don't understand. I know: you think I've lost my mind. You probably even pity me a little but. You're probably concocting evil schemes to convert me back-- thinking through all the reasons why it's healthier to eat meat & all that. And don't worry-- I'm sure I'll cave in. But for now, allow me to live in my happy little hippie world, where vegetables are delicious, "milk" comes from a box, jeans fit great, and spirituality shoots up like soybeans.

Indecision

I can be terribly indecisive. Giant menus put me into a cold sweat, and that's after the trauma of choosing a restaurant, deciding whether to drive, bike or walk, and what to wear. There are four big yellow squares on the bedroom wall where I once tried out some paint swatches, became paralyzed at the thought of choosing one color for the entire room, and then left a three year (and counting) monument to my indecision.

Tonight I have a decision weighing down that is slightly more significant than choosing colors or ordering dinner. Tomorrow is the deadline to decide if I would like to repeat the toughest, most stretching & challenging (& possibly awful) experience of my life. Or another way of saying it could be that tomorrow I decide whether I get to live out a life dream & return to something I am deeply passionate about. It's funny how those things go together, isn't it?

There is something about the red dirt of Africa that just gets under your skin-- under your nails, in every little nook & cranny. You love it, you hate it; you can't wait to leave, you need to go back. It's beautiful & painful, makes you want to laugh & cry, scream & bury your head in the sand.

Should we go back? The question has been haunting us for months now, and tonight it seems to echo, demanding an answer. The reasons to go are compelling, heart wrenching, exciting, and all seem to line up. The reasons to stay are sensible, grounded, comforting and desirable.

When we set off a year ago to lead a group of squirrely college students into a refugee camp 30mi South of the Sudanese border, we were sure. We knew that God wanted us there, that we were following Him, and that whatever happened, we were doing the right thing. We said that we would never want to do something like that without the same assurance.

And here we stand, at the crossroads, waiting for the writing in the sky.

As I lay on the grass in the park today, praying for guidance, the wind blew the clouds into big arrow shapes-- pointing away from the City, and roughly in the direction of Uganda. So, I suppose that if we were looking for writing in the sky, that would be our answer... but somehow I don't feel entirely comfortable basing my decision on cloud shapes.

The question is: What do we do when the reasons are equally compelling both directions? We've prayed, we've fasted, we've sought direction, wisdom & guidance. We've searched our hearts & desires (which seem to flip flop about 3 times a day). Little coincidences pop up that seem like signs, situations seem to line up, but they are never definitive.

The feeling is not unlike standing at the counter of a restaurant, skimming the menu as the line piles up behind you. You know you have to make a decision, but nothing pops up. At that moment, I usually blurt out the first salad that my eyes lay hold of. As the line piles up, though, I feel strangely at peace. I've done all I can do, and although the decision is weighty, knowing that God brought us through the hardest experience of my life once before helps give me peace as I face it again.

The Swing of Things

I confess, I was actually a little bit jealous of all those people who had the flu this week. That's not to say that I actually wanted to feel miserable, but the weather was stormy and cold, and it was all I could do to keep myself from crawling back into bed... or laying on the couch with a box of kleenex, a pot of tea, and all three extended Lord of the Rings DVDs. Of course, as luck would have it, I did end up coming down with a cold on Friday (The nerve! Those germs could at least have had the decency to show up on a Wednesday), but had to push through and forgoe the cloudy day with Frodo.

It's not that anything was tragically wrong, or even overwhelmingly stressful, it was simply that initial push to get back into the swing of things. After traveling for two weeks, I felt a little bit like those cartoons with an Inbox piled to the ceiling, threatening an avalanche. And for some reason, it was just one of those weeks where life has lost it's sparkle and work felt lackluster. I would wake up in the morning, take an Airborne to fight off the cold that I wish I had, look at my To Do list and groan.

When you push-start a car, it's always those first few steps that are the hardest, working up momentum and getting things rolling. Not only has my week felt that way with work, but my thoughts seem to be congested in my mind, as well. For what feels like ages, I've been chewing on ideas & words, and have had so much to say that it all seems to get clogged on the keyboard. I've tried writing them down several times, only to get stuck and give up. So this is my first stab-- getting the ball rolling so that the keyboard doesn't get jammed.

Yesterday helped. Yesterday, I felt the clouds lift (quite literally) as we took the pup for a hike up in Mill Valley-- which is just as good as watching all three Lord of the Rings, because Mill Valley could double as a set for the movies. The base of the trail is dark and wet and mossy, and we followed a tiny stream back a bit into the forest. As we worked our way up, the sun peaked through, the leaves were changing colors, and Gavin dove headlong into bushes chasing after lizards (I swear, he's going to lose an eye one day).

Chris & I talked about the heaviness that seemed to be on both of us this week, and something about being out in the sunlight and breathing in the eucalyptus made everything seem a little more doable.

Even today, when the clouds rolled back in and my cold threatened to weigh me down, the air of that hike stayed on me. I had to fight for it-- work hard to keep the momentum going. I might have overdone it, too, because after riding our bikes to church , I thought I was going to pass out. But after spending the day making a giant pot of homemade chili (seriously, we're going to be eating this chili for weeks), and watching the dog swim in a pond at the park, I feel like I just might be able to face the coming week without pretending to call in sick.


That's not to say that I'm actually looking forward to Monday morning, but at least I've got the ball rolling.

Pinch Me

Some people dream of winning the Lotto, or owning an exotic sports car... but me, I dream of ovens. Strange, I know, but for years now, I have harbored a [not-so-secret] fantasy of owning a big, clunky Cadillac of a vintage oven-- the kind with the built-in salt and pepper shakers, the fold down counter top that covers the burners, and storage space on the sides. They make me swoon, they make me drool, they make me squeal & talk in a high pitched voice-- the way I do when I see puppies walking down the street. It's obnoxious.

Well, friends, dreams really do come true, because (with the help of some friends and a very strong, very generous husband), I am now the proud owner of a 1943 Tappan oven. All it cost me was the price of a U-Haul, a dolly, a Saturday afternoon, and some baked goods (to bribe friends with). Let me tell you, it nearly cost some lives (or at least some backs), trying to get that beast down three flights of windy, marble stairs, but in the end, we got the oven & two tired men back in one piece.

Actually, to be totally honest, I am the proud owner of a 1943 Tappan china cabinet, since our tiny little apartment has an electric stove (ick), and we can't actually use my dream oven until the glorious day when we have a house. So for now, the oven has replaced our kitchen table, and will store our dishes, pots & pans until we can put it to a more practical use.

That's not to say that I don't wake up giddy every morning, and walk into the kitchen just to make sure it's still there. Let me tell you, it's adorable. Even better, it's oh so very functional-- with two side cabinets for storage, drawers (one that holds built-in salt & pepper shakers!), a tiny pull-switch light on the back splash, a scrolling chart of times & temperatures for baking (it is currently set to "Fruit Cake: 2 1/2 to 4hrs, 250 degrees"), and little burner covers that convert the stove top to a counter top.

While I can't actually bake a fruit cake in it quite yet, I can at least hold all my fruit cake making utensils in it. I can also die happy now...

Not Eighteen

Beets have never been something that intrigued me. They always looked mushy & canned-- suspiciously like that jellied cranberry "sauce" Chris likes at Thanksgiving with the concentric aluminum circles still imprinted on it's giggly flesh. Beets are the kind of thing that old people eat, along with prune juice and mueslix.

At a cooking class I attended earlier this summer, I politely decided to give beets a try. I figured we went through all the trouble of learning how to make them, I might as well. However, the whole Beet part of the meal was overshadowed by the Israeli couscous, with which I became obsessed, and I soon forgot all about beets. But tonight, for some reason, they popped back into my little brain, and I couldn't get them out, so I gave 'em another go... and let me tell you, they are really sensational little veggies-- subtly sweet, beautifully purple. I can say now that I am a big fan.

Along with my random beet craving this week, I've also had a strange urge to try eggs Benedict. Things like this happen pretty often in our home, and Chris is sweet enough to indulge me. I remember tasting hollandaise sauce as a little girl and being completely disgusted by it, but I recently looked into the recipe, and thought to myself, "What's not to like?" I am a little less convinced about the poached egg, but something tells me that my feelings might have changed on that too. And that little something has more to do with the renegade gray hairs that pop up every now and then, or the dark circles I've been noticing under my eyes than finding the perfect recipe.

My mom used to always make us soft boiled eggs mixed with buttery little cubes of toast for breakfast. It wasn't really my fave. She confessed that she used to complain about her mother making her the very same breakfast every day of her childhood. It seems, though, that somewhere in the conversion from a little kid into the mother I knew her to be, she had begun enjoying soft boiled eggs (unless, of course, she enjoyed torturing us kids, like some sort of Freshman hazing process). I remember she used to tell me that I might even end up liking vegetables one day, "when I got older". Well getting older, to me, didn't seem like a very sane or reasonable thing to do, if it meant I would lose my mind and end up willingly eating spinach.

But now, here I am, staining my fingers purple over some roasted beets, making myself soft boiled eggs for breakfast, and even flirting with the idea of trying my hand at hollandaise sauce-- for poached eggs. What has become of me?

It wasn't that long ago that students I met on campus would ask me what my major was-- in fact, that happened frequently even last year. The first week of school this Fall, I met some darling little Freshmen who had just come to San Francisco from my own home town. When they asked where I went to high school & when I graduated, I laughed as I gave my answer. "Oh," they replied, "I was just thinking that my mom's friend went to that high school & I was wondering if you would have known her." Your mom?? Ouch.

It's funny spending my days with 18 year olds-- it's not the typical "work crowd" for most 30-somethings. Recently, I have been realizing how much older I feel around them-- even how tired I am coming home some days. Crossing a generational gap is more work than it seems.

But the funny thing is that I don't really mind. It doesn't bother me that I'm not 18 any more-- in fact, I like myself and my life a whole lot better now than when I was 18. It feels good to be comfortable in my own skin, to not always be so concerned with what other people think of me, to know myself, and to know that I don't know everything.

Personally, I think our culture is way too obsessed with youth. Is growing older really such a tragedy? I think of other cultures where age is prized, and associated with wisdom, depth & experience. Here, we pay thousands of dollars to perpetually look 25. But I suppose in the end, I would rather have a few wrinkles paired with contentment & self awareness. That's not to say that I am looking forward to gravity taking over, and watching my face & body sag-- but if it means that I get to enjoy things like roasted beets & eggs benedict, I guess that's not so bad afterall.

Perfect Success

You've thought about it before-- admit it. You've had secret day dreams about walking down the red carpet, giving an acceptance speech dressed in fancy clothes, thanking everyone that "got you there". Or, if not the red carpet, than maybe a victory lap around the stadium, or crossing the finish line, or scoring the winning point/goal/touchdown.

Deep down inside, we all want a little success, a little glory, a little acknowledgment-- maybe not in front of TV cameras, but even some small compliment or way of being set apart as special. I mean, it's nice to be thought of as special.

When I'm in San Francisco, I don't really stand out in a crowd. There's always someone edgier, funkier, more fashionable, & hip than me. But plunk me down in the middle of a conference with my big, conservative Christian organization, and my black nail polish & funky hair make me seem oh-so sophisticated and urban. Somehow, people always remember my hubby's lip ring & tattoos, and our "forward-thinking, innovative" approach to ministry with college students in SF.

And let me tell you, it sounds pretty good on paper, or in a presentation. I almost start to believe that I'm somebody who knows something-- who maybe got something figured out, or is onto something new & good. But, lest I start to think too highly of myself, reality always has a way of setting in.

Yesterday was our first weekly meeting of the year with our students. Driving home last night, I had the strange (but all-too familiar) feeling of mild embarrassment, confusion & defeat. Cool, Edgy, and Innovative weren't exactly the words running through my mind. Instead, I was asking myself, Are we going anywhere with this? Do we just keep taking one step forward & one step back? And will all those new students ever come back?

It's not that last night was a total failure... it just didn't quite work. After our training this summer, I had such high hopes of creating something beautiful & wonderful here in San Francisco. And I realized, after we didn't get off to a glorious start yesterday, that there was even a little part of me that was hoping to validate myself through that marvelous success-- that maybe I could get all the accolades that other directors got, or at least have something to show for myself at those conferences besides black nail polish & a husband with a lip ring (as cute as he is).

I had a little conversation with God about it this morning. Is something wrong with me? Am I not spiritual enough? Do I not have what it takes as a leader? Am I messing this up? Are we just going to keep spinning our wheels here, making progress only to have everything fall apart or change every single Semester? Will I ever feel like I know what I'm doing?

I actually felt a little bit of envy for those people who get to show up to a desk job in a cubicle everyday and do a menial, tedious job. At least they know what they're doing, what's expected of them-- they have a routine & a rhythm to life. It's a pretty rare day when I don't feel stupid, stretched, unsure, or unprepared. It's not that I don't work hard, or that I'm unqualified (I think); it's just that there is no manual for a job or a life like ours, and that there doesn't seem to be any rhythm to this ministry.

I had a visual image of my college days, when I decided to brave the Gospel Choir. I'm not really sure how I got in, but once I was there, it was wonderful, humiliating, fun, and so very challenging all at the same time. The very hardest part for me was singing harmony while swaying back & forth, clapping on beat, and incorporating hand motions & dance steps to everything. It was then that I realized how White I really am.

I feel a little like the white girl in the Gospel choir right now. I'm sure that there's some sort of rhythm here, some sort of purpose-- and it can be really fun, interesting & exciting finding it out, but it can also be humiliating and awkward. I know there is a part of me that needs to be trying new things, to be innovating, and stretching myself. But the flip side of that is constant discomfort, familiarity with failure, and a lot of trial & error.

As much as I don't need or want to fit in with the "Christian crowd", there is still a part of me that really wants to be accepted & acknowledged by them. Ironically, this morning I needed to process my thoughts, and having run out of room in my organic, recycled cotton journal, I pulled out the Christiany gift-journal I had received at our conference this summer.

I wrote & reflected on the fact that if we had experienced wild & smashing successes already, I might just start to believe I was something pretty amazing. But this way, I can learn humility through our mistakes, and remember who really brought about beauty, life & restoration that is to come. I can live in hope for the future goodness, knowing that this time of... um, less-than-wild-success... will only make the goodness to come that much better.

I was about the close my little journal when I noticed that there were personalized Bible verses written on the bottom of each page. Not my usual style, but I read it anyways, and as I did, I laughed & cried at the same time: "My grace is sufficient for you, Christine, for my strength is made perfect in weakness." No joke-- it even had my name in there!

Those words used to sound inspiring & comforting to me. But when you're actually in that place of weakness, most of us would rather hear God say things like "You can do it! You're the perfect person for this job! It's almost over-- and after all this, I'll bless you with a brand new car, and a big house with a picket fence." When God tells you that He's not going to take you out of your situation or even make you spectacular in it-- but instead keep you weak-- it's a little less exciting.

Strangely, though, despite my embarrassment, my weakness, my constant feeling of being unprepared or insufficient, I'm okay-- a little overwhelmed at the moment, but okay. I'm still where I'm supposed to be, and I believe I still am the person I'm supposed to be. The rest will work itself out.

This may not be the most glamorous life, but it's Home, and it's right. I probably won't ever be famous or popular, but me being me-- in all my strengths & weaknesses-- is somehow just right. You might even call it perfect.

An Unconventional Praise

For the most part, I would say that I've got my priorities straight. I love my family, my husband, God, my country-- you know, all the important things. I'm not money or power-driven, and I don't feel like I am overly materialistic. However, there is one area of my life (well, at least one area of my life), one silly little frivolous area that adds nothing to the greater good of the world, and yet brings me infinite joy. And that, my friends, is food.

Now, I'm not talking about any kind of food, or food in bulk, or even one specific type of food. I just mean, beautiful, quality, delicious food. I hate fast food & mass-produced food, and feel that donuts are a waste-- but put me in front of a perfect tomato, or a bite of expensive dark chocolate, and I am in heaven. It's quite a thing to behold.

I had a spiritual moment today at the Farmer's Market.

There was a vendor with rows and rows of green, yellow, red, and even blue-black bell peppers, and lined up together, they looked like artwork. I thought to myself that God could have made eating similar to breathing-- simply a way to bring nutrients in & out of our bodies, but without much sensation to the experience. I thought of cattle, deer, or elephants that eat grass their entire lives, without ever knowing the difference. But, no-- for us, He made it an experience, and utter delight, a thing of beauty.

It occurred to me that God created food not only to taste delicious (in an infinite possibility of combinations), but also to look beautiful, as those bell peppers did. And as I stood in the heat of an unusually warm San Francisco morning, feeling the sun on my face and the sweat on my back, I looked around at the throngs of people at the Ferry Building, sampling fruit, picking out flowers, sipping juice, I felt joy-- praise, even.

I know, I'm insane. Well, actually, it doesn't take much to have a spiritual experience at the Ferry Building-- it's practically the Mecca of all good food. But as someone who studied art, I know that good art should be a spiritual experience-- and, when you think about it, food is the best kind of art because you can experience it with each of your senses, literally internalize it, and even re-create it.

I know that there is pain, suffering, war & injustice in the world-- I have seen a lot of it first hand. And I know that I sound a little crazy (No I'm not drunk, and No, I haven't seen Julie & Julia yet), but I really do believe that the beauty, variety, and goodness of food points to a creative, good, and generous God.

And if you had tried the heirloom tomato with rosemary sea salt that I sampled this morning, you would be full of praise, and sounding a little bit insane, too.