Taste, and See

On a wintry Saturday, I baked cinnamon maple scones at our cabin, using a new-to-me recipe. They were so yummy, I was eager to share them at our church potluck breakfast the following morning. But I coughed through the night, and it became clear neither I nor my husband would be attending church that Sunday. I was disappointed to miss blessing my church friends with my flavorful scones.

Before driving down the mountain, we parked our car in town to take a short walk around the lake. Two ladies we recognized sat at a picnic table across the road. “Do you want some scones?” I yelled through my mask with my hoarse, raspy voice. 

“Absolutely, yes, we do!” Kathy and Donna replied.

My husband retrieved the container holding the scones from the car and carried the treats across the road to our excited friends. “Take two!” I called over.

“Can we have three each?” they hollered back.

We continued our walk around the lake, and upon arriving back to our car, our friends let us know how much they enjoyed the delicious pastries. I don't know whose joy was more full, Kathy and Donna's in savoring the scones, or mine, in getting to share them. 

There’s a taste-and-see simplicity I experience when I share what I’ve baked. I don’t have weighty expectations on myself to “be somebody” in the kitchen, to become known as “Diane the baker.”  It is as simple as, “Here’s something I’ve made that is good. I hope it blesses you.” 

I was due to deliver a set of six benedictions this week for the Black Barn, an online community I belong to. I’d written and rewritten many and could not decide which ones to submit. The angst I experienced squeezed the joy out of writing and anticipating blessing others with my offerings. I tell myself, oh, but this is not a scoop of dough; it’s a scoop of my heart. Of course it’s going to be painful.

Perhaps my “of course” is off course.

I learned recently the word "companion" is derived from Latin and, at its core, it denotes someone who is present to you "with bread." As we are present to each other on this journey, we offer life-giving nurture and enjoyment, friend to friend. We bring who we are and what God has given us to offer. How good it is to have someone fully present to you; how much better when together you “break bread,” when together you unwrap and savor the good gifts God has given you. Together, we celebrate the Giver of the gifts. 

Again and again my thoughts return to the simplicity of baking something then sharing it, with a spirit of, “Taste and see the goodness!” 

I wonder what it would be like to experience such freedom as I weave words together and then share them. I wonder what kind of companionship I could bring to others, free from self-judgment about what I bring to the table. And I wonder whether God is inviting me to taste this kind of freedom, and to see that it is good.

diane mann, 2022

Repositioned

It's been fun this week, exchanging hilarious stories on Facebook after I've shared the latest ditsy things I've done. Sunday, I  grabbed a bottle of Downey Wrinkle Release from the hall cupboard. I sprayed my oatmeal-colored sweater several times, smoothing over the wrinkles with my hands. It wasn't working as well as usual, I noticed, so doused the sweater again and again. The smell of bleach reached my nose, and I looked at the bottle's label to find I had really been using a foaming bathroom cleanser with bleach! Stories like this must be shared, so I instantly posted a picture of my newly tie-dyed sweater to Facebook, where I enjoyed being laughed with and hearing of other people's foibles. 

This morning, Tuesday, I made myself coffee from my Keurig, like I do most mornings. Unlike most mornings, I placed the mug under the spout, pressed the button, and immediately the mug started overflowing, spilling coffee over the countertop.  Upon closer inspection, I saw I had placed the mug under the spout upside down, as in bottom side up. Another Facebook post, more LOLs, more stories shared.

I've done some funny accidental things in my life, from wearing two different shoes in public, to being affectionate with a man I mistook for my husband in a crowded elevator. He was much more gracious than the ballcap-and-windbreaker-wearing bearded man in the self checkout at Wal-Mart, who after my accidental hug and sincere apology, refused to laugh with me and ran from the store, not looking back.

While on the outside, I am laughing, after this morning's coffee mishap, I keep having this not-funny conversation in my head: If you want to feel, "ept," just hang around me. I'm so inept.

That is harsh, is it not? 

Why am I exceptionally scattered this week? The calendar reminds me that five years ago I saw my mom alive and well for the last time. She walked into my house with a friend, without knocking—again. I stayed in the kitchen, fuming over her violating my well-defined boundaries, while my daughters doted over her near the front door. I hugged Linda, the friend she brought, and withheld a hug from my mom. Before she left, we discussed when we would have time to bake pumpkin bread together, and I pointed out to her a Mother's Day card on the counter I hadn't given to her. "I finally found it," I said, having misplaced it after purchasing it in May. "It's the prettiest one I've ever bought you, but I haven't signed it yet, so I will give it to you after I write something on it."  

Two days later she fell while walking to the church bus during a senior field trip. Her walker got stuck in a crack on hilly pavement, and she flipped, landing on her head. The impact caused a catastrophic brain bleed that within a few minutes led to her being unconscious. She was helicoptered to a hospital and attached to life support, which kept her breathing the next couple days, until family could all arrive to say goodbye. I whispered in her ear before the medical team unplugged her, "I forgive you. I hope you forgive me, too."  I did keep my promise and gave her the pretty Mother's Day card, signed, setting it next to her in her coffin.

This is the week each year I am spacier than normal, less aware of my surroundings, slogging through life in a fog. Grief disorients me, and these anniversaries of loss always sneak up on me unaware. 

"Give yourself grace," people say to me, and I have said it to others. But I'm not the source of grace and can't seem to brew up enough for myself, or for anyone else. Yet I know—how I know—a softer gaze is needed, on myself, and on my mom, who sometimes scooched her way through my front door and over the well-meaning fences I'd built. A nicer rule-breaker you've never met!

The ache feels like a hollow longing in my chest, and my eyes leak off and on throughout the day. But I'm not turning away from letting myself feel the regret of the withheld hug, not this year.

I sit and move through the day with Jesus, this grieving heart facing toward Him, exposed, empty, not upside down, like my coffee mug. Here, His grace pours into me. My cup is being filled, not resisting what Christ is offering. I sense His softer gaze upon me. Repositioned under the fount of grace, I am full to the brim, even overflowing. 

I'm letting my regret usher me into a place where I am re-greeted by grace. There is no room for harshness, here.

Is there an area in your life you need Christ's gaze upon you? Something you've refused to acknowledge before God? Perhaps you, too, see the need to reposition yourself under grace's fount. 

Welcome

The Black Barn at Maplehurst

I see the temptation in her eyes
To blur over my story
I'm taking too long to tell
To this, my dear friend
Who listens so well

There's this book
And an author
Who was led to a place
She talks about it in the book
She created a monthly care package
I subscribed

The only thing keeping my friend
Engaged in our conversation
Is my passion
The light in my eyes
The tones of delight
I struggle
To describe anything linearly
But I try

There's a real barn
Where retreats and classes happen
Where good things take place
Spiritual things
Creative things
It's a place
Built with a dream
To welcome people
To celebrate life and art and faith

I signed up for the care package
And was invited to the virtual Black Barn
A trial of sorts
Before the online Barn doors opened wide
It's a place of caring intention
A slower, more spacious place

There I receive
There I give
Conversations are created
Works of art celebrated
Benedictions given
Infusing good words, blessings
Into and over me

I've come to care
For those I've met there
In a way that says
"I will carry your burdens with you,"
And, "I will celebrate and pay witness to what you are noticing."

Most live far from me
But have become close
Soul friends
Let's-grow friends
Let's-water-and-tend-to-this-thing-
and-wait-to-see-what-happens friends

Someone called us cultivators
No one has ever referred to me as a cultivator
Not until now
But we were invited to pour into this space
Even as we were being poured into

We are witnessing others enter the barn doors
We are cheering them
Ushering them in
With hopes they too will find something
Very Special here

"Thank you," I say
To my listening friend
"I know I talk about the Black Barn a lot!"
She tells me to talk about it all I want
How she enjoys hearing about it

Look who came through the door today
My patient friend Tammi!
My heart jumps a little
Not true, it jumps way more than a little
My body follows, taking a little leap
I run to greet her

Welcome to the Black Barn
Take a look around
Have a seat
Receive all that is here
For you


Diane Mann 2020