What if God is like boxed mac and cheese?

A couple of months ago, we had a friend over for a play date. She and her mom had driven up from their house and were staying for lunch. We hadn’t seen them in a while, but the kids got along well.

I hadn’t been to the store and was a little low on groceries, but I had enough to make mac and cheese, a homemade way, with boxed pasta covered in a flour-butter-milk sauce with melted cheese. I told the little girl who was visiting that we were having mac and cheese for lunch, and she was super excited all morning because let’s face it, mac and cheese is a pretty great promise.

Shannah Pace | Stock Exchange | http://www.sxc.hu

But when lunchtime came, she expressed disappointment about what was in her bowl.

“Mommy, I don’t like it!”

I can’t remember if she tried it, and really, it wasn’t my best effort at homemade mac and cheese. Fortunately, her mom came prepared with a microwavable bowl of the Kraft kind, and she ate that like a champ.

Nothing against boxed mac and cheese. I’ve eaten my fair share of that in my lifetime, and my kids like it when we have it.

Still, it’s not “real.”

We’ve been starting to make some changes in the food we eat and buy, opting for more “real” and “natural” ingredients. The coffee creamer I use is made with milk, cream and sugar. This revelation came when I bought some non-dairy stuff off the shelf at Dollar General, and I thought, “What exactly is this stuff?” The answer: a bunch of things mixed together to taste like creamer.

Our favorite ice cream maker has a new line of all-natural ice creams. One night last week I tried a salted caramel variety and I kid you not, it was like tasting ice cream for the first time.

I’ve been eating fake food for so long I’ve forgotten what real food tastes like. 

It might take some time for my palate to readjust. Or maybe not. Every summer I swear I’ll never eat another store-bought tomato when I’ve tasted the sweet juiciness of a homegrown one from the farmer’s market. Until winter comes and I want tomatoes and all I have available is the reddish, tasteless tomato-shaped fruit in the store.

Then I settle for something less than real.

And I fear the Church, and my faith, may suffer the same taste preference as our 3-year-old friend: We prefer the fake to the real because we don’t know what real is.

Taste and see that the Lord is good.

Words from a Psalm, and yet do I believe it? That God is good.

A member of the local Jehovah’s Witness congregation periodically stops by our house, mostly to talk to my husband, but since he’s not around as much because of his work schedule, I’m the one who ends up talking to him. This week, he handed me the weekly literature, which posed the question, “Is God cruel?”

“What do you think of that question, Lisa?” he asked.

“Oh, I don’t think God is cruel,” I said. And in my heart I added, He is far better to us than we deserve.

Words my head affirms but the truth is I have shaken my fist at God, doubted His goodness and demanded He do things my way. As recent as last week, I threw my hands up in the air and said, “Don’t You see what we’ve given up for You?”

As if God owes me anything.

Boxed mac and cheese is quick, easy and it tastes good enough to eat, even if it doesn’t provide much in the way of nutrition.

And sometimes I want a quick, easy faith that makes me feel all warm and cozy.

Not the kind that requires patience and preparation and that might be bland if I rush it and skip a step.

And sometimes God gives me what I want, but it leaves me feeling empty. Hungry for something more.

I think of the song we’ve sung for fun at camp:

I wish I had a little white box

to put my Jesus in

I’d take him out and kiss, kiss, kiss

and put him back again

Maybe it’s all fun and nobody takes it seriously, but I wonder how many of us have Jesus in a box and we only take Him out of it when it suits us? How many of us are living a faith that is only a shadow of the real thing?

And I’m not talking about not being saved or a member of the church or a faithful disciple. Even those who followed Jesus while He was on earth got it wrong, creating in their minds a Savior of a different kind.

I’m talking about opening the box and letting Jesus out, even if we’re not sure we’re going to like what He has to say or wants us to do.

Taste and see.

Yesterday was the Day of Pentecost, the day the church marks as the birth of a movement that would spread worldwide for thousands of years. The Holy Spirit arrived and Jesus was no longer limited to his earthly body.

The Spirit moves today.

But sometimes we put Him back in the box, choosing to believe only what is safe, comfortable and palatable.

What if we’re missing something?

Something real. Wholesome. And good.

What if I’m not really following Jesus at all but just a cheap substitute?

Taste and see.

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We’re on Food Stamps and We’re Not Like That

Everyone’s looking at me.

The thought weighed heavy on my mind as my face flushed red with embarrassment. I slid the card through the electronic reader, entered my PIN and anxiously waited for the transaction to finish.

I’d bought groceries plenty of times before, but this was the first time I’d used government money to pay for them.

A year and a half into our marriage, we moved 800 miles across country so my husband could start graduate school. We had a 5-month-old daughter, and for the first time in my adult life I would not have a paying job.

It was an act of faith, to say the least, to go where we felt God leading. We just didn’t expect it to be as hard as it was.

Read the rest of my guest post for Live58 here.

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5 on Friday: More blogs I read regularly

After my initial blogs I read regularly post, I discovered five more blogs I frequent. Here they are:

1. Dr. Kelly Flanagan, a licensed clinical therapist who writes about redeeming all areas of life for wholeness.
2. Joel Kime, who offers thought-provoking questions related to sermons at Faith Church in Lancaster, Pa.
3. The Green Grandma, who has opened my eyes to a new way of living that is healthy and environmentally friendly. Lots of giveaways and tips for moms and babies, too.
4. Mandy Masala, where my friend and college roommate Amanda writes about learning to cook Indian food the way her husband likes it. She inspires me to try new food!
5. Scenes of Life, where Dave Schroeder, a college friend, writes about movies, writing, books, among other inspiring topics. I appreciate his take on these topics.

Who are you reading online these days? Share your recommendations!

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When who we are is hiding in plain sight: Review of Invisible by Ginny Yttrup

Years ago I watched a movie starring Barbara Streisand called The Mirror Has Two Faces. I can’t remember much about the movie except that Bryan Adams sang on the soundtrack (and I was practically in love with Bryan Adams) and the female lead was not confident about her appearance or her attractiveness to men.

I could relate.

When I looked in the mirror, I didn’t like what I saw, and I didn’t believe anyone else who said they saw something different.

Almost 20 years later, the struggle isn’t as intense, but it’s still a battle. And it’s this image battle that novelist Ginny Yttrup writes about in her new book Invisible.

Ellyn is the owner and head chef of a restaurant in Mendocino, California. She’s also overweight, has never had a relationship with a man and she’s skeptical when a widowed doctor, Miles, shows interest in her. She hears a voice in her head (she calls him “Earl”) that constantly puts her down. She loves butter. (Who doesn’t?)

Twila works at a shop owned by her mom. They specialize in herbal medicines, organic foods, and natural products. Twila bears a tattoo of thorns on her face, a mark of solidarity with those who suffer. She is thin and recovering from an eating disorder (she calls it “Ed”) and re-establishing a healthy relationship with food.

Sabina has come to Mendocino to escape. She’s a therapist carrying a suitcase stuffed with guilt and battling depression. She’s on a break from her practice, her family and God. Each day is a struggle to get out of bed.

Ellyn befriends Twila and Sabina and as the three of them get to know each other and their “issues,” they realize they aren’t as different as they might seem on the outside. Each of them, with the help of the others, is on a journey to discover who they are and why they’ve hidden behind food, an eating disorder and professional success.

I don’t know how she does it, but Yttrup creates characters that could walk off the page and into your living room. Invisible is an honest look at what happens in the female mind, and how distorted our view of ourselves can be. I found myself able to identify with each woman for a different reason.

This quote is one of my favorites from the book:

And if you like the writings of Christian saints, you’ll appreciate Yttrup’s inclusion of quotes from St. Augustine at the start of each chapter. A quote from his writings plays a major role in the theme of the book. (Yttrup did this with Madame Guyon in her last book, Lost and Found. I appreciate the ancient-modern connection.)

Yttrup has a unique style. Each chapter is written from the first-person perspective of one of the characters. Sometimes I had to go back and remind myself who was talking, but the chapters are short and the movement of the characters toward wholeness is fluid and hard to step away from.

I enjoyed reading this book on my own but think it would be even more meaningful in a discussion group with other women. So, if you’re looking for a book club read or you have a group of girlfriends who like to read and talk, I’d put this one on the list.

Read more about the author’s personal experience with the issues she writes about here.

—————-

In exchange for my review, I received a free copy of Invisible from Handlebar Marketing.

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960 million people went to bed hungry last night

So did I.

But not for the same reason.

In a world where 1 in 7 people battles hunger daily, I’m one of the “lucky” ones.

Yesterday was Compassion International’s One Meal One Day campaign, an annual event that encourages people to skip a meal and donate what they would have spent to their work in a country whose people experience extreme hunger. This year’s focus: Ethiopia.

First let me say this: I don’t usually fast. It’s a discipline I’ve not practiced much since college and I almost never look forward to it. Especially as a stay-at-home mom where the food is readily available all day long and the kids need regular nourishment. Plus, I’m cranky when I’m hungry. All good reasons to not do it, I know.

But this seemed like a challenge I could handle. And I wanted to do it. When it came time to decide which meal to skip, I chose dinner specifically so I could go to bed hungry. When’s the last time I did that on purpose?

Some thoughts:

• I made pork chops and sauerkraut for the rest of the family. I’m not a big fan of sauerkraut. Maybe I did that on purpose. And maybe I’m ashamed that I can choose to skip a meal because I don’t like the food being offered. Who, if they were truly hungry, would turn down food of any kind?
• My stomach started growling almost as soon as I started cooking dinner, as if it instinctively knew I would be denying it.
• Hunger does strange things to your senses. I had to run to the store after “dinner” and when I came back, I was sure the air in town smelled like root beer. Root beer? Weird.
• When I told my husband my plan to not eat after I started making dinner, he said, “So you’ll drink water. I could put some dirt in it for you.” We chuckled and maybe that makes us insensitive. Truth is, unclean water is a reality for 880 million people around the world. No laughing matter.
• My husband also ate ice cream and a cupcake in front of me while we watched TV. I think I handled it okay. No one lost an arm.
• When I woke up this morning, I barely remembered that I hadn’t eaten for 15 or 16 hours. Does a person eventually become accustomed to hunger?
• I wish I’d known about this event earlier so I could have enlisted more of you to participate. Be forewarned, next year, I’ll be recruiting a team.

Even if you didn’t skip a meal, you can donate to the cause here.

And if you’re interested in sponsoring a child through Compassion, you can click on the banner on the side of the blog and start searching for a child to support.

Skipping a meal and donating a little bit of money doesn’t seem like a big deal with a big impact.

But it’s something.

And when a whole bunch of somethings come together, they can have a greater effect.

My parting words?

Do something.

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What I would say to the other moms in the WIC office

Hey, Mom sitting in the WIC office waiting for your quarterly allotment of food checks,

Photo from Stock Exchange (www.sxc.hut)

You don’t know me, and I don’t know you, but I want you to know, you’re a good mom.

Your baby, your toddler–they’re proof of that.

I know some people would say differently.

I’m sure you’ve received your share of judgmental looks and stares, and heard people in the grocery line behind you express their impatience.

I feel it, see it and hear it, too.

And it’s possible I’ve been one of those people.

Okay, it’s more than possible.

When I was first eligible for WIC, I wanted to set myself apart as a mom. I sat in the waiting area, dressed in clothes that I hoped would communicate that I wasn’t poor like you. I bribed my kids to behave well. I hoped beyond hope that they would answer the questions the “right” way so the nutritionists wouldn’t think I let my kids eat junk food. (Confession: Sometimes I do let them.)

I wanted to convince myself I didn’t belong there, but since we qualified for it, we would accept the help.

And then one day, I realized that we did belong there. We were and are poor. We need help. And like you, I’d do what it takes to help my kids.

So, when you call the office because you missed your appointment, I understand. Transportation isn’t always a given. The weather and illness can change your plans. Work schedules can be unpredictable.

When you let your kid climb all over the chairs as you text, it’s okay. Motherhood is hard when you have a support system. And if you don’t have one, I don’t know how you do it.

Illustration from Stock Exchange (www.sxc.hu)

Choosing to have a baby takes courage. Married, in a relationship or single, however you became pregnant, it takes guts to bring a child into the world and raise him or her.

So I applaud you.It doesn’t matter to me how it happened or whether you planned it. Life has a way of altering the best-laid plans.

Our time with WIC is coming to an end soon, and you have helped me understand so much.

That moms of all kinds are doing the best they can with what they have to do what they can for their kids.

I won’t forget the lessons.

And I will stand up for you when I hear criticism against you.

I will wait patiently in line behind you while you spend your checks.

And someday I hope I can slip an extra bag of apples or vegetables into your cart because I know how quickly the money is spent.

Keep going. Keep doing the next right thing. For you. And your kids.

You have opened my eyes.

And I pray they’ll never again close to your needs.

Sincerely,

another mom waiting in the WIC office

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How do you like your sandwich?

The deli counter has become one of my favorite spots for analyzing human behavior and creating stories. Usually it’s a long line, and if the kids are well-behaved, I enjoy listening to people order their meats and cheeses.

Before we moved to Pennsylvania and frequented a discount Mennonite grocery with a deli counter, I had no experience ordering meats and cheeses this way. Now, I’ve settled into a groove. We get a couple of meats, some of it sliced, some of it chipped (or shaved if you aren’t PA Dutch), and a couple of cheeses, always sliced.

It’s an art form, really, the ordering process. Some people want their cheese cut to a certain thickness or their ham sliced super thin. Or they want thick slices of bologna or cheese ends. Or, on rare occasions, a whole block of cheese.

Everyone has their own preferences and no one questions each other’s way of doing things, even if it isn’t for them.

I wonder if the Church could learn from this.

Because when it comes right down to it, we all have our deli-style preferences for church, don’t we?

Some of us like 30 minutes of praise music; others want to sing two hymns and only with an organ. Some of us like both styles and don’t care what instruments are playing. Some of us want a 45-minute sermon. Others prefer more of a discussion-style of message. We want it to start early so we can have the rest of our Sunday to ourselves, or we want it to start later so we can sleep in or don’t have to rush to get the kids out of the house. We want to sit in pews. Or we want to sit in chairs. We want to meet in a church building with a steeple. Or we wish we could tear the building down and meet in homes. We want everyone to wear their “Sunday best” or we want to dress casual.

I could go on, but I’m starting to stress myself out.

At the deli, we can agree on a couple of things: meat and cheese are great ingredients for a sandwich. And we probably wouldn’t be at the deli counter if we didn’t enjoy a sandwich now and again. You might like thick slices of bologna and Clearfield American cheese while I would choose turkey and cheddar. Either way, we’re both going home to make a sandwich. We’ll disagree on the kind of bread or the condiments (I’m a mostly mustard girl; my husband loves mayo) we use, but again, the end goal is pretty much the same: we’re making sandwiches.

So, why do we make this more complicated in the Church?

If the end goal is the same–to come together and worship God–why do we bicker over how it’s done?

Can’t we experiment with variety?

Can’t we respect other people’s preferences, even if they’re different from our own?

Can’t we break bread together, enjoy each other’s company, and be fed by the Word of God, even if it’s like PB&J two weeks in a row and we haven’t had a Dagwood sandwich in a long time?

These words, they’re directed at me, too. Because I know what I like, and of course, I think you’d like it, too.

But it’s not the way.

We are one body with many parts, with different functions.

We are not carbon copy Christians.

We are mysteriously and simultaneously individual and corporate.

Connected but not confined.

The Bible has no shortage of things to say about this, so I’ll leave you with some verses on which to meditate. Maybe you’ll want to read them while eating a sandwich.

Make every effort to keep the unity of the Spirit through the bond of peace. There is one body and one Spirit, just as you were called to one hope when you were called; one Lord, one faith, one baptism; one God and Father of all, who is over all and through all and in all.

–Ephesians 4:3-5

Just as a body, though one, has many parts, but all its many parts form one body, so it is with Christ. For we were all baptized byone Spirit so as to form one body—whether Jews or Gentiles, slave or free—and we were all given the one Spirit to drink.

–1 Corinthians 12:11-13

Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, since as members of one body you were called to peace. And be thankful.

–Colossians 3:15

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And then she was 5

Our daughter turns 5 tomorrow and my only thought is:

How did that happen?

I can still remember the nervous thrill of taking her home from the hospital, settling her into the crib in our tiny apartment, watching her sleep and wondering, “How on earth do we do this?” I was sure the nurses had made a mistake sending us home. I mean, we’d never done this before. What if we got it wrong?

Five years, another child, and lots of “wrongs” later, we now have a little lady in our house.

And I can’t sum up her impact on our life in a few hundred words. Maybe that’s why we couldn’t find the perfect card for a 5-year-old daughter.

Maybe pictures will help.

This is a girl who knows what she wants. I take requests for cakes for birthdays and do my best to fulfill those requests. We have some stories to tell about failed cakes, but this one actually turned out good. I don’t know if she was humoring me or not, but her expression is SO Isabelle. She is dramatic (are there any girls who aren’t) and expressive and very much a touch person. I am less of those things, which means that sometimes she and I find ourselves at odds. Daily, she teaches me to step outside what’s comfortable and look at things from someone else’s point of view. When I’m sitting on the couch, perfectly content reading a book or writing at the computer and she jumps on my lap to snuggle in, she’s not trying to annoy me but show love and seek it in return. She lives life loud, and I feel like the hotness of the pink frosting is her color.

But lest you think she is all girly girl, despite the fabulous fashion sense, she is hands-on and mechanical. Her Barbie jeep needed some assembly required, and though I didn’t stick around the witness the assembly, I’m sure she had her hands all over it. She likes to try to fix things. Like the half a dozen splinters in her finger from the telephone pole in the background of the photo. Four hours after she received the splinters, she told me her finger hurt. And that she’d already pulled the tops off the splinters so removing the rest of them became nearly impossible. She doesn’t cry for shots or blood draws or finger pricks, though she will sometimes cry when her toe hurts or she gets a paper cut. She is tough and tender, and I wonder at how she’ll balance both in the world in which she grows up.

In the last year, we’ve seen her curiosity and quest for knowledge grow. We took an afternoon trip to a wildlife management area near our house, and she used those binoculars like she was born to do it. After soaking up some knowledge at the visitors center, she identified some Canada goose nests as we drove.

With school on the horizon, I’m encouraged by how much she loves to learn and fearful of how much she hates to be told what to do. But she loves her Sunday School teacher, and she loves teaching her brother the things that she learns, so maybe she just doesn’t like learning from her mom.

She is the girl of the endless questions, which I’m told could describe me as a child, too. Divine retribution, I think. There are worse things she could be.

And while she isn’t reading on her own yet, she loves books. Even this brochure/magazine from the Department of Conservation. She flipped through the whole thing telling her own stories about it, then asked her Papa to read one of the longer articles in it to her. Every. Single. Word.

It is true that I don’t know what she will do or become or pursue when she’s older, but it’s wonderful and awesome to see her personality emerge and mature. She’s “Izzy fierce” as we like to say sometimes (thanks, Jeannine!) and she will change the world in some way, big or small. She reminds me that there are things worth fighting for and that the status quo isn’t acceptable. She has the potential to be a woman who loves God and loves people with everything she has. And that might get her in trouble. Lord, help me help her navigate those waters.

For now, though, I have to remind myself that she’s still a little girl. She’s playful and fun and though I have high expectations for myself and others, I don’t have to place them on her shoulders right now. There are things I want her to know.

Like that she is beautiful, inside and out. And that when people tell her how pretty or how cute she looks, that it’s okay to say “thank you” but that her value isn’t wrapped up in her looks. She is loved and cherished and uniquely created. Compassionate and friendly and a really good big sister.

Like that I envy her because she makes friends so easily and quickly with strangers. She is so trusting, which scares me sometimes, and I don’t want to have to teach her about the ugliness of the world. And I don’t look forward to the day when someone, maybe even a friend, lets her down or hurts her.

I know these days are coming, what with school starting in the fall. She’s bound to have questions. And I want her to ask them, even if I don’t know the answer or don’t think I’m ready.

Five years. Some days, it’s felt like an uphill climb, being the mother of a firstborn daughter. Other days, it’s been a roller coaster ride. And other days, a lazy stroll.

I couldn’t have imagined this day when we brought her home from the hospital because frankly, I couldn’t imagine the next day or the day after that.

And all too quickly, I’ve forgotten thousands of moments and laughs and funny things she’s said.

What I know is that in the midst of raising a child, I, too, am being raised.

In the ways of grace and love.

Of discipline and consistency.

Of confidence and decision-making.

Of forgiveness.

Of letting go.

And my education has only just begun.

Who will I be in five more years because of who she is and who she becomes?

God only knows.

And I’m glad to be along for the ride.

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Saturday Smiles: Vacation style edition

Our “vacations” are seldom exotic. I mean, come on, we were raised in Illinois and that’s where most of our time away happens. But we do our best to keep it interesting.

Our week started with an overnight drive on New Year’s Eve, which I initially thought was a crazy idea but turned out okay. Especially when we could say it took us TWO YEARS to get home. (What can I say? We’re easily amused. Even more so when we’re sleep deprived. More on that later.)

New Year’s Day was a blur for me because I napped for an entire morning. (Oh, that brings a smile to my face. Naps are so rare for me. Three hours of uninterrupted sleep in the middle of the day. Heaven.) Later we were introduced to Duck Dynasty (seriously, I’ve never laughed so hard in my life. We’ve added this to our personal must-see TV list) and cracked up every time my mom mentioned Pinterest. (She was off work for a week without the grandkids to keep her occupied, so she had some Internet surfing time.) To her credit, we have eaten some delicious food she found on Pinterest. (But it’s weird when one of your parents gets comfortable with social media.)

Wednesday was Christmas Rewind day as our kids opened their presents from grandparents and great-grandparents. We are now the proud owners of a Barbie beach house and Barbie convertible as well as an entire fleet of Coast Guard rescue vehicles and men. And a train set. I’m thinking we should have given away all our kids’ toys before we left home because I have NO IDEA where this stuff is going to go.

My grandma made our son an orange afghan (orange is his favorite color) and after we told him she made it, he asked of every other present, “Did you make this?”

I’m thinking our family will have this exchange at family gatherings from now on: “Did you make this?” “Yes, I found it on Pinterest.” (It was a lot funnier when I hadn’t had much sleep.)

Also, this might be my most favorite picture of the whole year, no matter what else happens.

Phil and I took Thursday and Friday to get out of town. We used some hotel points for a free night’s stay and headed up to Lake County, north of the city (that’s Chicago, the greatest city in the world, as we like to say).

On the way up we ate here.

This deli/cafe is legendary in my husband’s family. His maternal side is German, so authentic German food is a big deal. I had beef goulash with spaetzle (best egg noodles on the planet) and red cabbage. Phil had a sausage platter with three different kinds, and a side of sauerkraut. I’ve never been a big fan of sauerkraut, but I can stomach a taste of it now and then. It was fun to–finally–experience this with him. We’ve been talking about it for a long time.

We spent some time at the Gurnee Mills Mall, something neither of us had done in years. We played the $5 game, where we can only buy one thing for ourselves and it has to be about $5. Phil got this sweet hat.

Just in time for the playoffs. Or next season. I bought some blank canvas material for a yet-to-be-determined creative project I need to complete this month. We ate Oberwies ice cream while watching Elementary in real time. (Usually we have to watch it a day or two later.)

Our getaway also included two visits to a monastery/chapel/shrine. We are not Catholic but were intrigued by the artwork and experience of visiting. We stopped there on the way to our hotel and felt a little bit lost and intrusive. We decided to go back the next day so I could take some notes and jot some thoughts and we could spend a little more time there. (I plan to write about this more later this month.) It was an inspiring and thought-provoking visit.

We met my brother for lunch at a historic roundhouse in Aurora. (Our 3-year-old was pretty jazzed to be eating lunch at a train station.)

Then the kids got to stop at a train park on the way back to our vacation headquarters.

Spending time with family is always a highlight of our trips home and we’ve done plenty of that. And the best part of all: we still have another week of visiting and fun!

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Getting my hands dirty

Yeast bread and I have a love-hate relationship in that I love to eat it and hate to make it, although I’ve gotten decently good at pizza dough over the last couple of years.

On Thanksgiving, I wrestled once again with the family recipe for sugar-coated donut-type treats and rolls. A month or so ago, I tried (and sort of failed) at homemade cinnamon rolls. I want to try an actual loaf or two of bread but I’m terrified I will spend time, ingredients and effort for something that turns out inedible.

I finally took a page out of my husband’s cooking manual (ha ha — that sounds like I ripped a page out of a cookbook or something. I wouldn’t dare!) and read the introduction to yeast breads in The Fannie Farmer Baking Book, a wedding gift from my husband that I thought was sweet at the time but should have rejected as sexist. (Just kidding, honey! I really do love it.)

I didn’t learn a lot of homemade baking or cooking in my growing up years, so Fannie Farmer by Marion Cunningham has become my mentor and tutor. As usual, she didn’t fail me, and I almost, almost believe that I can make a good yeast bread.

With the pizza dough, I’ve taken the easier road by mixing it in the stand mixer, and I’m convinced this is the “secret” to my pizza dough success. Because if yeast bread fails me in any other recipe, I blame myself because I don’t have the experience or guidance or intuition to know when the dough is ready.

Then I read this from the baking book:

Electric equipment can be helpful in kneading doughs, although I still prefer the experience of working doughs by hand. Beginning cooks particularly will miss learning by feeling, literally getting in touch with the dough.

In other words, I’m gonna have to get my hands dirty. I’m going to have to try and fail and try again next time. And if I’m not in there, working the dough with my hands, I won’t get a feel for when it’s just right.

As with life. Ministry. Work. Parenting.

In all of these things, I have to get in there and do the work myself. I can’t read about it. Or let someone else do it. Or buy it pre-packaged. I have to get my hands dirty. To try and fail and try again until I get a feel for how it works and where I can tweak and add and change to fit the environment I’m in. Only someone who is in the mix can notice the subtle changes and readiness of the bread.

This is what I will think about the next time I’m up to my elbows in yeasty dough, kneading the life out of it, willing it to rise.

Because there will be a next time.

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