Who Handles His Dishes

After naming a tribe for service,
the Lord went on to call out families in it by name for specific duties.
He said where He wanted each one to camp in relation to the tabernacle.
God concerns Himself with even our temporary dwelling places.

"The duties of the children of Gershon 
in the tabernacle of meeting included the tabernacle, 
the tent with its covering, 
the screen for the door of the court, 
the hangings of the court which are around the tabernacle and the altar, 
and their cords, according to all the work relating to them."
This family's entire ministry
was related to maintaining and transporting
the large leather and fabric pieces
that the tabernacle was constructed of.
Brushing off dust,
and washing, and folding,
and oiling the leather to keep it pliable,
and storing them carefully when they moved.
"This is the service of the families of the Gershonites,
in serving and carrying." 

The Kohathites "duty included the ark, 
the table, the lampstand, the altars, 
the utensils of the sanctuary with which they ministered, 
the screen, and all the work relating to them."
An interesting detail related to the Kohathites' duties
explains how the sons of Aaron are to cover
and prepare every item they are responsible for handling
and the Kohathites "are not to go in and watch 
while the holy things are being covered, lest they die."
They were expected to bear holy things
with a reverence that did not touch them,
and did not get to see them.

"The appointed duty of the children of Merari 
included the boards of the tabernacle, 
its bars, its pillars, its sockets, its utensils,
all the work relating to them, 
and the pillars of the court all around, 
with their sockets, their pegs, and their cords...
And this is what they must carry 
as all their service for the tabernacle of meeting...
and you shall assign to each man by name the items he must carry.

Each one of these duties are particular to the family and to the individual,
but in concluding each catalog of tasks, it repeats, 
"And their duties shall be under the authority of Ithamar the son of Aaron the priest."

"According to the commandment of the Lord 
they were numbered by the hand of Moses, 
each according to his service and according to his task; 
thus were they numbered by him, as the Lord commanded Moses."

The Lord called out a specific tribe, specific families,
and specific men for particular tasks.
And their duties were holy and appointed only to them.
Every one of them was known by name to the Lord,
and called to a particular care for the Lord's things.
No one else could do their job.

In ministering to the Lord, I may find I am carrying holy things I may not see.
I am doing Him service
even though that service means busying myself
with tables and lamps, bowls and forks.
God cares who handles His dishes.

The Mind-Numbing Work of Redemption

I do the same things All The Time.
I pick up the dirty clothes, and sort them into the hampers.
I button the buttons, and turn the socks right side out.
I spray the stains, and I fill the washing machine.
I take the wet clothes out, and straighten them,
and hang them on the clothesline to dry.
I take them down, and fold them, and send them to be put away.
And then I sort them out into the hampers again.

I rinse dirty plates, and stack them,
and I fill the dishwasher with them.
I unload the clean dishes, and put them in the cupboards,
and then do it again.
Sometimes three times a day.

I nurse the baby in the middle of the night,
and I feed him again in the morning.
In the late morning.
At noontime.
In the afternoon.
In the late afternoon.
At dinner.
In the late evening, just before he goes to bed.

I change diapers.
And again.
And again.
The progress of my days
is marked by piles of used diapers,
moved bookmarks,
dirty dishes, 
and clothes that need another washing.

I told my husband, "I don't know what purpose I have right now."
A friend asked me how I am doing, and I said, "I feel dull."
And I do.
I mean, seriously,
what point is there
in washing and washing and straightening
what is never clean,
and never straightened out?
You would think I do nothing at all
if you looked at the crumbs on my floor.
Because if I vacuum three times a day,
there are still crumbs on my floor.

I have been meditating on the Proverbs 31 woman,
whose equal I am not.
And I've been thinking about how she wraps herself up in food prep,
and laundry maintenance.
And I was contemplating two questions the other morning:
What is God doing in my life?
And how do I join God in His work?

What is God doing in my life?
He's drawing me into fellowship with Himself and with others.
He's refining me.
He's making me new in Christ.
He cares for me and my concerns.
He redeems me.
He washes me.
He comforts me.
He heals me.
He plants, waters, weeds, prunes...
He fills my darkness with His light.
He's working resurrection in me.

And how do I join Him in His work?
Kissing hurts, and healing wounds.
Mending what's broken.
Washing what is dirty.
Straightening what is crooked.
Feeding the hungry.
Planting and weeding and watering.
Bleaching out the stains.
And returning what has become unusable to a state of usefulness. 

Suddenly the laundry stains are meditative.
And the dishes, endlessly worthless with grime,
are also endless reminders of the restorative work He does in me.
The children needing comfort,
and the babies needing baths --
are praiseworthy reminders of the comfort He gives,
and the washing of the Word.

The dishes and the laundry are in constant need of redemption--
as I must constantly be redeemed from the sin that soils me.
My usefulness depends on my washing.

I looked down at the pants I was wearing -- a thrift store purchase.
A cast-off redeemed.
I put the same things back in their places every single day.
I bring order out of chaos.
And while I work in the kitchen, the toddler is trashing the living room.
And the shoes are scattered out of their baskets in the laundry room.
And it isn't going to end.
But as they mature (and we have other areas in disarray to set right),
they'll lend their hands to the work.

The material matters.
These mind-numbing, repetitive tasks that I do again and again
are the very same tasks He has set for Himself in me.

Best Where It Breaks

I washed fresh basil from my garden,
and broke off leaves and added them to the quartered cherry tomatoes.
My husband picked up a stem and breathed it in.
"Why does it always smell the best where it breaks?" he said.
"Because that's where the oil is released," I said, absentmindedly.
"Just like in real life," he answered.

Working Myself Out of a Job

Do not fear: this was not the unsupervised chopper.

A split pea soup from yesterday's ham
with carrots peeled by my eager son,
and chopped with celery without supervision,
and joyously stirred into the soup.
Onions chopped in 2.5 seconds in the food processor,
without leaving their scent all over my hands.
Sourdough rolls are baking.
They set the table, and stirred the soup,
and cleared out the dish drainer,
and we're headed toward domestic bliss.

Another Stone Soup

My mother always calls mish-mash unplanned meals 'stone soup'.
This one elicited several spontaneous 'I love yous',
and even a 'you're beautiful, Mom!'
Even the two picky ones asked for thirds.
The one who proclaimed my beauty two bites in also told me,
"You need to put this one on the computer."

I need to go to the grocery store,
and have been putting it off all week.
So our supplies were limited.
Making note of a few things we did have, (also the many we didn't),
I turned to my basic corn chowder recipe and didn't follow it.

In a pot:
one cube of butter,
six-eight cubed potatoes,
the end of a bag of frozen broccoli,
one diced onion,
about a cup of garlicky hummus (made with balsamic vinegar in place of lemon juice, and no tahini),
four chicken bouillon cubes,
some shakes of pepper,
two cups of water.

Bring it to boiling, and simmer until the potatoes and broccoli are soft enough.
Smash it all a little.

In a large bowl whisk:
four cups of milk,
3-4 TBSP flour,
1 tsp tumeric powder (for its incredible golden color and anti-inflammatory properties)

When it is all cooked, ladle the hot soup into the milk bowl, stir, and return to pot.
Bring it up to a good temperature, simmer for a few minutes,
and serve it with a sprinkle of cheddar.
You can thank me later.

A New Soup For the New Year

I don't usually blog recipes, but feeding our families is important.
Last night we ate nachos for dinner, and we way over-estimated our needs.
It was late, we had been out shopping for hours,
and our hunger drove our frantic food preparations.
After the meal, I looked at the nachos still on the baking sheet,
and wondered what to do with them.
Leftover nachos are gross.
And there was no way I was going to throw away all that food.
Bake them in some kind of Mexican Nacho Casserole?
Didn't sound too appealing.

Soup?
Nacho Soup.
I scraped all the heaps of spiced ground turkey with onions and garlic,
cheese, tortilla chips, tomatoes, black beans,
refried beans, salsa, and sour cream into a bowl with a plan forming.

This afternoon I whisked a can of cream of chicken soup,
a few cans of milk, a can or two of water,
two chicken bouillon cubes and a can of chopped green chiles
together in my pot with cumin.
I don't know how much.
I don't think it's possible to over-cumin anything, so suit your own taste.
Once that was hot, I added part of a package of cream cheese.
When that was thoroughly melted and warmed,
I cut up the chips that were still too big, and tossed the whole mess in.
We topped it with broken tortilla chips.

Oh, my.
Everyone wanted seconds.
If I had some, I would have thrown in a chicken breast or two
and maybe another can of beans.
But it was excellent even without those.
This marks a Whole New Soup Era for me.
I may start making double our nacho needs on purpose. 

My husband took one bite and got out the camera to take a picture
so I could share it with you.

It isn't much to look at, but it's dynamite.

A Meditation of Bread

A few weeks ago I was given a different brand of whole wheat flour
than I have been using.
Suddenly my bread recipe,
which I had tweaked for some time to get right, failed me.
I wasn't doing anything different other than using another brand.
I have to think about bread again.

Since I began making the bread we eat, I think about bread often.
Is there any bread?
Is there enough bread?
I had better make bread.
Will the bread rise?
Are the ratios right?
Bread is a daily thought.

But then recently, I decided to give a sourdough starter a try --
one I started myself, and didn't receive as a ready gift.
Now bread is an always thought.

I peer into the bowl.
Is it alive yet?
Any signs of life at all?
I smell it.
I watch it.
I feed it.
I wait for it.
I read for hours about it.
I study different schools of thought about it,
and make decisions about which care it will receive.
I plan ahead for its future.
I have hopes for this bread.
For a future of bread and more bread from it.
For pancakes
and cinnamon rolls
and boules
and rolls.
Maybe.
If I can only tell if it's healthy.

Last night I researched signs of health for my bread.
And I discovered I was starving it.
So I fed it an appropriate amount, and it liked it!
Oh, the joy.
I have been feeding it and watching it all day,
and I think it might be on the verge of being perfect --
for a young sourdough starter.
It doubled today.

So I researched 'proofing the sponge'.
Now I watch again anxiously.
Is it working?
Will it rise?
I smell it.
I wait for it.
I think about it while I do the dishes,
washing all the doughy mess from my bowls and utensils.
I wonder if I understand the Bible passages about leaven.
I wonder if in our buy-ten-loaves-of-bread-
and-stick-them-in-our-freezers culture
if I've understood at all.
I think about the feast of unleavened bread,
and I wonder what it means.
What it really means.
And about the purging out of old leaven,
and if it's what I just did when I dumped half the starter down the sink.

And I think about the kingdom of heaven,
and the womanly tasks He described it with.
About leaven, and about lost money,
and the thorough sweeping she did when she lost it.
I think about my Mom and the sometimes days
when she lost money in her checkbook,
and sent us all away so she could balance months' worth of transactions,
'thoroughly sweeping' until she found it.
Or when she maybe lost a check,
and how the entire office had to be ransacked
and set back in order until it was found.
And my mind goes back to the bread.

He put it into His teaching to His disciples on how to pray.
Our Father, who art in heaven,
hallowed be Thy name.
Thy kingdom come.
Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread.
And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors...

And it makes me smile as I realize
that the meditation of the bread
has brought me full circle to His kingdom.
To His care for me and my bread.
To His holiness.
To the hope of justice and the concern for His will.
To forgiveness.
The asking for it.
The giving of it.
Because man shall not live on bread alone.

And Faith Eats, Too.

I've been thinking a lot about Elijah lately. In obedience to the Lord, Elijah gave the king a message: "You're not getting any rain or dew these years unless I say so." (You can read this story for yourself in 1 Kings 17.)

Then the Lord tells him to flee -- sends him to a brook to drink the water and receive charity from birds. Relying on the charity of birds doesn't sound like a responsible plan. And then the brook dried up because there was no rain -- at his word.

When the brook dried up, the Lord told him to go to Sidon (Lebanon). "See, I have commanded a widow there to provide for you."

A widow? That pretty much guaranteed poverty and want. But Elijah went and found her. She was gathering sticks. Her son must have been very young, or he would have been gathering the sticks. When he asks her for some bread, she answers with reference to the Lord, the Living God -- and explains that she is making the last meal for herself and her son. They plan to eat it and die. All she had was a handful of flour and a drizzle of oil.

Doesn't that excite you? God chose a woman on the edge of starvation to 'provide' for His prophet. In a way, though, He chose to provide for a woman on the edge of starvation through His prophet. Here's this woman with some knowledge of the Living God, and nothing in the bank, and one pathetic meal's worth of food, and God says she's appointed to provide. The prophet tells her to give him a little first, and that God said her bin of flour would not run out, and her oil would not run dry until the Lord sent rain. And she believed him.

I wonder what would have happened if she had said 'no'. She would have starved, I think -- and her son. But the prophet would have been provided for through some other widow.

I think every time she opened that jar and looked inside, it looked nearly empty. I think every time she went to cook it was an act of faith. And every time she ate, it was food from nothing. The Bible says, "The just shall live by faith." And: "we walk by faith and not by sight."

Sight says to go to the land where His name is known, find the richest, most powerful religious leader in that town, and make your appeal. It does not say to go find a Lebanese widow with NOTHING and ask her to be your hostess.

Sight takes water from cisterns -- planned in advance, filled by careful engineering, and guarded over seasons. And it toils to bring forth a harvest of grain, to grind it, to store it, to ration it, to hoard it.

Faith takes water from the Rock and bread from the desert. Faith reaches into the jar and pours out the 'last' drop of oil, and hands it to someone else. And Faith eats, too.

Why Everyone Knows Betty Crocker was Childless

Silas thwarted dinner all morning. No matter when I tried to work on the lasagna, his contentment immediately changed to a screaming tantrum. At 10:30 I browned the meat to the sound of his anger. I spooned baby food bites into his mouth in between chopping up onions to add to the meat. He doesn't like baby food. He doesn't approve of it. He objected.

When the meat was cooked and his complaining grew unbearable --okay, who am I kidding? His complaining was unbearable all along-- I turned off the pan and picked him up to change him and feed him the mama-nectar he adores, but had refused when I offered it before. As I nursed the baby, I read roughly 223 words in a book I'm trying to finish. That's more or less a half page. Silas prefers my undivided attention while he eats. If I speak to other people, read anything, or try to watch a movie, he yanks his head back, yells baby talk at me, stares any offender to shame, and grabs a page of any book or magazine I've held before him and twists and wrenches the page until it's crumpled. And he bites.

Once he had been appeased, I placed him on the floor to see if he would be happy. He was. He crept everywhere, happily playing with the cyclone debris scattered over the house. (These cyclones go through frequently in our parts, leaving toys, books, blankets, couch pillows, sippy cups and crumbs in abundance on our floors.) I thought the coast was clear. I made my move.

Once I'd escaped, I made sandwiches for the older kids and got them settled at the table. I pulled 2 eggs, 3 different cheeses and a mixing bowl out and set them on the counter. Within seconds, Silas started howling again. I put him in his walker in the kitchen, where he continued to cry pitifully at me. I tried to speak soothingly to him, but he was not soothed. His pacifier was missing.

I poured a cup of sauce into the bottom of my pan. Silas whined. I spread it around and laid lasagna noodles on the sauce. Silas whimpered. I smeared a third of the ricotta and egg mixture over the noodles and sprinkled a cup of mozzarella over that. Tears rolled down his face. I threw in a cup and a half of sauce and four more noodles. Another third of the ricotta and half the meat went in accompanied by his cries. Ricotta flecked my glasses. I dumped another cup of sauce over it. Silas got louder.

"Isaiah! Find his pacifier!" I yelled. He couldn't find it. I laid out more noodles, spread the last third of the ricotta mix, the other half of the meat, and some sauce. By this time, Silas was furious. I made Isaiah sit beside him to keep him company. I dealt out another layer of noodles, and emptied all the remaining sauce and my last cup of mozzarella over it. Silas was screaming like he was in pain. I covered the lasagna with foil and jammed it into the fridge.

The shattering crash of a ceramic plate on the floor of the dining room demanded my attention. It was Talia's delicate signal that she'd had enough. My discouraging response brought angry tears and moans from her, too. It crossed my mind that from the outside, our house sounded like a torture chamber-- full of shrieks and misery.

I washed Talia up and let her down. I grabbed a dish rag and wiped all the sauce and cheese off the counter. I took out the broom and swept nearly a quarter cup of junk off the dining room floor, shaking out the dustpan just as Silas began to quietly study the xylophone Isaiah was accompanying his song with.

But the magic ended when he saw me. Frantic with anxiety, Silas beat his fists in the air. I picked him up and carried him to the living room, where the cause of his desperation became clear: he had a teaspoon of pee in his diaper.