cooking-impaired

Holidays can be stressful for me, the number one reason being that they tend to revolve around food--and I don't like to cook.

I won't go into all the reasons. Just suffice it to say that food just isn't a big deal to me. I don't live to eat--I eat to live. So spending days shopping and preparing for the food-a-thon, standing for hours in a crowded kitching slaving over the meal, then cleaning up and recuperating for weeks after the feast . . . well, it just isn't my idea of a good time.

But the Lord has blessed me with three daughters who all have inherited their culinary skills from Greg's side of the family (not that he cooks, but both his parents--and all his siblings--could put on their own Food Network show). Lindsay isn't just into cooking--she's all about presentation--so any eating occasion presided over by HRH becomes an epicurean event, instead of a simple meal.

I think I drive her crazy in the kitchen. Yesterday, she was constantly looking over my shoulder, making sure I was using the right ingredients (were they organic and locally grown?), giving the proper attention to presentation (the whole cloves had to be arranged just so on her organic pumpkin pie), and of course, precise preparation (we made green bean casserole from scratch this year!).

And I never have proper cooking equipment. Most of my pots and pans come from Goodwill (although my in-laws, bless their hearts, try to re-stock my kitchen every Christmas). I usually seem to lack the one ingredient necessary for the success of any dish (for example, I ran out of white flour and had to use whole wheat for the rolls I made yesterday. They turned out so dense and dry that SurvivorMan could have used them as fire-starters--or weapons).

Lindsay has learned to bring her own equipment and ingredients, but my kitchen can be kind of a shock for first-timers who care about culinary things.

I felt a little sorry for Lindsay's boyfriend, Nich, and his mom yesterday. Both are accomplished cooks who cheerfully braved my small and ill-equipped kitchen to help prepare our Thanksgiving feast. My major contribution to the meal was staying out of the way--or pretending to look for requested items that I knew I didn't own (meat thermometer, turkey baster, etc.)

But the meal came together somehow, and 15 hungry folks wolfed down that feast in about that many minutes! And even though I'm not a huge fan of gluttony, I must say that was about the tastiest, most attractive--and healthiest--Thanksgiving ever.

And as I stated during our time of giving thanks at the table yesterday--I am very grateful for wonderful daughters (and their spouses/boyfriends/etc.) who can cook!

hunting in the twilight zone . . .

The last four days were some of the strangest I've ever spent. I don't think I'm cut out for the hunting scene.

The trip was actually more of an armed hike than a hunt, since no one in our group fired a shot. I probably came the closest to shooting a gun, which is a very disturbing concept . . .

I will say that our campsite was gorgeous. Situated next to a creek, dense woods on either side, our camp was totally hidden from the road. Which is amazing, considering the size of the tent we erected. John, the tent owner and hunt organizer, called the monstrosity "Circus Maximus". It was an old army tent, and was so roomy that we fit our four cots, a wood stove, four chairs, a kitchen and dining table--with room to spare. The ancient canvas was ripped and rotted and a far cry from air-tight, but the stove managed to keep us somewhat toasty. (although one night I dreamed I was visiting Siberia . . .) Greg called the tent the Bat Cave.

And we ate like kings. John brought a turkey, steak, chicken breasts, salmon and lasagna--no PBJs for our group! Greg even brought me coffee each morning before the 3 hunters headed for their secret elk spots (carefully scouted out the day before), leaving me and Scout to our own devices for most of the day. I had envisioned catching up on my reading, but the tent was so cold and dark that I spent most of my free time out wandering on the innumerable forest service roads. Which is where my story gets interesting . . .

Greg made me promise that if I went out walking, I would carry a gun. He'd brought a little handgun for me to use for protection from predators--be they mountain lions, bears--or other hunters. Greg showed me how to put the bullets in the chamber and then how to shoot the thing. I'm terrified of guns, but paid attention and was actually able to load three bullets in the revolving chamber before I set out on my first trek. (The gun holds six bullets, but I figured if I couldn't stop a cougar with three shots, I was history anyway).

So, the first morning after Greg and Kim and John set out for Elk Ridge (as we affectionaly called it), I decided to hike up to where they'd parked about mid-morning. It had snowed a bit in the wee hours, so I wasn't worried about getting lost--I could just follow my trail back to the camp. I thought I knew the road they'd taken, so set off with my daypack, orange vest, gun and Scout for a bit of exercise.

I hiked uphill for nearly two hours, always thinking I'd see John's toyota around the next bend. I occasionally heard gunshots and prayed fervently that Greg had bagged his first elk. I was thinking about turning around when a pick-up truck with two seasoned ladies in camoflauge cruised up to me and stopped. It was practically the first vehicle I'd seen all morning.

"We've been tracking you for miles!" the driver told me.

"Yeah," said her friend. "We'd have turned back a while ago, but we wanted to see what kind of dog you had--its tracks just kept going in circles!"

I explained that I was looking for my husband who was out hunting, so they asked me to describe his vehicle. When I told them it was a red toyota, they looked at each other and chucked, then informed me they'd seen that vehicle parked on another forest service road--quite a few miles from my present location.

I gratefully accepted their offer of a ride back down the mountain, but then remembered I had a loaded gun hanging from my shoulder. "Would you take the bullets out of this for me?" I asked the driver (Judy was her name) as I handed her my gun.

Judy deftly emptied the three bullets from their chambers and handed the weapon back to me. "I'm glad to see you have a gun," she told me. "Even if you don't know how to use it."

"Yeah, I've heard there are mountains lions and bears up here," I replied.

"It's not the animals I'm worried about," she said, as I climbed in the truck and coaxed Scout up on my lap. "It's the other hunters. Some of them are just crazy."

They dropped me off at camp and about 30 minutes later the great hunters returned. Greg had seen three cows (that's female elk for the hunting impaired) sprint by, but hadn't had time to take a shot. We spent the afternoon scouting out other spots (and getting really lost) and that night we drove a lost hunter back to his camp--a good six miles away. The poor guy had been tromping around in sub-freezing temps for about six hours when he stumbled into our camp . . . and he'd been hunting in those woods for 20 years!

I was beginning to think this whole hunting thing was a bit insane . . .

The next day, I decided once again to try to hike to Elk Ridge. This time, Scout and I successfully reached the spot where they parked and sat down to rest on a rock near John's toyota. Greg radioed and said they were headed my way and told me just to wait for them. As I sat eating a Snicker's bar, a red pickup pulled up and stopped not far from me.

An older man, sixty-something, rolled down his window.
"Do you every get harassed for hunting with a dog?" he asked, nodding toward Scout.

I told him I wasn't hunting, just waiting for my husband.

"Oh, so you don't have a rifle, eh?" he said, and got out of the truck and headed toward me.

I mean, he looked harmless enough, but his statement and demeanor unnerved me. I decided I didn't want to chat with him.

"No rifle," I agreed. "But I have a handgun," I said, hoisting the holstered weapon for him to see. The man stopped in his tracks, about 15 feet away from me. Scout circled him, barking like crazy, until Greg and company appeared a few minutes later. And they all had rifles! The guy chatted nervously for about 10 seconds, then got in his truck and drove off in a hurry. I have to admit, I was glad I'd brought the stupid gun. The woods, it seemed, was full of strange people.

But we all got out alive, including the elk we'd hoped to shoot. I can now add "hunting trip in the scary woods with crazy people" to my list of accomplishments--but honestly, it's not an experience I'd like to repeat!

Survivor Woman

I am packing for my first real hunting trip. The kind where you stay in tents and pee in the woods and get really, really cold.

I hunted a few times in high school. My uncle took me dove hunting once in West Texas. They weren't the pretty white doves that get released at weddings. They were brown and slow and not very clever. If you actually shot one, they were pretty good eating.

I am nearly legally blind with severe depth-perception issues, but we didn't know this when I was in high school. My aim was so bad that I'm sure I was more of a threat to my uncle and cousins than I was to the doves. After I got bored with shooting at fleeting specks in the sky, I sat down to rest on a tree stump. When movement a few yards a way caught my eye, I took aim and fired--and to my great surprise and dismay hit a jack rabbit!

I immediately felt great remorse. Putting down the shot gun, I ran to the poor rabbit's twitching body and petted it until it died, tears streaming down my face. It was such a traumatic incident I swore I would never hunt again.

And I haven't. And I'm not shooting at anything on this trip--just tagging along with three excited hunters hoping to each bag an elk. Scout and I are just along for the very long ride to Eastern Oregon.

I will be out of internet, cell phone and flush toilet range for the next four days. I'm taking lots of warm clothes, chocolate, my Bible, a compass and my snowshoes. I expect to have lots of lovely hikes in the wilderness; good times with Scout and Jesus. I will try not to think about the 17 people coming for Thanksgiving dinner, the five feet of standing water in our crawl space, the upcoming craft show I have no journals made for, the article I have to write for work . . .

I'm thankful for all the wilderness survival tips I've been gleaning from Survivor Man and Bear Grylls. Maybe I'll actually get to put them to use this week.

But I have to wonder just how long those guys would last in my crazy suburban jungle?

bazaar tales

I'm sitting here recuperating from my first-ever bazaar. It was exhausting, but I had a blast!

I was blown away by the overall reaction to my journals (in case you don't know, I make one-of-a-kind journals from old books and recycled paper. Check out my SparrowTracks link). Most of the shoppers had never seen such a thing before, and even if they didn't buy one, they stopped to tell me what a great idea it was. Several ladies spent long stretches of time at my booth, inspecting every journal I had on display (I started with about 100).

A few gals purchased so many, that I started throwing in a free journal for every 5 they bought. One lady came back four times and bought more journals each visit. She sent quite a few of her friends my way to check out my wares. It was really fantastic to see how excited they got!

The best sale of the day was to a little old lady who spent a half hour looking through the journals. She finally chose one created from an old children's book titled, "Old Granny Fox." She told me that was what her grand kids called her and she loved the name.

"It's perfect!" she exclaimed as she handed me $15 dollars.
"I think that one has an inscription--did you see it?" I asked.
She shook her head, then peeked inside the cover. "To Jean, with love," she read, her eyes widening.
"That's my name--I'm Jean!" she told me, clutching the journal to her chest. "This journal was meant for me!"

Beside the cool customers, I had fun getting acquainted with the other vendors. Judy, the gal behind me who sold the unique wind chimes her husband made (he welded them from old scuba diving tanks!), gave me lots of useful tips, such as how to get my own free business cards and website! She even swapped me a beautiful orange windchime for several of my journals. I'm excited to meet up with Judy again at the Scrooge Lives craft fair in December.

Judy had lots of helpers at her booth, which is nice because you can run to the bathroom or the coffee place without neglecting your customers. Her husband and brother both helped all weekend and I got to chat a bit with Clyde, her brother, this morning.

"I got laid off from Les Schwab a few months ago," he told me, "so I have lots of free time right now. People just aren't buying tires now, because of the economy being so bad. I've looked everywhere, but nobody's hiring."

Before I could continue the conversation, Greg arrived to help me pack up. On an impulse, I grabbed a journal and handed it to him. The title? "Think and Grow Rich!"

OK, that sounds really cheesy, but it cracked Clyde up. And it helped me remember to pray for him on my walk with Scout this afternoon. I'm praying he won't be helping Judy at the next craft show because he found a really great job . . . even in this lousy economy.

So, I'm excited about the relationships that will develop and the doors for ministry that will open through this little hobby of mine.

But the sale wiped out my inventory! Does anyone reading this have any old books or paper they'd to recycle?

I wish we'd all been ready . . .

For as long as I can recall, I've been fascinated by all things apocalyptic. I've always had the strongest notion that I would live through the end times. In fact, I was so convinced of this that I made my poor children watch the "Thief in the Night" movies when they were quite young.

In case you missed them, this series of very poorly-made flicks from the '70s depicted the terrors that believers would face in the last days--if they missed the rapture. I don't believe in a pre-trib rapture, so I'm not sure why I made my kids watch those terrible movies. I think I just wanted them prepared for the hard times ahead. I didn't want them caught off guard should persecution rear it's nasty head.

Of course, my children now say those movies caused them great harm and that they will need counseling for at least 100 years. They were especially traumatized the scene where those who refused to follow the Beast had their heads removed by a ghastly guillotine (as Larry Norman's "I Wish We'd All Been Ready" played softly in the background). The movie didn't actually show the beheadings, of course, but you definitely got the idea.

Oh, they'll get over it. And they may be more ready than they know to face whatever lies ahead.

I told Greg the other night that I kind of feel like we are all aboard the Titanic. And we've hit an iceberg that's done irreparable damage--but know one seems to know or care. We are carrying on with life as usual . . . but the ship is going down.

Maybe not tomorrow--or even next year. But it's going to take an act of God to plug this leak.

Ah, maybe it's just me. Maybe our country will stay afloat with our new president at the helm.

But I've got a sudden urge to listen to some Larry Norman tunes. . .

truth telling

Truth is truth, but there is more than one way to tell it.

I used to be a reporter for the Sisters Nugget. Best job I ever had! I loved doing interviews and asking questions--but at the end of the day, I had to make sure I'd gotten my facts straight. I often emailed my articles to my interviewees before publication so they could verify the accuracy of what I'd written. You know, the when, where, who and how stuff. It was amazing how often I put my own spin on the facts I was reporting! (Kathryn, remember the article I wrote about Goddy?)

Facts are important, of course, but there are other ways to impart truth. I much prefer a good story. Ironic, isn't it, that sometimes fiction communicates truth more winsomely than a detailed report. Take The Shack, for instance. I've been to Bible college, been on mission trips and have served in ministry for a million years. I know all the doctrines and scriptures about the goodness of God. But there was something about Mack's story, especially his encounters with Papa, cemented the truth--that God is good and can be trusted even when evil befalls us--once and for all in my heart.

Seriously, that fictional story impacted me so deeply that I bought 30 copies of the book and gave them away.

Jesus told the Truth through stories. As far as I know, He didn't often cite studies or polls when talking to His followers about the kingdom of God. He mostly spoke in parables and poetry, calling His listeners to seek truth outside their religious formulas. Few got it, but those who did got the Truth, the whole Truth and nothing but the Truth. They got Jesus!

I'm hoping I make a better storyteller than reporter . . .

fear of the Lord

In my humble opinion, there is one--and only one--reason that our country is in such a sorry state right now.

The Church has not walked in the fear of the Lord.

As I've been asking the Lord how to speak up for truth and justice, He's been showing me that I struggle in this area because I've been walking in the fear of man. Many times, when confronted with arguments that I know are not truth-based, I stay silent to avoid conflict. My views are not changed, but I don't speak up for the sake of peace (which really isn't peace at all, but a cowardly silence). I care more about the approval of men than about pleasing and obeying God.

I'm not sure that one can be "politically correct" and walk in the fear of the Lord . . .

So, I'm digging into the Word and doing a study on what exactly the fear of the Lord entails. I studied this concept at length years ago, but I feel a great need for a refresher course.

But what I DO know about the fear of the Lord is this:

• it is the beginning of wisdom and knowlege
• it teaches us to hate evil and love good
• it prolongs life and provides protection and provision
• it results in great blessing
• it results in intimate friendship with God
• it is a refuge for us and our children

I've prayed for many years for my daughters, that they would not walk in the fear of man, but in the fear of the Lord. I think it is time to pray that for myself--and the Body of Christ at large. What we this nation look life if the Church removed her politically correct muzzle and allowed God to put His Words in her mouth?

I think it's time we find out . . .

A dangerous bride?

This is an awesome quote by the late, great Mike Yaconelli:

"I would like to suggest that the Church become a place of terror again; a place where God continually has to tell us, "Fear not"; a place where our relationship with God is not a simple belief or a doctrine or theology, it is God's burning presence in our lives. I am suggesting that the tame God of relevance be replaced by the God whose very presence shatters our egos into dust, burns our sin into ashes, and strips us naked to reveal the real person within. The Church needs to become a gloriously dangerous place where nothing is safe in God's presence except us. Nothing--including our plans, our agendas, our priorities, our politics, our money, our security, our comfort, our possessions, our needs"

More on how that works itself out tomorrow . . .

heading for the hills . . .

. . . to spend a few days with some girlfriends. I won't have internet access, so my "not silent anymore" blog may be pretty quiet for a few days!

In case you are wondering where my etsy shops and links went, they are at the bottom of the page. Just scroll down past my posts and you'll see them. I hope to be adding new links with good info about the times we live in.

The battle goes not well . . . but the kingdom comes!

Yes, this is still Shawn Strannigan's blog. But when I woke up yesterday, the morning after the election, I felt the Lord's nudging to change the name. Mum's the Word was a cute title, He assured me, but it will no longer reflect my approach to life.

No worries--this blog will not become a political rant. I'm not nearly informed enough for that. But I pray that the fear of the Lord will trump the fear of man in all I speak and write. It's only been 24 hours since the Lord gave me that directive, but I've become acutely aware of how I'm prone to hold my tongue--and hold back truth--to avoid conflict. My silence has bought me safety . . . or so it seemed at the time. I realize now that I've been backed into a comfortable, politically correct corner with no hope of escape.

But there is a way out--the truth spoken with love. And I will not be silent anymore, whatever that means. The title of this post is taken from a beloved book I read to my girls when they were small. It's about a rag-tag band of outcasts who live in the kingdom of love, trying to rescue other lost souls from the evil Enchanter who rules the world. The outcasts would always greet each other as they went about the King's business in this manner: "How goes the battle?" one would ask. "It goes not well, but the Kingdom comes!" replied the other, emphasizing the hopeful desperation of their condition.

And hopeful desperation describes the state of my heart right now. I have hope, because the Lord God Almighty is the ruler of the universe and very much in control. If a sparrow cannot fall to the ground without his knowledge and consent--can a president be elected without His approval? And I am desperate because, more than ever before, I sense that our time is short.

Don't you?

But don't let my blog title fool you. It's not the promotion of my grandiose pontifications on the political scene. Rather, it's a daily challenge to me to speak the truth in love as the Lord leads.

true north

As I write, Stephen Mogga Wani is on his way back to Sudan.
And I am sad . . .

I've never met anyone quite like Stephen. He had favor with God and men wherever he went. As my daughter, Candyce, put it: "People just threw money at him. And laptops!" And he never asked for anything. Stephen just shared his story--when asked--and people responded.

From the first time I met Stephen, the biblical description "pure and unstained by the world" came to mind. As he became more comfortable in our culture, I worried a bit that he would be corrupted or tainted by it.

But I needn't have worried. Like a compass pointing toward true north, Stephen kept his heart aligned toward Jesus.

Stephen didn't have a judgemental bone in his body and never spoke a word of condemnation against the western church or American culture. But his orientation toward the Truth often revealed how out-of-alignment my own heart was. As he retired to his room each night to pray and worship, I was convicted of my own prayerlessness. As he sat on our couch and watched endless episodes of reality TV with the family, Stephen always a kind of faraway look in his eyes--a yearning for the true adventures that come with following God. He never complained, but I became uncomfortably aware of my laziness and lack of compassion for the lost.

I will (and already do) miss Stephen. But I know that he is a gift from God and that this humble African man will consistently remind me where True North lies.