passing it on . . .

On Mondays, I've been driving up the mountain to spend a few hours with a friend who is dying. His wife has to work and feels better is there's someone in the house with K. So I hang out for a bit, make a pot of soup and chat when he feels like talking. I head back down the mountain shortly before his hospice worker is scheduled to arrive.

My friend--and his family--have thanked me profusely for this small service. But what they don't know is that I'm truly the one who is blessed. The opportunity to serve this family in this way will soon be lost and I consider it a privilege to be part of their journey.

As I puttered about in the kitchen on Monday, trying not to make too much noise and wake K. from his nap, I thought about the season when Greg and I were on the receiving end of such help.

And I remembered the remorseful words from a woman who declined the opportunity to serve us . . .

After our accident in 1984, Greg and I were in wheelchairs and hospital beds (set up in our bedroom) for four months. He'd sustained two broken legs and a fractured ankle, while I had fractured my left femur, broken my right lower leg and pretty much detached my knee cap. Greg's family took turns staying with us for the first month, but our church family stepped up took on our full care when his folks finally left.

Because of the extent of our injuries--and the fact that our two surviving children were only 3 and 6 months at the time--we needed 24 hour care for several months. I don't know who was in charge of getting all the "shifts" filled, but it must have been quite an ordeal. (Sitting with my friend on the mountain is a walk in the park compared to caring for two emotionally and physically broken adults, two small children, a cat and a very large dog).

I can't remember the multitude of ways we were blessed during that time, but I am forever grateful. Greg and I saw the Body of Christ at its very best as His love was poured out on us through our church family. Someone converted the youth van into a handicap-accessible vehicle so we could be more easily transported to our doctor's appointments around town. Wheelchair ramps were built at our front door and food mysteriously appeared in our fridge and pantry on a daily basis. People came and cleaned our house, paid our bills and walked our dog. One elderly woman drove us to the polls one fall day so we could vote.

Not everyone responded to the opportunity to minister to our family during that chaotic time. I know this because I ran into a very sad woman at a Ladies' Tea I spoke at several years after our accident. She approached me after I spoke with tears in her eyes and asked me to forgive her.

"For what?" I asked, truly puzzled. I barely knew the woman and could not imagine how she might have offended me.

"For not serving your family when I had the chance," she replied, wiping away tears. She then explained how she'd been approached to take the "night shift" with us early on in our convalesence. Several factors figured into her refusal--her busy schedule, her unease with grief and her own selfishness.

Years later, however, the Lord convicted her that she'd missed a rare opportunity to serve--and to be greatly blessed. By that time, we'd moved out of the area, but this woman had been trying to track us down ever since . . . so she could ask for our forgiveness!

I hadn't known any of this, of course, and had no problem forgiving her. But I've never forgotten how grieved she was over the lost opportunity to serve. I hope she's been able to forgive herself.

All this to say that I am the one who benefits most from my Monday visits on the mountain. I am richly blessed in the present and will have no regrets when my friend finally sheds his eartly tent.

And I'm grateful for this opportunity to pass on some of the comfort I've received along the way:

"Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of al comfort, who comforts us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort those who are in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have recieved from God." 2 Cor. 1:2-4

chemistry of addictions

I got a phone call from my friend Virgil yesterday. He lives in a small Athabaskan village off the road system in Alaska. I met Virgil in the early 90's when our family was ministering in his village. He became a believer--and a good friend--during that time and we've stayed in touch with him ever since.

Virgil now knows the Bible better than I do, has the biggest personal library of Christian books I've ever seen, watches Christian T.V. and Native New Life DVDs and feels called to be an evangelist to his own people. He's smart and funny and really loves Jesus.

And Virgil is addicted to alcohol.

Many of the phone calls he's made to either Greg or me over the years have been to ask for prayer for his drinking problem. Because of his addiction, Virgil has been in and out of jail, relationships and work. One part of him hates alcohol and the chaos and destruction it has sown in his life.

But the other part loves the mind and soul-numbing escape it offers him from the harsh realities of life, both past and present.

Virgil sounded pretty hung-over when he called yesterday to ask me for advice. He'd met a woman who wanted to marry him (Virgil's first wife committed suicide the year before we met him, leaving him to raise four young children), but he wasn't sure he felt God's leading in the matter. As the conversation unfolded, he admitted they drank together.

Before I could offer my counsel (run like the wind, Virgil!), he began to quote scriptures, beating himself up with the Word of God. It reminded me of the old Jesuit practice of self-flagellation where the priests whip themselves to atone for their own sins. In between verses, Virgil expressed doubts about his own salvation. There was no mistaking the hopelessness in his voice.

For the next few minutes, I shared with Virgil what I'd learned at the Genesis Process training about addictions being a brain disease rather than sin.

"Do you think you drink to get high or feel normal?" I asked.

Virgil thought for a minute then answered, "To feel normal, I guess."

Then I explained briefly about the limbic system and coping behaviors. I told Virgil I'd send him information about the Genesis Process, but wonder how effective the material will be without a small group to help him work through his issues. But I know he'll read it and just maybe truth will begin to penetrate his heart. And just maybe the Genesis Process is part of the great calling Virgil has on his life . . .

By the end of our conversation, Virgil had decided--on his own--that his lady friend probably wasn't God's best for him.

Didn't I say he was a smart man?

limbic lag

I just returned from a very intense week of training for the Gensis Process. I learned about such things as survival lies, FASTER scales, double binds and the limbic system.

(I you want to know more about these matters, I'd encourage you to explore the Genesis website: http://www.genesisprocess.org/).

The limbic system fascinated me. This part of the brain controls all automatic responses and emotions, including survival responses (fight, flight or freeze). The limbic brain determines at a very early age if the world is safe or otherwise and begins to adjust its settings (neurochemicals) accordingly. Most people develop addictions (to drugs, alcohol, sex, adrenaline, etc.) not to get "high," but to readjust those settings and feel normal again.

The cool thing is that the limbic system can be reprogrammed. Not by knowledge, but through experience. And the experience that best allows the limbic system to reset its neurochemical levels to normal levels is grace.

How awesome is that?

So Michael Dye, the creator of Genesis Process, not only teaches people how to use and apply these healing tools; he also encourages churches to become safe havens of grace for recovering people.

The only problem is that very broken people often experience more grace and acceptance in bars than in churches . . .

Which really doesn't help the recovery process.

full circle

With my little harvest drawing to a close, my energies have turned from growing food to preserving it. So far, I've put up 2 dozen jars (of various sizes) of freezer jam--blueberry, blackberry, raspberry and peach. I've dried 4 quarts of tomatoes (and thrown half of that away). I've frozen countless bags of peaches, corn, green beans, beets, berries and roasted tomatoes and peppers. And I've canned peaches, peach pie filling, pears, salsa and marinara sauce!

And I feel like I'm just getting started!

The whole gardening process--from planting the seeds to harvesting and preserving the produce--has been one of the most rewarding endeavors of my life. I've learned so much about life and God and myself as I've played in the dirt. I've made new friends, felt a deeper connection with women in general, and have finally come full circle in my relationship with food.

As I blogged a few weeks back, I've struggled with eating disorders for most of my life.

During my first season of gardening, however, the Creator has replaced my ambivalence toward food with a sense of gratitude for His good and perfect gift. Handling vegetables and fruit from their seed-stages until harvest time has given me a new appreciation for eating--I actually taste the food I'm chewing, savoring each delicious bite.

The spiritual lessons gleaned through sowing, fertilizing, weeding, pruning and harvesting have impacted me deeply. I feel more connected to the Lord, His creation and the long line of "tillers of the soil" who stretch back all the way to the Garden.

It's taken me a while to come full circle. But after all, my grandparents were wheat farmers--and my genetic roots go down deep in the rich west Kansas dirt.

consuming fire

I saw an intriguing bumper sticker recently. It was the Christian fish, the universal symbol of the Christian faith, in an obvious state of decay.

My pulse quickened as I walked past the offending bumper. But oddly, I wasn't offended and my heart raced at the realization that the bumper sticker is probably more prophetic than most Christ-followers would admit.

I don't know if you've noticed, but it appears to me that Christendom is coming apart at the seams . . .

Now before you get your knickers in a knot, let me just say that I think the Church, aka the Bride of Christ, is alive and well and doing just fine. But I've come to believe that the institution the world (and many Christians) calls "the church" is a far cry from the true Body of Christ. And, in my opinion, the Lord is shaking the former and refining the latter.

Every week I learn about more churches that are going through meltdowns. Pastors resigning, church splits dividing families, moral failures destroying marriages, doctrinal haggles parting the best of friends. I literally know dozens of people who are unchurched right now because church no longer seems safe to them. They are lost sheep without shepherds, trying to find their way back home.

And I hear a lot of folks blaming Satan for this sad state of affairs, but I disagree. I think the Lord is shaking whatever can be shaken (Heb. 12:26-29) and testing His servant's works with fire: "Now if anyone builds on this foundation with gold, silver, precious stones, wood, hay or straw, each one's work will become clear . . . because it will be revealed by fire. " I Cor. 3:13,14

And there's not an individual or institution that will escape the Refiner's fire. All hearts will be revealed.

I have to say that I am kind of excited about our straw temples getting torched. Once all the smoke clears, maybe the world will be able to finally glimpse the pure and spotless Bride Jesus is coming back for . . .

domestically challenged

So, the dried tomatoes in the jar look inviting, do they not? To the contrary--I just discovered today that I turned an innocent batch of vegetables into a toxic colony of micro-organisms.

And to think I was going to give them to the people I love as Christmas presents!

Just when I'm starting to think I've discovered my inner domestic goddess, I am humbled (and slightly terrified) by the invisible threat of botulism. Let me explain . . .

Yesterday, I emailed all the members of our community garden co-op and shared with them all the delectable ways I'd been preserving my bountiful crop. I gave the the roasted veggie recipe from NW Organic farms and revealed my killer salsa recipe. For the grand finale', I told the group how I'd oven dried roma tomatoes, then packed them in olive oil laced with fresh garlic and basil. It was a recipe I'd discovered in a friend's cookbook.

I loved how easy it was to make--and how gourmet it looked.

Only minutes after I'd sent the email, came an urgent reply: "Do NOT use Shawn's recipe for the dried tomatoes in olive oil! When you put veggies and herbs in oil it creates a condition which allows botulism to become toxic . . . "

Up until that point, I'd never felt like a potential murdered. But those words hit hard! I started researching the whole subject of preserving foods in olive oil and found that the opinions varied. But I went to the site my email friend recommended (the Oregon State Food Safety/Preservation site and found that they approved the preservation of dried tomatoes in olive oil--but only if no fresh vegetables were added. Dried basil and garlic would have been perfectly fine.

Who knew?

So I actually called the Food Safety hotline today (1 800 354 7319) to find out if I could salvage my contaminated tomatoes. The first woman I talked to asked me a gazillion questions (how long have the jars been stored at room temperature?) and then decided she needed to call in a botulism expert. This lady had me repeat my story, asked a few questions and then announced:

"Congratulations! You've grown your own colony of botulism!"

What do you say to that? I repeated my question about saving the tomatoes and she recommended that I throw everything out--including the jars!

"The oil is contaminated now and it will infect everything it touches, including the jars. Do you really want to get toxic oil all over your kitchen?"

Well, the obvious answer to that was a big, fat NO! So I threw away all my delicious tomatoes, jars and all, and disinfected my entire kitchen with lysol.

Seriously, who knew that the combination of olive oil, dried tomatoes and a few fresh herbs could create such a deadly cocktail? I'm thinking that the TSA should have their own counter-botulism/canning unit . . .