Unexpected Blessing

People are tired of hearing your medical woes and fears. Even when I try to express my concerns about tests and results to my boys, they just cut me off with "You'll be fine. You always are."

Well, that's true. God has been gracious, and I do pull through the most challenging physical problems some way or another, even when it looks dicey. But I get tired of being poked and prodded and enduring the "discomfort" of the tests. I don't mean to complain. I am grateful that I get good medical care, that I have health insurance, that I live in a country where the hospitals are regulated and the doctors well trained.

The thought of having someone stick something down my throat and fish around in my stomach for a biopsy chunk does set me off though. I know all the head techniques of not dwelling on the idea, of filling up with verses to hang onto, of calling the prayer warriors in my life to intercede. I have friends who will go with me and be there for me, family who love me and are pulling for me to do well. I am blessed.

Still. Sometimes I just want to "let it all out" - to cry and wail in protest, to register my unhappiness somewhere where I will be allowed to vent freely without being reassured. I have no significant other to kiss away the tears. I told God so. "When do I get somebody to hold me tight and reassure me without making my fears and discouragement seem unjustified? Someone to just love me when I am weak and whiney? Someone I don't have to be strong for?"

Well! God takes this stuff seriously. I should have known He would answer, but I was taken totally by surprise when I walked into the seminary Lutheran chapel and found the title of the evening's traditional Lutheran service was a healing service. I have done Lutheran at Concordia, and they don't do healing services as the norm there.

Even more surprising was the statement made by the pastor that this service was something God had laid on her heart. She had struggled with whether to obey the voice within her. Thank God she did! We read through the liturgy, every word sinking into my heart, reminding me of God's desire to love His people, of God's great power and grace, of the many others in this world who are suffering and of our need to lift them up in prayer. We read the prayers millions of others have prayed through the ages, reflecting on the Scriptures.

She invited those who wished prayer for healing and wholeness to come forward for anointing. I didn't move right away, I was still amazed at how much trouble God had gone through to reassure me that He was with me and then the tears began. I knew I could be weak and whiney with God and He would still love me, hold me, not try to cut off my tumbling words of fears and discouragement.

I spilled them all out, every one. The tears kept flowing and flowing as I was able to honestly say that I am tired of being ill, that I want the tests to stop, that I want the cancer gone, that I am afraid of the endoscopy, that its not fair, that I just need to be held and loved. He heard every word.

When I got in line and it was my turn to be anointed, the pastor told me she had seen me before ever she had stepped foot in the building, that God had shown her of my need, and that indeed, this service was for me. More tears. She anointed my forehead with oil, and put her arms around me and hugged me. Like a child, I lay my head on her shoulder and wept.

Good Lord, how will I be able to return to class and quiet down, now that the floodgates have burst? I need not have worried. Once it was all out, once I had felt the reassuring arms of comfort, the quiet upholding of the One who made me, the patting of the head to know it's OK, the tears just stopped. In plenty of time to resume class and concentrate on the discussion.

God is good. God is very very good. I don't know what may come in the weeks ahead. I do know God will be with me, and that is enough. Praise God, from whom all blessings flow.

Confectioner's Sugar

White powdery specks sprinkle liltingly down from the sky as if a giant baker wielding a flour sifter stands above us decorating the filthy soot covered snowbanks with a fresh white layer of confectioner's sugar. Sometimes the fallout is heavy, sometimes light, sometimes non-existent.

It reminds me of when I was in junior high school and we girls helped Mom with the weekend baking. We gathered in the spacious kitchen of 407 South William Street, the grand old manse we managed to occupy from stem to stern.

I was most familiar with the linoleum floor in the kitchen, having spent regular scrubbing sessions on top of it. I still prefer hands and knees to mops, loathing the dirty corners and unkempt appearance of under counters that mops refuse to address.

In the middle of the huge room stood a wobbly chrome and gray table upon which we spread our necessary ingredients for the making of a cake from scratch. No box mixes for us, no sir. They were expensive for a poor preacher's family with six children. We followed the Betty Crocker recipe straight from within the red checkerboard covers of the worn volume, ticking down the list to make sure we had enough of everything before we began. Milk, flour, sugar, eggs, baking powder, baker's chocolate, vanilla.

While one sister managed the ingredients, the other brought forth mixing bowls, measuring spoons, spatulas, aprons, baking pans - all the accouterments for putting together this delicate confection. Younger sisters looked on, sitting in high chairs or peeking over the edge of the table, their noses barely visible. Obnoxious traffic underfoot for the elder sister just trying to get done so she could race outdoors and play with friends.

Soon you could hear the clinking of spoons and the tapping of beaters as the separate ingredients were duly measured and added in just the right order, just the right way. Don't beat too much. Don't beat too little. Make sure the eggs don't include any shell pieces. No, doubling the vanilla will not help. Don't burn the chocolate while you are melting it in the top of a double boiler pan (remember them?). At long last, after a good hour of fussing, the liquid brown ambrosia was ready to pour into the carefully greased and floured 9 inch round baking pans and tuck into the oven, set at precisely 350 degrees.

Then the begging by the younger set began. Its my turn to lick the bowl. You got it last time. Give me the left beater, it has more on it. Set the timer and go play. Before you realize it, the most mouthwatering smell calls you back to the kitchen. Pull open the oven door, slide the rack out, press your index finger into the spongy cake. It springs back! The edges are pulled away from the pan and golden brown. Never mind the broomstraw test - its done!

The hardest part was waiting until it was cool enough to either frost or sift confectioner's sugar over the top. Even though frosting was the favored topping, I liked the confectioner's sugar better. Less gooey, and it enhanced rather than smothered the flavor of the chocolate. The best part was Sunday afternoon after the roast beef and potatoes, after the carrots and rolls. Then came the perfect slice of chocolate cake adorned with a white powdery sifting of sugar so fine you could barely tell it apart from the cake other than by color. Yum, yum.

Snow Person

East of our place on Lyell Avenue, in the side yard of a small tan ranch house, there stands a huge mound of snow nearly as tall as the roof of the house. At first we thought it was one of those inflatable lawn decorations in the shape of a snowman, but when the shape began to change, we realized it was a home-made honest-to-goodness real live snow person manually created by person or persons unknown.

This gigantic snowperson wears a blue waste basket on its head for a hat, some kind of wood shingles for a mouth, and two huge snowballs for feet. The snow monster sports a blue and gray scarf about it's neck and bare branches for arms. The curious thing is that there are no eyes! I wonder if they put carrots there and the local mammal population made off with them?

The oddest thing about the poor dearie is the melt factor. The shape is much less like three snowballs stacked one on the other and much more of a triangular monolith with melted runoff filling in the cracks. All this is covered with a fuzzy coating of fluffy new snow, giving it a truly odd appearance.

It seems so lonely plunked down there in the middle of nowhere without any indication of children living nearby, as if some teenage prankster constructed it when no one was looking, just for a joke. My puzzlement is how they got the thing so tall? Did they use ladders? Did they hoist the heavy snow up with shovels? Did someone climb up the bottom layers to add to the top? In its own way, it is a small but amazing feat of engineering, cleverly done perhaps by college students, surely not by children.

I'm not quite sure what to make of monster snowperson. Everytime I drive past, I stare at the darn thing, noting the recent changes of either melt or snow additions. It will be interesting to see the fate of a larger than life snow creation.