I own a dilapidated copy of a once-lovely Victorian edition of the works of George Herbert, an English country parson and poet. Born into a noble family of ten children in 1593, Herbert was a noted scholar at Trinity College, Cambridge. He took orders in the church and eventually served the parish at Bemerton for several years, beloved for his preaching and his devotion to the people in his parish. Close friend of John Donne and contemporary of Ben Jonson and William Shakespeare, he was versed in theology, philosophy, and poetry. His own poetry records with surprising honesty the struggles he had with faith and with a life of service in the church. One of the metaphysical poets, he explores truth through imagery, juxtaposition, and paradox. Many of his lines--and some entire poems--are brilliant.
Herbert died in 1632. He wrote his faith in poems to the end, mindful of his role as poet:
Of all the creatures both in sea and land,
Onely to man thou hast made known thy wayes,
And put the penne alone into his hand,
And made him Secretarie of thy praise.
The following poem, which is really about prayer, is appropriate at Advent:
The Bag
Away despair; my gracious Lord doth heare,
Though windes and waves assault my keel.
He doth preserve it; he doth steer,
Ev'n when the boat seems most to reel.
Storms are the triumph of his art:
Well may he close his eyes, but not his heart.
Hast thou not heard, that my Lord Jesus di'd?
Then let me tell thee a strange storie.
The God of power, as he did ride
In his majestick robes of glorie,
Resolv'd to light; and so one day
He did descend, undressing all the way.
The starres his tire of light and rings obtain'd,
The cloud his bowe, the fire his spear,
The sky his azure mantle gain'd.
And when they ask'd, what he would wear;
He smil'd, and said as he did go,
He had new clothes a making here below.
When he was come as travellers are wont,
He did repair unto an inne.
Both then, and after, many a brunt
He did endure to cancell sinne:
And having giv'n the rest before,
Here he gave up his life to pay our score.
But as he was returning, there came one
That ran upon him with a spear.
He, who came hither all alone,
Bringing nor man, nor arms, nor fear,
Receiv'd the blow upon his side,
And straight he turned, and to his brethren cry'd,
If ye have any thing to send or write
(I have no bag, but here is room)
Unto my father's hands and sight
(Beleeve me) it shall safely come.
That I shall minde, what you impart;
Look, you may put it very neare my heart.
Or if hereafter any of my friends
Will use me in this kind, the doore,
Shall still be open; what he sends
I will present, and somewhat more,
Not to his hurt. Sighs will convey
Anything to me. Heark despair, away.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Prayer and Grief
My dear father suffered a stroke about eight years ago. Though he recovered initially, he lost ground after a while and slowly began to retreat from the world and from us. He would say in frustration, "I feel as though my head is not screwed on right." He would say to Mom, "What's happening to me?" I would see him in his easy chair, with nothing to do any more--no pumps to install, no fruit to harvest, no washing machines to fix, no children or grandchildren (usually) around to love him up, just an empty life. Empty eyes. He forgot my name, though I like to believe he never forgot my face.
Last year, a day after Thanksgiving, my siblings helped him into the car and drove him to a nursing home. Though he had lost a lot of his ability to verbalize any complete thought, he did say, as they were wheeling him out of the house, "I have lost everything."
He endured a month of loneliness and deteriorating helath, until we found a marvelous six-bed private home run by Connie, an exceptional caregiver of Philippine heritage. She cared for Dad for seven months. He could have died there a happy man.
But he became too much work for her, and my mother had to move him to a lower-quality residential home, where he immediately developed infections and life-threatening bedsores. I saw him cry out in fear to three nurses who were trying to turn him, "I love you all!" Poor man, hoping to appease those whom he thought were attacking him. I took him to the hospital, where they fought his infections for three weeks and then released him to a better nursing home.
The physical care at this home was excellent. But there was no one to touch him in a loving way, to hold his hand, to rub his shoulders, to sing "Heavenly Sunshine" and "Blest the Man Who Fears Jehovah." All of us children had scattered across the country, taking his grandchildren with us. There was only Mom, at 87 still driving the freeway every day to feed Dad lunch, to remind him that she was his wife, and to cry when she came back home.
When I flew out to visit in September, Dad--who usually could hardly put a thought together--said when he saw me, "Can we go? Take me away. Anywhere, anywhere but here." When I could not answer, he turned his face away and would not look at or talk to me. I saw more clearly that at the end of his life, he was enduring a killing loneliness and a slow death among strangers.
I couldn't stand it. This was not the kingdom of God for my dad. Other people could put their parents into a nursing home and leave them, but this for my father was not right. It was not right.
With my mother's blessing, I laid plans to leave my home and fmaily in Michigan and become my dad's live-in caregiver at my mother's home for several months, until a suitable person could be found from our community to take my place.
I was going to fly out next week, after Thanksgiving, to take Dad home. To prepare a place for him. To let his parched spirit soak in some love.
Last Tuesday, my mom called me to let me know that God had beaten me to the punch. Through the doorway of death my dad found his long home, one better prepared for him than the little bedroom we were going to move him into.
At visitation, seeing his tired body laid out in the casket, I experienced terrible grief. I relived the darkness of the nights in his room, alone, endless nights, long and empty days, the awareness of neglect. Why had I not acted sooner? Why had I waited so long to respond to his pain and the indignity and loneliness of the last five months of his life?
It still hurts. I cry as I write this. But I am coming to hear, through the blessed dialogue of prayer, the voices of my father and my Father. Their voices offer a balance, a counterpoint, to the voices of accusation and longing and regret that goad my grief. Their voices explain to me that, although the desert is a horrible and lonely place, that it can be endured, and that it can become a place of springs. My brother preached the funeral sermon from Isaiah 35:
The wilderness and the wasteland shall be glad for them,
and the desert shall rejoice and blossom as the rose;
it shall blossom abundantly and rejoice,
even with joy and singing....
The tongue of the dumb shall sing;
for waters shall burst forth in the wilderness,
and streams in the desert.
The parched land shall become a pool,
and the thirsty land springs of water.
My father suffered, and it should not have happened. But his suffering stopped. He is more alive now than perhaps in his strongest moments as my father, pulling a pump by hand, dancing with us children on his workboots, or praying over us the Lord's Prayer. He is stepping in the pools of water. He is no longer dumb, but speaks. He is speaking to One he loves.
I am glad that the One he loves also speaks to me. That voice brings pools of water in the midst of my own desert.
Last year, a day after Thanksgiving, my siblings helped him into the car and drove him to a nursing home. Though he had lost a lot of his ability to verbalize any complete thought, he did say, as they were wheeling him out of the house, "I have lost everything."
He endured a month of loneliness and deteriorating helath, until we found a marvelous six-bed private home run by Connie, an exceptional caregiver of Philippine heritage. She cared for Dad for seven months. He could have died there a happy man.
But he became too much work for her, and my mother had to move him to a lower-quality residential home, where he immediately developed infections and life-threatening bedsores. I saw him cry out in fear to three nurses who were trying to turn him, "I love you all!" Poor man, hoping to appease those whom he thought were attacking him. I took him to the hospital, where they fought his infections for three weeks and then released him to a better nursing home.
The physical care at this home was excellent. But there was no one to touch him in a loving way, to hold his hand, to rub his shoulders, to sing "Heavenly Sunshine" and "Blest the Man Who Fears Jehovah." All of us children had scattered across the country, taking his grandchildren with us. There was only Mom, at 87 still driving the freeway every day to feed Dad lunch, to remind him that she was his wife, and to cry when she came back home.
When I flew out to visit in September, Dad--who usually could hardly put a thought together--said when he saw me, "Can we go? Take me away. Anywhere, anywhere but here." When I could not answer, he turned his face away and would not look at or talk to me. I saw more clearly that at the end of his life, he was enduring a killing loneliness and a slow death among strangers.
I couldn't stand it. This was not the kingdom of God for my dad. Other people could put their parents into a nursing home and leave them, but this for my father was not right. It was not right.
With my mother's blessing, I laid plans to leave my home and fmaily in Michigan and become my dad's live-in caregiver at my mother's home for several months, until a suitable person could be found from our community to take my place.
I was going to fly out next week, after Thanksgiving, to take Dad home. To prepare a place for him. To let his parched spirit soak in some love.
Last Tuesday, my mom called me to let me know that God had beaten me to the punch. Through the doorway of death my dad found his long home, one better prepared for him than the little bedroom we were going to move him into.
At visitation, seeing his tired body laid out in the casket, I experienced terrible grief. I relived the darkness of the nights in his room, alone, endless nights, long and empty days, the awareness of neglect. Why had I not acted sooner? Why had I waited so long to respond to his pain and the indignity and loneliness of the last five months of his life?
It still hurts. I cry as I write this. But I am coming to hear, through the blessed dialogue of prayer, the voices of my father and my Father. Their voices offer a balance, a counterpoint, to the voices of accusation and longing and regret that goad my grief. Their voices explain to me that, although the desert is a horrible and lonely place, that it can be endured, and that it can become a place of springs. My brother preached the funeral sermon from Isaiah 35:
The wilderness and the wasteland shall be glad for them,
and the desert shall rejoice and blossom as the rose;
it shall blossom abundantly and rejoice,
even with joy and singing....
The tongue of the dumb shall sing;
for waters shall burst forth in the wilderness,
and streams in the desert.
The parched land shall become a pool,
and the thirsty land springs of water.
My father suffered, and it should not have happened. But his suffering stopped. He is more alive now than perhaps in his strongest moments as my father, pulling a pump by hand, dancing with us children on his workboots, or praying over us the Lord's Prayer. He is stepping in the pools of water. He is no longer dumb, but speaks. He is speaking to One he loves.
I am glad that the One he loves also speaks to me. That voice brings pools of water in the midst of my own desert.
Paul J. Van Dyken, Sr.
1920-2009
Monday, November 16, 2009
Recipe: Blueberry Lemon Muffins
I just pulled these out of the oven this afternoon, and half are gone already (not me!). My daughter and I are on wheat-free diets, so it is wonderful to bite into any sort of bread from time to time. I make these muffins with spelt flour, but you can substitute a mixture of rice flour, garbanzo (or fava) bean flour, potato flour, and other grains (like amaranth, quinoa, etc.) to make a gluten-free recipe. Use 1 1/2 cups of mixed gluten-free flours for this recipe.
Blueberry Lemon Muffins
Ingredients:
1 1/2 c. spelt flour (white or whole-grain)
1 tsp. baking powder
1/2 tsp. baking soda
1/3 - 1/2 c. organic sugar (think of regular sugar as poison)
1/2 tsp. salt
1 c. fresh or frozen blueberries
1 egg
1/3 c. canola or other light oil
3/4 c. soy milk mixed with 1 Tbsp. cider vinegar
1 Tbsp. lemon juice
1 tsp. grated lemon rind
Mix dry ingredients together in one bowl. Mix wet ingredients in another bowl, then stir dry and wet together until just mixed. Spoon batter into lined muffin tin and sprinkle tops with a little organic sugar, if a crispy top is desired. Bake at 375 degrees for about 15-20 minutes, or until lightly browned.
I have to admit it, being off wheat has been a very positive choice for the good in my middle age. It saves me from all kinds of evils that would have made me a two-ton Tolly if I had consumed them over the past four years: brownies, cookies, cakes, pies, all sitting around in break rooms and church narthexes and friends' homes. It gives me a good excuse to refuse without hurting anyone's feelings. Do I miss that stuff? Not any more. Especially when I can bite into a warm blueberry lemon muffin every so often.
Blueberry Lemon Muffins
Ingredients:
1 1/2 c. spelt flour (white or whole-grain)
1 tsp. baking powder
1/2 tsp. baking soda
1/3 - 1/2 c. organic sugar (think of regular sugar as poison)
1/2 tsp. salt
1 c. fresh or frozen blueberries
1 egg
1/3 c. canola or other light oil
3/4 c. soy milk mixed with 1 Tbsp. cider vinegar
1 Tbsp. lemon juice
1 tsp. grated lemon rind
Mix dry ingredients together in one bowl. Mix wet ingredients in another bowl, then stir dry and wet together until just mixed. Spoon batter into lined muffin tin and sprinkle tops with a little organic sugar, if a crispy top is desired. Bake at 375 degrees for about 15-20 minutes, or until lightly browned.
I have to admit it, being off wheat has been a very positive choice for the good in my middle age. It saves me from all kinds of evils that would have made me a two-ton Tolly if I had consumed them over the past four years: brownies, cookies, cakes, pies, all sitting around in break rooms and church narthexes and friends' homes. It gives me a good excuse to refuse without hurting anyone's feelings. Do I miss that stuff? Not any more. Especially when I can bite into a warm blueberry lemon muffin every so often.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Good Read: Finding Calcutta, by Mary Poplin
I haven't finished this book yet, but it's good enough to recommend highly, after the first two-thirds. I read it on the plane on my way out to visit my elderly parents yesterday. It's written by a smart, honest woman who was raised Presbyterian, ran wild in the feminist movement for years, and then became Roman Catholic. A professor in education, she could never understand why Mother Teresa referred to her work in Calcutta as a spiritual ministry, rather than as a social work endeavor. So she flew to Calcutta (after her conversion to Christianity) and volunteered for several months in the Sisters of Mercy orphanage.
This book distills some of the essence of a life submitted completely to Jesus. Depending where you are in your life, it may mean nothing or it may be a profound agent for inner change. I am finding it the latter.
Just some excerpts to give you a taste:
On centrality of prayer:
I commented one day to one of the sisters who was scurrying from one task to the next at how hard she worked. She looked at me as though she had not ever thought of it that way. Then she said, "Oh, but our first work is prayer."
When most of us look at the Missionaries of Charity, we see their physical labor--cooking, scrubbing, feeding, cleaning, tending the poor, picking people up off the streets or visiting shut-ins. But few know that Mother Teresa and the Missionaries see their first work as prayer and the work with the poor as a natural outcome of that prayer. They intentionally stop to pray six times a day in addition to praying as they go to and from their destinations and work. Mother wrote that these are times during the day "when we can regain our strength and fill up our emptiness with Jesus."
On the vow of chastity:
The vow of chastity liberates us totally for the contemplation of God and the wholehearted and free service of the poorest of the poor. By it we cleave to Jesus with an undivided love so as to:
This book distills some of the essence of a life submitted completely to Jesus. Depending where you are in your life, it may mean nothing or it may be a profound agent for inner change. I am finding it the latter.
Just some excerpts to give you a taste:
On centrality of prayer:
I commented one day to one of the sisters who was scurrying from one task to the next at how hard she worked. She looked at me as though she had not ever thought of it that way. Then she said, "Oh, but our first work is prayer."
When most of us look at the Missionaries of Charity, we see their physical labor--cooking, scrubbing, feeding, cleaning, tending the poor, picking people up off the streets or visiting shut-ins. But few know that Mother Teresa and the Missionaries see their first work as prayer and the work with the poor as a natural outcome of that prayer. They intentionally stop to pray six times a day in addition to praying as they go to and from their destinations and work. Mother wrote that these are times during the day "when we can regain our strength and fill up our emptiness with Jesus."
On the vow of chastity:
The vow of chastity liberates us totally for the contemplation of God and the wholehearted and free service of the poorest of the poor. By it we cleave to Jesus with an undivided love so as to:
- live in him, for him, by him and with him as our sole guide,
- be invaded by his own holiness and filled with his own Spirit of love,
- show forth the luminous face of Jesus, radiant with purity and love for the Father and mankind,
- make reparation to God for all the sins of the flesh committed in the world today.
On social work versus Mother's ministry:
She believed the Missionaries were only able to do the work they do by the power, love and mercy of God. I came to understand why this must be true. Most social workers--like me in my early adult years--move in and out of private middle class lives to serve the poor, generally receiving payment for the work. By contarst, the Missionaries live the lives of the poor. their everyday routine is feeding, cleaning and tending the sick, the dying, and the poorest of the poor--with no salary. No arbitrary system of food stamps or special programs supplement their efforst. To me, the work would have soon become boring, physically grueling and even discouraging, but not for them. Mother Teresa said, "A Christian is a tabernacle of the living God." That is the way they saw their work--as him "dwelling in them."
Friday, November 6, 2009
Prayer and Stress
This morning, in a conversation with my husband, I experienced again the stress that financial difficulty puts on a relationship. When there's plenty of money in the bank, it's easier. But when the bills increase and money is tight, tempers flare. Our marriage is like a bridge or a building that does not show the cracks in the foundation until it is stressed.
So where are our cracks? And how do we repair them?
Or better, where are my cracks?
It is difficult to explain, but when I sit with God in the silence, with all the stress of my life, he begins to fill in the cracks. I'm not even sure how it happens. Part of it is a changed perspective. Prayer is what takes me out of the immediate mess, raises me to a great distance above the mess, and allows me to look down on the entire landscape of my life through eyes other than my own.
Reading Scripture is seeing things through God's eyes. This week I assigned my study group the reading of Matthew 6. Zingo! In my husband's and my anxiety about falling income and rising needs, I read these words:
Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more important than food, and the body more important than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life? . . . So do not worry, saying, "What shall we eat?" or "What shall we drink?" or "What shall we wear?" For the pagans run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.
So I sit in silence with my Father and listen. With my lack of understanding and lack of trust, I wait. When I am finished with this time, I cannot see the future any better than when I started. But some of the cracks are beginning to fill in, and I feel a more stable foundation under me. My anxiety is less. This is God's doing, not mine, apparently. I can breathe again, and say that this day is good, that it will never come again, and that I will do well to enjoy it. "Give us this day our daily bread." A good prayer.
So where are our cracks? And how do we repair them?
Or better, where are my cracks?
It is difficult to explain, but when I sit with God in the silence, with all the stress of my life, he begins to fill in the cracks. I'm not even sure how it happens. Part of it is a changed perspective. Prayer is what takes me out of the immediate mess, raises me to a great distance above the mess, and allows me to look down on the entire landscape of my life through eyes other than my own.
Reading Scripture is seeing things through God's eyes. This week I assigned my study group the reading of Matthew 6. Zingo! In my husband's and my anxiety about falling income and rising needs, I read these words:
Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more important than food, and the body more important than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life? . . . So do not worry, saying, "What shall we eat?" or "What shall we drink?" or "What shall we wear?" For the pagans run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.
So I sit in silence with my Father and listen. With my lack of understanding and lack of trust, I wait. When I am finished with this time, I cannot see the future any better than when I started. But some of the cracks are beginning to fill in, and I feel a more stable foundation under me. My anxiety is less. This is God's doing, not mine, apparently. I can breathe again, and say that this day is good, that it will never come again, and that I will do well to enjoy it. "Give us this day our daily bread." A good prayer.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
The Simplicity of Home-made Focaccia
If you love home-made bread but are intimidated by the process, try this recipe for focaccia--a flat Italian-style yeast bread that's savory, chewy, and perfect for accompanying soups, salads, roast chicken, fish . . . plus it warms up the house in the winter and smells great. Best of all, it's an almost fool-proof recipe. And quick. I started it at 3:30 this afternoon and pulled it out of the oven at 5:30, fragrant and piping hot.
My version is wheat-free, as we have wheat allergies at our house (I put organic whole spelt grain into my grinder and enjoy the fresh, light flour). But you can use white or whole-grain wheat flour for traditional results.
Rosemary Focaccia
1 pkg yeast (1 scant Tbsp.)
1 to 1 1/2 cups warm water
1/2 tsp. sugar
4 c. flour (whole-grain, white, or a mixture of both)
1 tsp. salt
3-4 Tbsp. olive oil
1-2 Tbsp. chopped fresh rosemary (or 2 tsp. dried)
coarse salt (such as kosher salt)
Dissolve the yeast and sugar in 1/2 c. warm water in a small container, and let it sit about ten minutes, until it starts to foam. In the meantime, combine 2 c. of the flour with the 1 tsp. salt in a large mixing bowl. Add the yeast/water mixture and the rest of the warm water, and beat with a wooden spoon for at least 100 strokes. Gradually add another cup of flour, beating well. Then add the final cup of flour gradually, mixing by hand and kneading with your fists until the dough is smooth, about three or four minutes. If the dough is too sticky and wet to handle, add a little more flour; if it's too stiff to handle easily, add a little more water. (Focaccia dough is very forgiving.)
Remove the dough from the bowl and pour a Tbsp. of olive oil in, then put the dough back in and roll it around a little to cover the dough with oil. Cover the bowl with a clean, dry towel and put in a warm place to rise. It should be doubled in size after about one hour. Punch it down with your fists and spread it on a flat baking pan that's been oiled or sprayed with cooking spray. You can shape it oblong or circular or square, about 1" thick. Dimple the top with your fingertips, then brush about 2 Tbsp. of olive oil over the top. Sprinkle with chopped rosemary and a little coarse salt. Cover and let sit for ten minutes or so while the oven is heating up. Bake at 400 degrees for about 20 minutes, or until lightly browned.
For a more savory bread, add a Tbsp. of dried onions to the bread dough when kneading, and throw in a little of the rosemary as well. Sprinkle some grated aged Parmesan cheese over the top just before baking.
My version is wheat-free, as we have wheat allergies at our house (I put organic whole spelt grain into my grinder and enjoy the fresh, light flour). But you can use white or whole-grain wheat flour for traditional results.
Rosemary Focaccia
1 pkg yeast (1 scant Tbsp.)
1 to 1 1/2 cups warm water
1/2 tsp. sugar
4 c. flour (whole-grain, white, or a mixture of both)
1 tsp. salt
3-4 Tbsp. olive oil
1-2 Tbsp. chopped fresh rosemary (or 2 tsp. dried)
coarse salt (such as kosher salt)
Dissolve the yeast and sugar in 1/2 c. warm water in a small container, and let it sit about ten minutes, until it starts to foam. In the meantime, combine 2 c. of the flour with the 1 tsp. salt in a large mixing bowl. Add the yeast/water mixture and the rest of the warm water, and beat with a wooden spoon for at least 100 strokes. Gradually add another cup of flour, beating well. Then add the final cup of flour gradually, mixing by hand and kneading with your fists until the dough is smooth, about three or four minutes. If the dough is too sticky and wet to handle, add a little more flour; if it's too stiff to handle easily, add a little more water. (Focaccia dough is very forgiving.)
Remove the dough from the bowl and pour a Tbsp. of olive oil in, then put the dough back in and roll it around a little to cover the dough with oil. Cover the bowl with a clean, dry towel and put in a warm place to rise. It should be doubled in size after about one hour. Punch it down with your fists and spread it on a flat baking pan that's been oiled or sprayed with cooking spray. You can shape it oblong or circular or square, about 1" thick. Dimple the top with your fingertips, then brush about 2 Tbsp. of olive oil over the top. Sprinkle with chopped rosemary and a little coarse salt. Cover and let sit for ten minutes or so while the oven is heating up. Bake at 400 degrees for about 20 minutes, or until lightly browned.
For a more savory bread, add a Tbsp. of dried onions to the bread dough when kneading, and throw in a little of the rosemary as well. Sprinkle some grated aged Parmesan cheese over the top just before baking.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Good Reads: On Becoming a Novelist
John Gardner taught writing in the 70s and early 80s, and died before age 50. I never knew him, except through this book: On Becoming a Novelist. If you write fiction, read this book. He teaches the writer's craft, and he teaches the writer's values. He tells you what qualities it takes to be a writer worth reading, how to educate yourself, how to persevere in spite of mortal blows to your writer's ego. His voice is very, very clear: confident, opinionated, passionate.
A corollary is On Moral Fiction, also by Gardner. Another excellent read.
A corollary is On Moral Fiction, also by Gardner. Another excellent read.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Prayer as an underrated gift
Prayer is, I suspect, one of those things that those who profess a belief in God tend to talk about more than actually do. Which might be understandable. Who can long endure conversing with someone who, if actually seen, would produce such sensations of bewildering and blinding awe that one would be left prostrate on the floor?
Yet the Christian Scriptures teach that prayer moves the heart and mind of God and unleashes God's power in the world. An odd arrangement, when you think about it. So maybe that's why it's easy to not take it seriously or to do it very often for any length of time.
It's the two-billion-dollar check left among all the wrapping paper and boxes under the Christmas tree by the child who has eyes only for the new video game.
Prayer
A small gift
To: us
From: God
wrapped in brown paper,
tied not with gold ribbon but red string.
Easily hidden among the other gifts
under the Tree,
not shiny or flashy,
just an everyday sort of thing.
But when we put our hand to this gift,
and actually untie the string
and open the paper,
what happens then is a blinding flash
greater than that unleashed over Nagasaki
and the world is changed.
Yet the Christian Scriptures teach that prayer moves the heart and mind of God and unleashes God's power in the world. An odd arrangement, when you think about it. So maybe that's why it's easy to not take it seriously or to do it very often for any length of time.
It's the two-billion-dollar check left among all the wrapping paper and boxes under the Christmas tree by the child who has eyes only for the new video game.
Prayer
A small gift
To: us
From: God
wrapped in brown paper,
tied not with gold ribbon but red string.
Easily hidden among the other gifts
under the Tree,
not shiny or flashy,
just an everyday sort of thing.
But when we put our hand to this gift,
and actually untie the string
and open the paper,
what happens then is a blinding flash
greater than that unleashed over Nagasaki
and the world is changed.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Recipe: The All-Mighty Beet Quesadilla
Recipe: The All-Mighty Beet Quesadilla
I call this recipe the "all-mighty" because it's based on a similar recipe from Washington state called simply the "mighty beet quesadilla." My version delivers a bit more punch to the tastebuds and can be adapted for gluten-free, dairy-free, and vegetarian tastes--all of which exist in my family. So it's a winner.
What's so great about this yummy quesadilla is that it uses all the generally unpopular but wildly healthful veggies: beets, squash, chard or kale, cabbage, and carrots. The filling keeps well (even freezes well). So once you make the filling (which takes time if you don't have a whiz-bang food processor), you can cook up a healthy and very tasty meal in minutes over the next week or so.
Ingredients:
(for filling)
2 Tbsp. olive oil (or other favorite)
1 large onion
3 medium beets, skinned
1 bunch kale or chard, washed and chopped fine
3 medium carrots, grated
4-6 cloves garlic, minced or crushed
1 zucchini
1/3 t0 1/2 head of small green or red cabbage, chopped fine
1 Tbsp. chili powder
Cayenne pepper to taste (or chop up some jalapenos or habeneros)
2 tsp. oregano
1 tsp. cumin (seeds or ground)
salt to taste
Also:
your favorite tortillas (wheat, rice, spelt, or whatever)
grated Cheddar or jack cheese (can also use rice cheese, soy cheese)
olive oil or cooking spray
guacamole or salsa for topping, if desired
To make filling:
Using the slicer attachment on your food processor or grater, slice the onions and beets in very thin slices (it's hard to get them thin enough with a knife). In large, heavy-bottomed cooking pot, heat oil over medium-high heat, then saute the onions, beets, and kale or chard, letting them cook and stirring occasionally while you prepare the rest of the ingredients (grating carrots, slicing zucchini very thin, chopping cabbage, mincing or crushing garlic). As you finish preparing each veggie, throw it into the pot and stir. When all the veggies and garlic are in, add spices and salt to taste. Continue cooking over medium or low heat until the vegetables are soft and the flavors well blended, about 15 minutes. The filling is now ready to use; or you can let it cool, and refrigerate it until needed. Reheat before using, however.
To make quesadillas:
Grate cheese (about 1/2-2/3 cup per quesadilla, depending on how much you like cheese). Heat oil or cooking spray in skillet (on medium-high heat). Lay one tortilla shell on hot skillet, spread half the grated cheese on half the shell, spread hot beet filling over the cheese (about 1/2 to 1 cup, depending on preference), then sprinkle with the remaining grated cheese. Fold tortilla over the filled half, and let cook briefly till browned and cheese is melting on bottom side. Flip the folded tortilla until that side is heated and browned slightly, and cheese is melted. Cut in half and serve with guacamole or salsa, if desired. Enjoy!!!!
I call this recipe the "all-mighty" because it's based on a similar recipe from Washington state called simply the "mighty beet quesadilla." My version delivers a bit more punch to the tastebuds and can be adapted for gluten-free, dairy-free, and vegetarian tastes--all of which exist in my family. So it's a winner.
What's so great about this yummy quesadilla is that it uses all the generally unpopular but wildly healthful veggies: beets, squash, chard or kale, cabbage, and carrots. The filling keeps well (even freezes well). So once you make the filling (which takes time if you don't have a whiz-bang food processor), you can cook up a healthy and very tasty meal in minutes over the next week or so.
Ingredients:
(for filling)
2 Tbsp. olive oil (or other favorite)
1 large onion
3 medium beets, skinned
1 bunch kale or chard, washed and chopped fine
3 medium carrots, grated
4-6 cloves garlic, minced or crushed
1 zucchini
1/3 t0 1/2 head of small green or red cabbage, chopped fine
1 Tbsp. chili powder
Cayenne pepper to taste (or chop up some jalapenos or habeneros)
2 tsp. oregano
1 tsp. cumin (seeds or ground)
salt to taste
Also:
your favorite tortillas (wheat, rice, spelt, or whatever)
grated Cheddar or jack cheese (can also use rice cheese, soy cheese)
olive oil or cooking spray
guacamole or salsa for topping, if desired
To make filling:
Using the slicer attachment on your food processor or grater, slice the onions and beets in very thin slices (it's hard to get them thin enough with a knife). In large, heavy-bottomed cooking pot, heat oil over medium-high heat, then saute the onions, beets, and kale or chard, letting them cook and stirring occasionally while you prepare the rest of the ingredients (grating carrots, slicing zucchini very thin, chopping cabbage, mincing or crushing garlic). As you finish preparing each veggie, throw it into the pot and stir. When all the veggies and garlic are in, add spices and salt to taste. Continue cooking over medium or low heat until the vegetables are soft and the flavors well blended, about 15 minutes. The filling is now ready to use; or you can let it cool, and refrigerate it until needed. Reheat before using, however.
To make quesadillas:
Grate cheese (about 1/2-2/3 cup per quesadilla, depending on how much you like cheese). Heat oil or cooking spray in skillet (on medium-high heat). Lay one tortilla shell on hot skillet, spread half the grated cheese on half the shell, spread hot beet filling over the cheese (about 1/2 to 1 cup, depending on preference), then sprinkle with the remaining grated cheese. Fold tortilla over the filled half, and let cook briefly till browned and cheese is melting on bottom side. Flip the folded tortilla until that side is heated and browned slightly, and cheese is melted. Cut in half and serve with guacamole or salsa, if desired. Enjoy!!!!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
