It's Thanksgiving and I'm not in Canada. What do I do?

It's Thanksgiving Day. Normally I'm in Canada on this day being part of normal Canadian life and not gorging myself on turkey and pumpkin pie, but this year I'm here in Fort Collins and looking forward to the feast to come this afternoon.

I don't always stop and think about what I'm thankful for when I'm in Canada on this day so it's a change to have reflective moments of thankfulness today. Really, it's something I should do every day, not just on the 4th Thursday in November when I happen to be in America, but I'm still grateful for the deliberateness of a day that reminds me of the good I know.

I saw Runaway Train again. Not just once, but four days in a row. It's probably the oddest thing to be thankful for on this day and yet it's what is most present in my thoughts this morning.

For anyone joining my blog since more or less February, Runaway Train is the nickname I gave to a man who had a very brief yet destructive place in my life. A completely unexpected diversion, someone who took my heart by surprise and then dropped it almost as quickly as he had snatched it up in the first place as he ran off to the next woman.

I have a tendency to take things to extremes. This combined with a tender and loyal heart means that when my heart breaks, it breaks hard and takes a long time to heal. I envy the people who seem to be able to bounce back from heartbreak in a brief amount of time. I have never been one of those people and doubt that I ever will.

I was almost healed when November finally appeared. Almost, but not quite. And I think it was the "not quite" that made seeing RT an unwelcomed necessity, sort of like how sometimes a bone needs to be re-broken so that it can be set correctly for healing to take place. Sometimes a cast isn't enough to heal the original break and more breaking is the only option to make straight what is crooked.

I recently read a book written by one of my colleagues - Sifted, by Rick Lawrence. There are books that come into our lives that seem to have been written just for us. That was Sifted to me. It's brilliant and I'm not just saying that because we both work at Group and sometimes I loan him my stapler. Rick takes a very short verse - "Simon, Simon, Satan has asked to sift you as wheat. But I have prayed for you, Simon, that your faith may not fail. And when you have turned back, strengthen your brothers." (Luke 22:31) - and tackles the hard subject of what it means when Jesus gives Satan permission to mess with our lives, to sift us as wheat.

It's one thing to believe in a God who allows hard and painful things to happen, like meeting RT in the first place. It's a whole other thing to believe in a God who doesn't stop - in fact, gives permission to - the enemy whose only purpose is to destroy.

I knew for about a month that the time with Runaway Train was coming. In hindsight, I'm both grateful and resentful of that month. Grateful because it gave me time to let the crazy, unfiltered, raw emotions run their course privately instead of publicly and it gave me lots of time to pray and talk through it with others. Resentful because of the heavy burden it brought into my life and the resulting stress and angst that threatened to take over what should have been a fun and exciting event.

I knew for a month that permission had been asked to sift me and the request was not denied. It is a very hard thing to look at the One you love, the One who has given everything on your behalf and understand why He would give permission to let you be sifted.

The sifting part is what we notice first in that verse in Luke, because that's the part that hurts and disrupts life. But the part that comes next brims with power - "I have prayed for you, that your faith may not fail."

I had lots of people praying for me during the week that I had to see him again, but the most important person praying for me that week was Jesus Himself. My faith is of great worth to Him. It is a treasure that He cares for and died for and so He prayed that His treasure would not fail and I think it's reasonable to say that when Jesus prays, things happen.
So I survived my week of sifting. I realize I'm leaving a lot of details out, and that's deliberate. But I will say that through the sifting, I was given closure and the freedom to finally leave him behind with no more questions, no more longing (it's crazy how much you can still long for someone who shattered your heart), and no more reason to ever talk to him again. For real this time. The bone has been reset and is no longer crooked and it no longer needs a cast.

I keep thinking about what I should have done differently a year ago when he first appeared in my life, but I think that's a protective mechanism more than anything. If anything, I think the lesson is to keep living life exactly the same way. I wasn't looking for love when I met him. He was unexpected but I think that is the best way for love to start. I would rather be taken by complete surprise and have to re-route my life, even around heartache, then to spend all of my time running after love that may never come. I think that is where the greater heartache comes - when you invest everything in trying to get and find love only to be let down if you never find it and realize how much you missed out on along the way. I would rather live each day to its fullest rather than spending my brief moments here on earth seeking something I may never find.

So as I have the rare opportunity to be in America on Thanksgiving Day, I am thankful for the hardest week of my life, the week spent with Runaway Train, for the growth, the closure, the strength, and the beauty that it brought. I'm thankful that even though Jesus sometimes gives Satan permission to try and wreck our lives, He prays for us that our faith won't fail.

I'll eat pumpkin pie to that.

Quiet

I'm still on Santo Domingo time as I write this at 6:20 AM. I've been wide awake for about an hour and a half, knowing that it's after 9:00 AM on a small Caribbean island and that traffic is crazy, the morning school shift is underway, and life is going on three hours ahead of me as I sit in the still dark (and cold) early Fort Collins morning.

I savor these first few days after getting home. It's like holding a newborn baby - so quiet and sweet and precious, who in just a few short weeks will grow and change and never be that newborn again.
There is a stillness in my soul and a gentleness in my heart that I don't seem to find anywhere else except after spending 8-10 days outside of my own country, surrounded by those with much less than me materially but so much more relationally and spiritually.

I think a lot of people want to go on a mission trip because they truly believe they can save the world in the course of seven days. People who have maybe never stepped foot in a soup kitchen in their own community or shared their faith with the neighbor across the street. To be honest, I've never done either of those things either. And I know for sure that my week in Santo Domingo didn't result in any great changes in anyone's life except maybe my own.

But this trip more than any other taught me some important things. I learned how to walk slower, how to listen without needing to speak, how to care for those with needs far greater than my own. I learned that forgiveness sets one free but that there is wisdom in creating boundaries with those who have caused great harm. I also got to meet one of the girls I sponsor through Compassion International. I plan to blog separately about that experience, but for now I can say that while my week in Santo Domingo didn't save or change Estrella's life in one instant, my monthly commitment to her over the course of the next 7 or 8 years will change her life.

I know that in a few more days I will be sucked back into the frantic pace of my American life. I will stay in bed until 7:00 AM and moan and whine about things like my obnoxious cat or not being able to make the copy machine work. All of the silly things that distract me and keep me stressed. But for today I sit quietly in the dark morning holding my quiet and gentle heart, grateful for the stillness that poverty, chaotic traffic, and unfamiliar language brings to my soul.

Hey Russia

I decided to do some research on who reads my blog and discovered that I can actually see what countries of the world read my blog. This is especially helpful in knowing who is NOT reading my blog because it means I can continue to blog freely, something that will be very helpful in about a month.

Not surprisingly, my blog is read most frequently right here in America. Thanks, America, for your continued faithfulness to me in spite of my frequent comments of adoration about Canada, and my propensity to leave your beautiful shores whenever possible. I am truly proud to be an American, unless America re-elects the man who is trying to turn America into Canada, in which case I am just going to move to Canada. But that's a different blog for a different day.

What was surprising was to discover that after America, the country that reads my blog the most by a landslide is Russia. What? Huh? Come again? This stunning revelation is worthy of its own blog post. So, Russia, this one is for you.

I've been wracking my brain for the last 48 hours trying to remember if I even know anyone who lives in Russia, and I can't come up with anyone who does. So, if you're my good friend reading my blog in Russia, I'm really sorry that I don't remember you at all. Send me a message, let's re-connect.

It's shocking to me that for every Canadian who reads my blog, there are 3 Russians who read it. Or one Russian who reads it three times for every one time a Canadian does. Ironically, Canada isn't even third on the list. No, third on the list is Germany. I can only hope that it is Dietrich Bonhoeffer reading my blog from the grave. I love you, Dietrich.

Canada is actually 4th on the list. Really, Canada? I thought we knew each other better than that. But I digress. This blog is not about Canada, it's about my surprise Russian fanbase I had no clue I had.

I do want you to know that I know some Russian words, including nyet, dos vedanya, and gulag. I will try to be more sensitive in my blogging going forward and include these words when it makes sense, such as, "I remember that time that I was imprisoned unjustly in that Russian gulag." So far, that doesn't make sense for me to blog about, since it hasn't happened yet. We can only hope.

So whoever you are, loyal Russian readers, thank you for taking the time out of your busy Russian days to read my blog. I hope you are bundled up nice and warm. I get cold just thinking about your homeland.

 

I'll leave you with this thoughtful sign someone hung up in my cubicle awhile back. From now on, whenever I see it, I will think of you.

When a wasp stops being a wasp

Every year around this time, when the temperature drops to the 30's and 40's at night, and the leaves turn yellow and fall off the trees, the wasps start dying. They find their way into my house, through the fireplace, through cracks in the door, through secret entrances into my warm house that only they know about.

They can't fly anymore - the cold is more than their little bodies can take. Everything that makes them wasps disappears. So they roam around the floor until they just give up and die. I find little wasp corpses in corners, under chairs, and pressed up against the wall until the end of November or so.

Last night as I was getting ready to take a shower, I saw a wasp in the corner of the bathroom, grounded, obviously on his last leg. He wasn't a threat but I hung my clothes up a little higher than usual just to be careful. As I showered, I thought about how in different circumstances, such as the wasp being healthy and angry, it would be very different to be cooped up in a small room with one. Scary, nerve-wracking, and maybe even deadly to some people.

But not now in this situation. It couldn't harm me unless I went out of my way to be harmed, such as trying to pet it or maybe put it in my mouth, as my cats have done and learned the hard way that a grounded wasp can still be a dangerous wasp. This particular wasp was dead within an hour of me finding it. Something powerful and dangerous all of a sudden no longer a threat. A wasp that was no longer a wasp.

I just finished reading The Shack for the first time about a month ago. I'm guessing there are some of you out there who read it and loved it, maybe it even changed your life. Then there are some of you who wouldn't go near it with a ten foot pole because of all of the things you've heard and read and researched about it. It's too blasphemous to even warrant a read, much like the reaction during the early days of Harry Potter. Others of you probably read it, thought it was interesting, and then didn't really think about it again.

A few years ago, I was in the camp that wouldn't go near it with a ten foot pole. But then a Great Sadness came into my life in early 2010. And just as I was healing from that, another season of loss and pain happened in early 2012. Between the two events, I had no choice but to look God hard in the face, cry to him, be angry and sad, and question much of what I had taken as truth simply because I had been told it my whole life. I needed God to be real to me after these two losses. And he was. So when I finally decided to read this book, I switched camps. I loved it and will probably read it again at some point.

If you haven't read The Shack, I don't want to give it away to you in case you do decide to someday read it. But it centers around the main character Mack having to return to the shack, which is the source of a great pain and loss in his life. When he gets to the shack, there's a surprise visitor (or rather three) waiting there for him. He's able to sort through much of his grief and find healing in unique and powerful ways. And God becomes very real to him through it.

God is sending me back to my shack. I was hoping he wouldn't, but he is. He's sending me right back into a situation that caused tremendous pain and heartache. I've spent the last week alternating between feeling fine about it and then being scared out of my mind and not being able to stop crying about it. But it is what is - I will be back there whether I want to be or not. And God will need to be real and he is going to need to be there every moment of that situation or I won't be able to do it.

The other thing that Mack has to deal with during his time at the shack is forgiveness. I grew up a Christian. I can tell you the pat answers for everything pertaining to forgiveness. But I'll tell you what - when faced with having to go back to my shack and deal with someone who crushed me, all of a sudden I realize that I don't have a clue what it really means to forgive in the way that God forgives me. Nor do I know how to do it. The anger and the bitterness and the hatred in my heart seem to be more powerful than any forgiveness I've ever known about.

But what I learned last night from having the wasp in the bathroom while I showered is that even the things that are powerful and dangerous and potentially deadly can be rendered benign in the right moment. When something loses its power, it can't win anymore. No matter how much it might try, like the grounded wasp clinging to life, it just can't win. A grounded wasp, though it still looks like a wasp on the outside, stops being what makes a wasp a wasp when it's cold, grounded, and dying.

I'm not quite there yet with my shack situation but I do know that there was a time not that long ago when the thought of going back and having to see someone I had hoped I would never have to see or talk to again would have been nothing but terrifying for me. But (I think and hope) the power has been lost now. Just like that wasp, it can't do real damage to me unless I try really hard to let it (as in putting it in my mouth. That won't be happening.) Now it's simply a matter of letting God teach me how to forgive. The wasp has stopped being a wasp.

This morning I read this:

"Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything." (James 1:2-4)

I can't say that I'm overjoyed at having to return to my shack and all of the flood of emotions I am going to have to deal with the entire time I'm there. It will be a trial. I'm going to be angry, I'm going to have to keep a very tight rein on my tongue, and I will probably cry a lot behind closed doors. But I eagerly await and long for the perseverance, maturity, and completeness that will come because of this, and the chance to learn and see what God really means when he says that he's forgiven me.

Favorite fall recipes

Fall is hands down my favorite time of year - the crispness in the air, the warm days and cool nights, the vibrant red, yellow, and orange leaves, and of course lots of yummy comfort food. I've been on a cooking rampage for the last 8 days, as if fall is only going to last for a snippet and I need to get all of the cooking out of me before it becomes freezing cold and all I want to do is hide under a blanket and cry. In case you haven't noticed, I have a tendency towards extremes.

I thought I would share my favorite fall recipes with you, since I made almost all of them in the last 72 hours (definitely all of them have been made in the last 8 days). Pretty much all I did on Saturday was cook and it was the best day ever.

Disclaimer: None of these recipes are Robin originals. There are no Robin original recipes out there. I'm all for just making other people's recipes.

We start off our culinary adventure with Pumpkin Quinoa Soup. You can make this with either canned pumpkin or you can roast a fresh pumpkin (and you get pumpkin seeds out of that deal too - bonus! What? You need a recipe for roasting pumpkin seeds? Try this one) This soup is amazing and doesn't taste pumpkiny at all. Also, quinoa would be a great word to use in Words with Friends. You can thank me later for that hint. I guess you could make this without the quinoa (pronounced keen-wa. Now go back and reread the paragraph, pronouncing it correctly), although I've never done it that way.

Ingredients
1-2 pounds chicken sausage (I usually get a basil or apple variety at Sprouts)
1/2 onion
3 cups chicken broth
15 ounces pumpkin
1 tsp garlic powder
salt/pepper/dash of allspice
1/2 cup cream
quinoa (optional)

I usually make the quinoa first - 1 cup of water to 1/2 cup quinoa. Combine them in a pot, bring to a boil, then cover and simmer on low for about 15 minutes.

Brown the sausage and the onion in a soup pot. Add the broth, pumpkin and seasonings. Stir together and simmer on low for 15-20 minutes. Turn off the heat and stir in cream (and quinoa, if you're using it). Then invite me over for dinner.

If you do, I'll be sure to bring some Fresh Apple Cookies. The street name for this recipe is "fall in a cookie." For not having any chocolate in them at all, these cookies hold their own. And since they have apples in them, they're healthy and you can eat them for breakfast (at least that's how I justify it.)

Ingredients
2 cups flour
1 tsp baking soda
1/2 cup butter, softened
1 & 1/3 cups packed brown sugar
1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp cinnamon
1 tsp ground cloves
1/2 tsp nutmeg
1 egg, beaten (I always think it sounds so sad for the egg, as if it's been defeated.)
1/4 cup apple juice or milk (I always use milk)
1 cup chopped apples (or just one apple)
1/2-1 cup chopped nuts (optional) (I use pecans)

Vanilla Glaze Ingredients (you know any cookie that involves vanilla glaze is a keeper)
1 cup icing sugar
1 TBSP butter, softened
1/4 tsp vanilla
1/4 tsp salt
1 & 1/2 TBSP milk

To make cookies: Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Combine flour and baking soda in medium bowl. In a large bowl, cream together butter, brown sugar, salt, cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg and the poor beaten egg. Add half the flour to the butter mixture and blend well. Mix in juice or milk. Add the apples and nuts to the remaining flour. Add this apple mixture to the butter mixture. Drop by spoonfuls on greased cookie sheets and bake for 10 minutes or until cookies are firm.

To make glaze: Blend all ingredients together until smooth. While cookies are hot, spread with vanilla glaze. (I usually put a sheet of wax paper down under the cooling rack because the glaze will run). Makes 3 dozen cookies.

I'm sad that Laura, Amy, Ray, Paige, Gwennie, and I devoured all 36 of them within 12 hours of their birth. I'd like to be eating one right now. C'est la vie!

I know you're wondering what to do with the rest of the pumpkin you cooked to make the pumpkin quinoa soup. Never fear! I have a Pumpkin Bread recipe for you!

Ingredients:
3 cups flour
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp salt
3 tsp cinnamon
2 cups pumpkin, canned or freshly cooked
2 cups white sugar
4 eggs
1 & 1/4 cups oil (I used a canola/olive oil blend this last time since I ran out of canola oil about 3/4 cup in)

Mix dry ingredients in bowl. Make a well in the center. Add the remaining ingredients into the well and stir just enough to mix. Pour into two 9" x 5" bread pans. Bake at 350 for 1 hour. Try to not eat the entire loaf in one sitting.

Wow, this has been a lot of writing. Need some visual stimulation? I thought so.

What could these all possibly be ingredients for? If you're thinking Potato and Leek Soup, you're pretty much amazing, just like this soup.

I'm feeling super lazy by now, so instead of typing out the instructions, I will instead link you here.  Word to the wise on this endeavor: while the above picture is pretty with the purple potatoes, I don't recommend actually using them in the soup after all. While it didn't change the flavor, it did turn the soup a really funky nasty greyish purplish color and it looked like gruel. Because I am the only one eating the soup in my house, it doesn't matter to me what color it is, but husbands and children may not like eating it when it's that color. In the past I've just used russet potatoes, as suggested in the recipe and that just keeps it a normal potato looking color.

I also made a turkey meatloaf and a parmesan and broccoli souffle (I told you I've been out of control for the last 8 days), but those were first time adventures for me and haven't yet earned the coveted "Robin's Favorite Fall Recipe" status yet. Maybe next year.

What's your favorite fall recipe?

California

As you may remember, my dear friend Jessie moved to California about four months ago. It was sad for me and you can read about it here. But the happy part of the story is that I love to travel and so last weekend I went out to California to see Jessie, Randy, and Jake.

I'm happy to report that they are doing well and they have an adorable house and Randy loves his job and Jake is just as spry as ever, even at his ripe old age of 13. We had an action packed weekend filled with In-N-Out, kayaking, playing cards, watching movies, playing Words with Friends on our phones with each other while sitting in the same room, a little drinking, a lot of Starbucks,  not to mention great conversations where Jessie and I conquered many of the world's problems such as orphans, poverty, religion, and politics. My weekend there had all of the components that I love about going to Canada, just condensed into 3 days.

A picture is worth a thousand words, so I'll let my pictures from the weekend do some talking.

Animal style extra toast

Kayaking at Half Moon Bay

Some other bay we found

We almost died trying to climb down this hillside. When we got to the bottom, we found stairs just to the left of where we emerged.

Here Jessie is remembering walking through a hard time and only seeing one set of footprints in the sand but that was when Jesus carried her through that hard time.

Seriously. It was amazing.

Randy picking lemons from their lemon tree.

Aren't they beautiful?

My buddy Jake.

My high school friend Ellen also lives in the Bay area with her husband and their two kids, so on Sunday evening I went to a Rosh Hashana service with them. This was actually the first time in my life I ever went to a Jewish service and I really loved it. Rosh Hashana is Jewish New Year and a time of celebrating what God has done in the previous year and preparing for the year ahead. Part of how you celebrate is by eating apples and honey. The next ten days after Rosh Hashana are a time of making amends and seeking forgiveness from anyone you've wronged in the year before. After this, Yom Kippur happens, which is the Day of Atonement.

Turner and I celebrating Rosh Hashana. He was mostly celebrating how good my thumb tasted.

Meira and I enjoying our Rosh Hashana apples.

So it was a great weekend and I will be back, probably many times. California is a little closer and cheaper to get to than Canada, so it will fill in the gaps nicely between Canada trips. It's also convenient that they can both be abbreviated to CA.

Finally, many of you have asked about Charlie over the past week. You all seem to be very concerned about his well being while forgetting that he was the one who attacked ME, not the other way around. For the record, he is fine and me and my face have recovered with minimal damage. As you can see, he is feeling cuddly and nice once again. Now would be the perfect time to adopt him into your home!

On second thought

I'd like to recant every nice thing I said about Charlie in my earlier blog this week due to his once again proving that he is, in fact, spawn from the pit of hell. Or, at the least, a thorn in my side sent to torment me.

This morning as I was getting ready for work, I saw Charlie in his usual spot on the couch. He looked so sweet and cuddly, and my heart was still brimming with warmhearted feelings after our tender moment the other day.

He lured me in and I sat down next to him. Bad move, Rob. You should know better by now. He started purring. I started to pat his head.

It all happened so fast and it's still hard to talk about, but here goes.

He met my gentle head petting with a vicious swipe of his paw on my face, locking his claw into my lip and yanking down hard. As I screamed and flailed my arms to get him to let go, he released his grip on my lip and pounced on my arm, biting my hand and kicking me with his back legs.

Evil cat. Evil cat who I'm stuck with for the rest of his life because other people are smart enough to know better.

Somehow I got away from him and stumbled to the bathroom to survey the blood streaming down my face. He followed me, like a character  in some cheesy overrated horror movie. He purred and rubbed himself against my legs. I wiped the blood off my face and put on some makeup. He took off running into the laundry room and made a loud commotion, which turned out to be this:



Oh, Charlie. What am I ever going to do with you?