Bacon (Day 30)

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(On Friday's in October I'll share a real-life story of community through Five Minute Friday.)

I pull the jar out of the fridge. It's a canning jar in which we save the strained bacon grease. I spoon some into the pan to melt it down. And soon we'll have a perfect beginning to almost any meal.

People love bacon. It can elevate roasted vegetables to something otherworldly. It makes beans and greens close to nirvana. And that fragrance.

The unmistakable scent of bacon wafts through your home and out your windows. It welcomes people through your front door. Everybody can recognize it's salty smell. And most everybody comes running when they do.

And this is how I hope my faith will be. That a life lived in light of the Gospel will be a pleasing aroma to God and to others. That once people get to know the real Jesus they'll find a God not based on religion but on grace. They'll find the true Lover of their souls. They'll smell the fragrance of Jesus and fall in love.

Because if you know who Jesus really is, a God-man who gave up everything for the undeserving to rescue them from death, you can't help but love Him.

 

This post is part of the 31 Days of Neighboring series.

Gather: Five Minute Friday

I feel the acid gathering in my stomach. I try to drown it with antacids. I try to drown my fear, stress, and anxiety in YouTube videos and Hulu binges. I text friends for prayer. And nothing is enough.

I feel alone and afraid.

I give up. I have no other options. I play a song. I bow before the King. I lay my heart out. I lean into the The Rock that is higher than I.

I don't know how to do this. Give up everything. All that is familiar. For unknown territory. Leave behind home for the sake of obedience. I cannot bare it all.

So I stop trying.

One foot in front of the other. I cry. I sit. I wait. I write. I want to give up worry and lean into trust. I want to stop believing I must do it all on my own.

I want to rest. I want to find daily Sabbath in the midst of a cross-country move.

I take an anxiety supplement. And run water in the sink. Smell Dawn dish detergent. One step at a time I move forward. 

I'm linking up over at Kate's for Five Minute Friday. Join us here. 

Hold: #FiveMinuteFriday

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(It's been busy  this week but I'm so excited about what's in store. Next week there'll be a very special guest post and we'll start talking about 31 days. But like every Friday I'm joining with a community of writers that encourage one another. I write to process my week, discover what I truly believe and tell stories. You can join us here.)

I measure the ingredients out methodically. I have scoured the Internet for the perfect chocolate chip cookie recipe and I hope the one I've chosen lives up to all the hype. I mix in coconut sugar and cream it with eggs, butter and vanilla. And I pray.

This is new for me. Learning to pray over what seems like the smallest things. And this time I pray for him. I pray love into that dough. I pray that he won't see the end of a relationship as the end of himself. Or worse yet, the end of life.

I believe in the power of prayer. In community, God, life lived together, and presence. But I also believe in the power of a chocolate chip cookie. It is one of the few times that I get out the white flour and refined sugar I so staunchly avoid.

And I pray. I wrap the cookies with a personalized tag. And I pray he will feel, know, taste and eat love. I pray as he takes hold of that plate that he will be completely aware that he is anything but alone. And I pray he will remember what he knows of us. What he knows of Jesus. And perhaps this end of a relationship may be the beginning of life after all...

Ready: #FiveMinuteFriday

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(On Fridays I join with a community of writers that encourage one another. A lot of times you'll find me sharing stories from my own life because stories are my favorite. I also write to process the week and learn what I really believe. You can join us here.)

I stare at the page on my calendar. I'm supposed to call her on a Wednesday. Can you ever be ready for something like this? I think maybe. But I'm not sure. So much unknown.

I met her on Twitter. A girl who lives over 1000 miles away. I don't do this. I'm not one of those people that make "friends" on the internet.

But her tweets stopped me in my tracks. Her questions about God not healing when we've prayed and prayed. About when God is silent. When He doesn't answer. These are the things I cannot ignore. I know them all too well.

So I dial the numbers. And her voice is not what I expected. But is it ever, really? We talk for an hour and 20 minutes. We share stories. And eventually we unwrap even those. We go deeper. Both of us victims of abuse. Unbelievable losses, suffering, and life lived, in our short years.

God is funny, you know? I would have never said, "hey, I'd like to disciple this stranger I don't know who I met on the internet." But He knows. He knows what our hearts and lives need. He creates and weaves our stories so that, believe it or not, we're nearly always ready.

Whisper: #FiveMinuteFriday

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 (On Fridays I join with a community of writers who encourage one another. For me it's a break from more practical writing and a chance to have a little fun. You can join us here.)

Inspiration strikes us all differently. Some of us feel like it rarely strikes us at all. Others feel forlorn when for once they sit down to write uninspired.

Part of my process for writing is visualization. It always has been. It's that way for everything. When I taught dance. In relationships. In life. I rehearse, replay, rewrite in my head over and over before I put pen to paper.

Like most women I work on my art in the fray. Like most writers I also make intentional time to write. And when my schedule clears unexpectedly I relish in the whisper of quiet. Silence. White space.

I don't always know where my writing will end. But when I get to that last period I know more of what I believe. I love the stories of those around me more. I find space to process my week, my life.

I stare out the window into a backyard that is much like a secret garden. Bright light wakes me up. I find inspiration in living. In nature. In the stories of those around me. But most of all in the beautiful mundane of daily life.

Reach: #FiveMinuteFriday

Photo by Tom Benitez via Orlando Sentinel

(On Fridays I join with a community of writers that encourage one another. I write to process my week, discover what I really believe and to tell stories. Join us here.)

Things have normalized by now. It's been a week and a half. The details are foggy. What we know for sure is that in the midst of stray bullets, a girl lost her life.

And just days later we sat across the street from the crime seen on a porch that is very much ours. You can finds us there most Wednesdays and several other nights each week. The tension of random violence coming so close to home and a makeshift shrine outside the doors of a dance club is palpable.

But a local ice cream truck pulls in front of the shrine, either not knowing or not caring. And our view is blocked. And suddenly fifty-somethings, and twenty-somethings, and thirty-somethings become children again for a few short minutes.

I reach for my cone: always vanilla with chocolate sprinkles. And we're all grins from ear to ear. You can't help but smile with an ice cream cone in hand. Suddenly we're all children again. And we remember that the world does have some good left in it. In the midst of shootings, and Ferguson and our country's unrequited battle with mental illness, we have a bit of respite.

On this hot summer night both tragedy and ice cream cones are unifiers. And God reminds us that we need both. The bitter and the sweet. 

Fill: #FiveMinuteFriday

(On Friday I join with a community of writers that encourages one another. I use the weekly prompt to find my writing voice, discover what I really believe, and oftentimes to tell stories. You can join us here.)

Somebody fills the cups to the brim and they're there waiting for us. The first time goes fast. I say the words over and over, "the body of Christ, broken for you." They take their bread to dip in the cup. I use their name if I know it. Most look me in the eye the same way I do to them. Most smile. A lot say "amen" or "thank you."

But the first time it goes fast. I rush my words. It's exhausting. I wonder if the Body broken for me can keep having meaning after all that rushing? But then the lines of people stop and we, the servers, go up to him for our portion of the bread and wine. And to each of us he says it with such meaning, such passion, that it's like the first time every time.

So the second time, and the third time, and all times after that I go slower. I recognize that my words and speed control the pace. I go slow so others may feel it's the first time, every time. So that we both might be filled with newness of the blood that washes away all our sins.

Begin: #FiveMinuteFriday

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 She sits in a small room with two others. The contents of her life spilled out on tables, and floors, and laps. Five years of debt. Five years of trying to buy belonging. Earn worthiness. Be enough. And one calls out the numbers and one makes the list. And when the total is added she sits in shock when they say "ok, done." It is finished. They write the check. Clean the slate. Wash it all away.

Today is the first day of the rest of her life, again. Like Jesus with all her sin they take on the weight of a lifetime of bad financial decisions. Because the Gospel carries to every part of our lives. Even our wallets and credit cards, and all-hours calls from debt collectors. And God is reminding her of this again. That these two and He, they love her more than she'll ever know.

That grace is not something to be earned or to arrive at. Grace is flowing like some wild honey from the heart of God through His people. It is like daily bread. A clean slate every morning. A new life where debt collectors and shame don't call. Where you can begin again each day. Because once again your slate is wiped clean.

 

On Fridays I write to discover my voice, process the week, and find out what I really believe. I join with a community of writers that encourage each other. You can join us here.

Release #FiveMinuteFriday

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I hold onto things very tightly. Often saying "God, you can't have this." And so when He tells me to let go? Take time off? I flat out ignore him.

But the pulling and tension and strain in my heart is too great. And last night at some crazy hour I conceded. I gave back to Him the things that were already His. I conceded.

So in the month of July I will release things I've hovered over like a mother hen. I will entrust them to Him. I will make art for myself and my God and no one else. I will increase my margin and white space.

And most of all I will live in the tension of giving up to be obedient. Thirty days feels like a long time to give up things I love dearly. Things I have clung to.

But it also feels peaceful. Freeing.

This morning I wrote an email saying I couldn't honor a commitment. That it would have to wait until I August. I find my identity in being a person of my word. In never dropping the ball. In always being reliable, steady, efficient. I had to give up a bit of that part of me.

To release the parts of my plan for His greater plan.To find my identity in Him alone.

Linking up with at Five Minute Friday: a community of writers that encourage one another! Join us here.

Messenger: #FiveMinuteFriday

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It came to me like a whisper. The water seeping up through my floor. It would lead to three days of moderation. Of "ok, you've got fifteen minutes max to shower, flush toilets, fill water pitchers, brush teeth, and whatever else requires water."

I could have seen it as just an incovenicence. It still is. With the bathroom mirror in my living room, a hole in the floor and wall, a vanity removed and no working sink.

But that water swept into my life with a wave of grattitude. After years of seeing commercials and short films of mamas walking for miles to a well, or babies dying for want of water, I needed to be inconvenienced myself to understand.

To appreciate how nearly every hour I refill my bottle with cold, clean water. How I can wash and clean and water at my will. I have so much to be grateful for.

And like most Americans who should live in a sense of constant grattitude and celebratoion, I am ungrateful.

Until a messenger came to snap me out of my bubble via a leak in my bathroom floor.

I'm a part of a community of writers that encourages one another. You can join us here.

Hands: #FiveMinuteFriday

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He takes my hand in his and give me a quick peck on the cheek. I am used to this. Being surrounded by Latinos regularly for the past five years has allowed me to adapt to their culture. To love it even. Perhaps that is why he does it. Perhaps he has adopted a culture different from his own.

My skin looks like alabaster against the chocolate of his but it is true that if we both bled it would be red. But his blood? It would flow with an incurable virus.

It is this sickness flowing through his veins that makes him wear layers of sweaters in the Florida heat. Always cold this "sick boy." You can see on his skin that he is not well and his eyes confirm the story.

But on Memorial Day a group of us sat around a table spread with home cooked fare. Caucasians, Latinos, Asians, African Americans. And the table made us equal. Food is a great equalizer. If you are sick you can come to the table and feel like one made well. If you are an outcast you come to the table and feel welcomed.

And as hands brush in the passing of platters and bowls you remember that we are all human and everyone needs a life with the table at it's center.

"On Fridays we write. And sometimes it goes all over the place and we let it. We get messy and real and sometimes we cry and sometimes we laugh but we get it done week after week. We show up and write free. 

Five minutes on one prompt. We silence the critic and the audience, we make peace with our mistakes, and our word tense that goes in and out when we type fast. We don't overthink or edit or make a fuss. We just believe words spilled are worth something even if they come out like madness." -Alia Joy

Join us here.

On Fridays we write. And sometimes it goes all over the place and we let it. We get messy and real and sometimes we cry and sometimes we laugh but we get it done week after week. We show up and write free.
Five minutes on one prompt. We silence the critic and the audience, we make peace with our mistakes and our word tense that goes in and out when we type fast. We don’t overthink or edit or make a fuss. We just believe words spilled are worth something even if they come out like madness. Join us?
- See more at: http://lisajobaker.com/#sthash.Tg2X4SF1.dpuf

On Fridays we write. And sometimes it goes all over the place and we let it. We get messy and real and sometimes we cry and sometimes we laugh but we get it done week after week. We show up and write free.
Five minutes on one prompt. We silence the critic and the audience, we make peace with our mistakes and our word tense that goes in and out when we type fast. We don’t overthink or edit or make a fuss. We just believe words spilled are worth something even if they come out like madness. Join us?
- See more at: http://lisajobaker.com/#sthash.Tg2X4SF1.dpuf

On Fridays we write. And sometimes it goes all over the place and we let it. We get messy and real and sometimes we cry and sometimes we laugh but we get it done week after week. We show up and write free. Five minutes on one prompt: this week is : Nothing. We silence the critic and the audience, we make peace with our mistakes and our word tense that goes in and out when we type fast. We don’t overthink or edit or make a fuss. We just believe words spilled are worth something even if they come out like madness. Join us?  We’re at Lisa Jo’s, and we need your story.   - See more at: http://www.narrowpathstohigherplaces.com/five-minute-friday-nothing/#sthash.EMrC3irP.dpuf

Close: #FiveMinuteFriday

Close is weird. It's this thing where I know you and you know me. Like, really know each other. How we talk about the real things going on in our hearts and lives. Layers and layers below the surface. I've helped you clean up your baby's puke before and you've held my hair back while I writhed on the bathroom floor.

Close is a man and wife in all their glory. Ideally knowing the most intimate parts of each other. All the most intimate parts.

But what happens when the closeness changes? If one of us pulls back? Or if someone moves deeper still and the other stays put? How do you fix relationships with history that should have never needed fixing?

This Life? Relationships? They're hard and messy. When to stay? When to go? And what I really want from my friendships are ladies who are willing to keep moving forward. Closer. Even when it gets messy. And it will get messy. And you will fail and be failed.

But if you want something real, something lasting then you have to keep pursuing closeness. Keep running hard. Keep going deeper.

Keep on moving close.

On Fridays I join a community of writers that encourages one another. You can join us here.

Grateful: #FiveMinuteFriday

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It's been a few long years since I first penned the words to page. This counting of gifts. A record of gratitude in all things. It was just a few weeks in, the first go round, that he said he could see a change. That I was different. That somehow the counting had changed me. I was better in attitude and heart. I laughed at the days to come.

And then the page grew cold and I laid the pen down for a long season. I did not want to give thanks for the hard things. The bloody broken things. The death of dreams. Like a pig in slop I wanted to wallow in bitterness, anger, and despair.

But sometime in the last nine months or so I picked up the pen again. I mark each day off in threes. Some days more. Some days my gifts flow like water from a heart that is truly grateful. And some days I stair out this same window forgetting that everything is a gift. But each day I write down something. Anything to remind me.

From the extraordinary to the mundane:

A promotion.
Gas in the car.
A change in the weather.
Hard eucharisteo: a loss that hits too close to home.
Dirty dishes showing a life well lived.

And so I try to see each day in numbers. Gifts counted on the page and in the heart.

On Fridays  I join a community of writers that encourage one another. You can join us here.

Mess: #FiveMinuteFriday

I keep thinking about him. The man who lives in the upstairs room of the church. Some would call him homeless. I would not. But I do know that a real home would make him remember Canada. And a wife, child, and love left behind. So he lives in a Sunday School room that goes unused.

And I think of the boy a few doors down. With the pants that just fit wrong and no smile ever and hours of manual labor. I knew something wasn't quite right. And that was true. His mama was newly dead. And all little boys no matter their age need their mamas.

And this is the thing I see in my life and all around me. That we're all a mess. Our homes, our hearts, our lives. That's why our relationships keep falling apart. Because if we come together with anything less than a big bold acknoledgement of our own junk? Well, then we're lying.

And it's hard to put your mess out there. For people to see, and judge, and label and hashtag and put a big ol' scarlet letter on it. But that is the option. We either stand as boldly as possible saying "this is what I bring to the table." Hurting, bleeding, bruised.

Or we never come to the table at all.

On Fridays I join a community of writers that encourages one another. You can join us here.

Friend: #FiveMinuteFriday

(in)RL starts tonight. Join thousands of women from the comfort of your own home here.

He looks up at me as I write these words because I've stopped petting him. He is a friend like no other. These ten long years we've shared together have been so full of joy and sadness. I like him better than most people, but the truth is that he is not enough.

This desire to know and be known. It drives us. What we do and don't do. Our engagement in social media or lack thereof. Whether we go out into the big wide world and have relationships with others or hide behind our computer screens. It often feels safer there. It is not.

The internet can be cruel it is true but a life lived in solitary is much more cruel. Knowing people and being known by them is a risk. They will fail you. Oftentimes more than once. And you will do some failing yourself. But you, me, we all need each other.

When you have something to celebrate it's sweeter when shared with a friend. Something lonely is less lonely when you let someone come into the night with you. And tragedy? Suffering? Loss? Those things can make you throw in the towel completely if you have no one to walk beside you.

Sure, a guarded heart is safe. But a safe heart isn't fully alive. You and I, we need in-real-life friends.

 

On Fridays I join a community of writers that encourages each other. Interested? Join us here. 

Glue: #FiveMinuteFriday

We sit at the low table and make an Easter craft together. For me glue on the fingers is not much more than a slight annoyance. For him it is an unparalleled sensory roller coaster. Autism is is a blessing like that. The sweet boy may not be able to hold a full grasp of language but he can suck the marrow out of the places in life we ignore.

And then there is he whose face shows the distinct characteristics of Downs. He is the hugger, lover, always smiling boy. The one you go to if you need your day brightened. He can't fully articulate faith but he knows: we have so much to celebrate.

And the high functioning boy on the spectrum? He can move through most social situations with ease. But it is his emotions that allude him. And when I suggest we pray to God about his "brain being crowded." He speaks the truth we all often feel but are too afraid to voice. Usually when we need to pray the most we feel like praying the least.

And it's amazing that the God who loves the orphan and widow also loves the other outcasts of society. The homeless, the cheater, the mentally handicapped.

In the same way that we glue that paper Easter Lilly, to page His blood flows wet on the ground to our souls. His blood that pieces our lives together can also glue back the missing links in our minds.

 

On Fridays I join with a community of writers that encourage one another. You can join us here.

Mighty: #FiveMinuteFriday

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"She is small but mighty." Her words echoed in my head. I loved them. But did I believe them? Could I matter? Could I make a difference? And who defines all this mattering?

If my identity is truly in Christ than isn't the deal sealed? Don't I matter already? Before I do anything? Before I share my art? Write my heart? Change the world?

And I wonder if that makes the difference? If you believe who He says you are is who you really are then are you the free, more able to live your dreams? To make change?

And if your dream is being a mama or a writer, a barber or a crafter well they're all God-sized dreams. They are mighty. They matter. Because you matter. Your heart, your life, is big. Because He takes the smallness of us and envelopes us in His bigness. His righteouness. His old made new. Broken made well. Brusied and bleeding made bright and sparkling.

And He cares about orphans and widows. Prostitutes and homemakers. He cares about you. And that is mighty big caring. Mighty big love. So let the world say you are small. Or big. Their definitions don't matter. You already have everything in Him.

...

Photo by Lisa-Jo Baker

"Motherhood is not a competition to see who's baby weighs more, or walks first, or sleeps through the night, or gets into the right college.

Motherhood is a holy grueling work of being refined by the fire of sleep deprivation and fear and courage and catching yet another round of the stomach bug and still showing up for that recital."

The host of Five Minute Friday, Lisa-Jo Baker's, book comes out Tuesday! Subtitled, Everything I Never Expected About Being a Mom, it's for all mamas everywhere. But especially you if you're worn out and tired or just needing to be reminded that you're not alone. Pre-order it here.

motherhood is not a competition to see who’s baby weighs more or walks first or sleeps through the night or gets into the right college.
Motherhood is the holy, grueling work of being refined by the fire of sleep deprivation and fear and courage and catching yet another round of the stomach bug and still showing up for that recital. Motherhood is a wild free fall into more gut-punch love and worry, discovery and the desire to give
- See more at: http://lisajobaker.com/#sthash.TDgSbFlc.dpuf

motherhood is not a competition to see who’s baby weighs more or walks first or sleeps through the night or gets into the right college.
Motherhood is the holy, grueling work of being refined by the fire of sleep deprivation and fear and courage and catching yet another round of the stomach bug and still showing up for that recital. Motherhood is a wild free fall into more gut-punch love and worry, discovery and the desire to give
- See more at: http://lisajobaker.com/#sthash.TDgSbFlc.dpuf

motherhood is not a competition to see who’s baby weighs more or walks first or sleeps through the night or gets into the right college.
Motherhood is the holy, grueling work of being refined by the fire of sleep deprivation and fear and courage and catching yet another round of the stomach bug and still showing up for that recital. Motherhood is a wild free fall into more gut-punch love and worry, discovery and the desire to give
- See more at: http://lisajobaker.com/#sthash.TDgSbFlc.dpuf

 

On Fridays I join a community of writers that write on a prompt and encourage one another. Oftentimes I use this time to process what's going on in my own heart. Interested? Join us here.

Crowd: #FiveMinuteFriday

I felt it pressing in all around me for weeks now. My schedule, my to-do list, my full plate. And one weekend getaway won't fix what's broken. No, this is a systemic problem. That I don't know where to begin to fix.

And  I knew sooner or later my body would rebel. "Too much," it screamed! And so I found myself having to disregard my list, relegating myself to resting and only what could be done from the couch. And even on the day I was certain it was coming I overbooked with back-to-back meetings. Not enough time for either. All day, going strong, neglecting my husband on our day off together, fighting my body, and breaks, and slow.

And when you think you can't possibly slow down you find it impossible to do the things you thought were ultimate. You remember that life is not an emergency. That there is a choice between good and best. And hopefully you won't end up back on this couch a month from now. Hopefully you'll place value where it belongs and let the rest fade away.

Not letting the tyranny of the urgent crowd out your very life.

 ...

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In the month of March, I'm giving away 50% of all sales from my shop to forever change the life of an orphan (whom we hosted in our home). Would you consider partnering with me?

On Fridays I join a community of writers who encourage one another. You can join us here.

Small: #FiveMinuteFriday

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If I believe what I say I believe then small is the new big in this Upside-down Kingdom I'm a resident of. But I'm struggling to find balance between the beautiful mundane and the big and loud. The comments, and the tweets, and the conference speaking. Verses the dishes, and the fresh bread, and the vacumed floors.

I believe our lives, our homes, our sinks can be an altar. And I believe our tweets, our blogs, our online personas can be the same. All of our lives is worship to someone or something...

And for the first time in a long time I'm truly believing that the small matters. That the mostly unseen things are what is truly big. Lasting. Eternal. And as I'm believing this, what the world calls "big" is happening. Relationships, invitations, projects. And is there a correlation? Between the everyday mundane beauty and the big "here is my life" public?

I write and am heard. I serve others and no one knows. And you can do booth. And I'm learning that we don't have to choose. That our lives can be big and small. Unknown and viral. Quiet and resounding.

So in a moment I'll wash the dishes and before the day is over I'll start on a project that may make everything come crashing down around my sweet little online personana. And I'll continue to walk the tightrope between big and small.

On Fridays I join a community of writers that write on a prompt and encourage one another. You can join us here.