That Is Why It Is Called the "Present"

The day before my 33rd birthday I nearly died.

Yesterday morning was nothing remarkable. I had made a few loose plans to do laundry and read books with the kids. I had lunches to pack and errands to run and chores to do. I was preoccupied with a collection of quotidian details as I was driving home from my sons' school where I'd been helping with reading groups.

Just as I was starting to cross the highway to turn left at a green light, out of the corner of my eye I noticed a car flying like a bullet toward the intersection and showing no signs of slowing down.

I slammed on my brakes and lurched to a halt. My front wheels had already advanced half-way into the crosswalk the moment the speeding silver sedan shot through the red light. It was gone before I had gathered enough wits about me to honk my horn or read license plate numbers. With the sound of my heart swooshing rapidly somewhere behind my ears, I rolled forward again, trying not to let my knee shake as my foot pressed the gas pedal. I turned left, catching the eye of one of the drivers who had stopped at the red light. Her mouth was hanging open, and she raised her hands and shook her head in utter disbelief.

Death had just looked me in eyeballs, and my eyeballs were now open very, very wide. My vision, for that moment, was as sharp as shattered glass: My time is decidedly not in my hands.

Had I left the school just a split second earlier, had I proceeded from the stop sign up the hill just a moment sooner, had I driven just a hair over the speed limit on my way down that hill, I might have spent this day not enjoying birthday hugs from my children or lunch with my grandmother or a dinner out with my husband and some good friends but in a hospital bed or, worse, in a morgue.

Ironically, it's brush a death that may revive a love of life in all is mundane details. After that near escape, the fall leaves look a little brighter, the sky a little bluer, the laundry a little softer, my breath a little warmer, my family a little dearer. Life is good.

That "every day is a gift" may have been reduced to a greeting card platitude, but it's a truth nonetheless. Today I feel acutely that the mere fact of a beating heart is the gift of a lifetime.

Today I celebrate the day I was born. Today I celebrate that first day that life was given to me. But today I will also celebrate the other 12,044 days when that precious life was given to me again and again. Today is my birthday. Today I am alive. It is a very happy birthday indeed.

Why, Yes. Yes There Is a Doctor in the House.

The African elephant, I recently learned, has the longest gestation period of all mammals—22 months. That sounds painfully exhausting if you ask me. But I can tell you with certainty that the African elephant has nothing on the American PhD candidate.

Nine years ago, when we had one tiny baby (and we thought our lives were busy), we moved to Dallas, Texas, where my husband would pursue a Master’s Degree in Literature. A year later, he was enrolled in the doctoral program at the University of Dallas and was on his way to earning a PhD.

I, naïve young thing that I was, truly believed that in a mere three, or at most four, years we’d be walking away from that fine institution cradling a sweet little diploma in our arms.

I, of course, ought to have known better; I have had a college student in my household for all but a few short years of my life. I have had a graduate student in my immediate family for half my life, at least. Higher education is and has always been my bread and butter. My own father, if I’m not mistaken, was a college student for fourteen years, and I was old enough to remember when he finished his PhD. (There was great rejoicing.) So why I assumed that my husband would have no trouble accomplishing such a feat in a few short years, I do not know. Looking back now, the expectation seems completely ridiculous.

“I recognize a workhorse when I see one,” said my husband’s professor as he introduced Jayson before his final public lecture two weeks ago, “and when I took one look at Dr. Grieser’s faculty description on the website of the college where he teaches, I could see that that’s exactly what he is.”

It’s true. Only a workhorse (or maybe an elephant) would do what my husband has done. But at that moment, I wanted to stand up and tell everybody present, “You don’t know the half of it.”

For the young, childless bachelor living on nothing but student loans and ramen noodles to complete a doctorate is nothing to sneeze at, I suppose. But for the family man who does the same thing—while simultaneously retaining a full-time job, a social life, and a church life, as well as the love of his wife and five children—some special honor should certainly be added to the degree: PhDE, perhaps (Doctor of Philosophy, Extraordinaire.) Give that man an extra stripe on his academic robe, say I, and an extra tassel on his tam. It wouldn’t be too much, would it, if I followed him around town holding a flashing neon Applause sign over his head, would it? Surely not.

Plenty of people have asked me, “Isn’t it such a relief for him to be done?” And the answer, of course, is yes. But it is more than a relief; it is pride and gratitude and euphoria and fatigue, all rolled into one. If you have ever given birth to a child, you know exactly what I mean.

But just as with the birth of a child, when one kind of labor is finished, a new kind of labor begins. Much as I may wish we could take an extended vacation to celebrate the completion of this degree, I have to remind myself of the saying repeated every year at graduation by my husband's students: Omni cui multum datum est, multum quaeretur ab eo. (To whom much is given, much is required.) Jayson, workhorse that he is, had hardly taken on the title of "doctor" before he moved on to the task of planning new classes to teach and making improvements to the classes he currently teaches. He finished his glass of champagne, and then took up his books again for the work ahead. After all (as Shelley once observed), "nothing wilts faster than laurels that have been rested upon."

Now that the dissertation is complete and successfully defended, you can only imagine how good it feels to be delivered of that 250-page burden. It took my husband nine years of graduate school to bring forth that baby. Nine years. That, if you're counting, is the gestation period of the African elephant five times over. So if you notice a new lightness in his step, you now understand why.

After all these years, I am delighted to finally report that yes, there is indeed a doctor in the house.

Earth Day

One Good Friday, when I was a child, we attended the Tenebrae service at our Lutheran church, and while we sat in our pews a storm rose outside. The wind began to blow wildly, and while Christ made his way to the accursed tree, every tree on the hills around us was made to bow and bend. Hail, King of the Jews. The sun went dark. The windows shook. The clouds shed tears. Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me, but weep for yourselves, and for your children. From the steeple at the center of the circular sanctuary hung a large wooden cross on a chain, and as the rain lashed the roof, the steeple began to vibrate. As those wind vibrations worked their way down the chain, the cross began to hum. To buzz. To moan. The wood itself seemed to cry from out of the depths—a basso profundo wailing. Eli, Eli, lama sabachtani? I remember the chills I felt as the massive Bible was slammed shut and the lights flicked off, the creak and groan of the wooden pews as we filed wordlessly out of the service, the whip of cold air as it snaked its way through the glass doors, biting at our heels, making me shiver.

Truly this was the Son of God.

That Good Friday storm was one of the more dramatic events of my church-going life. In retrospect I have wondered what physics were behind that mourning cross. More than physics, perhaps. That the storm blew in at the perfect moment, that a cold Canadian front met with a mass of wet southern air at that precise geographical location and sent the wind swirling in just such a way as to communicate grief through the glass, down a chain, and into that heavy wood seems almost unbelievable. As unbelievable as the death of God. But I was there. I was a witness. And I do believe.

Today is Earth Day. Today is Good Friday. On this day, two holidays—two holy days—collide. Today, Evangelical pastors and Greenpeace activists share the same hope: the hope that the earth will be saved.

We Christians and we earth-lovers want this world to be redeemed from destruction. None of us want it to go up sulfer-scented flames. I, for one, would rather not turn the wetlands into a trash heap. I'm all for biodegradable grocery sacks, and I don't mind the green glow of my compact fluorescent bulbs too much either. I do have a mandate to care for creation, but by composting my potato peelings, I am not, ultimately, saving the world. We all want to restore paradise, to bring heaven to earth. But at this point the Good Friday and the Earth Day visions diverge. Today we preach our respective gospels to the dying:
    Christ was crucified.
    Plant a tree for your tomorrow.

And yet, in a twist of irony, the salvation of the earth does, as it turns out, depend upon a tree—a tree that was planted on a hill outside Jerusalem two millennia ago. Creation itself also will be delivered from the bondage of corruption into the glorious liberty of the children of God.

There was an earthquake that day on Golgatha. Seismology played a roll at the crucifixion, but something more than plate tectonics was at work; the earth itself was taking part in Christ's passion. There was a storm on that Good Friday of my childhood. Perhaps a meteorologist could explain the peculiar atmospheric fluctuations that arose that dark evening when the earth, again, acted out its passion play. Was climate change behind it? Should we try to prevent those conditions from arising in the future? Somebody, after all, paved paradise to put up that church. But that church—that cross—is where the heavens met the earth that day. And where heaven and earth are joined, paradise is restored.

The cross, that deadly collision of heaven and earth, is where the true lover of the world—He through whom the earth itself was created—bled to save it. If He did not come to restore the earth, then all the neighborhood recycling programs in the world be damned.

Good Friday is Earth Day, this year and every year. For in him all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell, and through him to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, making peace by the blood of his cross.

I Plead the Fifth

Introducing our fifth little boy, Liam Quentin:

He arrived on Friday night, November 26, his great-grandfather's birthday, and was a very healthy eight pounds, fifteen ounces and twenty-two inches long.

Meeting his brothers for the first time:

The Glorious Status Quo

I do not have cancer.

Normally, that wouldn't even be worth mentioning, but in this month of Thanksgiving, it's one bit of news that I'm very grateful for. Every so often something comes up that makes me realize how blessed I am to be enjoying just another uneventful day of "the same old thing."

Lately, "the same old thing" involves feeling about 13 months pregnant and consequently more than a bit sorry for my achy, tired, fat, slow self. And I'm not even having twins. In fact, as far as pregnancies go, mine are uncommonly easy—no morning sickness, no preexisting conditions, no miscarriages, no C-sections, no Strep B, no gestational diabetes. Nothing. "You are," a doctor once told me, "an obstetricians dream."

Nevertheless, when people ask me how I'm doing these days, I sometimes forget all that good news and want to respond with bitter sarcasm. You really want to know how I feel? Then try these ten easy steps to allow you to share in the third-trimester experience:

1. Place a 25-pound watermelon in a backpack or duffel bag, and strap it to your belly as tightly as you can so that it digs uncomfortably into your waist.
2. Adjust the straps so that the weight rests primarily on your lower back and hips. Just make sure that the melon sticks out at least a full 10 inches in front.
3. Put on ankle weights and four pairs of socks before cramming your feet into your now too-tight shoes.
4. Attempt to do routine household tasks such as getting out of bed, picking small items off the carpet, and hauling an overflowing laundry basket up and down the stairs several times a day.
5. Shortly before bedtime, consume a family-size jar of salsa, and wash it down with two or three quarts of soda. This will allow you to fully appreciate the heartburn and squashed bladder that pregnant women come to expect as they strive for a little shuteye.
6. Chew enough antacid tablets to let you sleep for an hour or so.
7. After no more than an hour of fitful slumber, attempt to roll over onto your other side.
8. Give up the attempt.
9. After another hour, have somebody elbow you repeatedly in the ribs to simulate the midnight acrobatics of your baby. You will then be wide awake enough to realize that you have to go to the bathroom. Again.
10. Repeat daily for three months.

Of course, if all goes well, when this new baby boy is finally placed in my arms, I'll again discover that it really was all worth it. I'll understand afresh what a privilege it was to carry another healthy child—something that countless heartbroken women in history have hopelessly longed to do. But right now, if I'm being honest, I'm usually looking forward less to meeting my son than to simply not being pregnant anymore.

But if I struggle with selfish resentment and impatience on account of a blessing like pregnancy, how would I cope with a true evil like cancer?

"Good timing" is, I suppose, a phrase that does not apply to a deadly disease. Serious illness is never welcome. But with four young kids and a husband dependent on my good health—not to mention a fifth baby who's roughly two weeks away from making his grand entrance—I can't help but think that this would be a truly terrible time of life to be diagnosed with cancer—far worse than, say, 30 or 40 years from now when our kids are grown and our nest is empty. So, as you can imagine, finding a mysterious lump in a place where it did not belong was not a pleasant discovery.

My first thought was, "Oh great." No fear. No anger. Just annoyance. I figured that it was, in all likelihood, simply another obnoxious pregnancy-induced growth. After all, everything else about me has been growing like mad. I feel like I am that scene in The Magician's Nephew during the creation of Narnia, when the whole of that new world is so full of life and growth that a broken bar of iron takes root and matures into a fully formed lamppost. Everything growing. Everything expanding. If I accidentally swallowed a watermelon seed right now, my grandfather's terrifying tale would become a reality; a vine would spring up and start producing juicy watermelons right inside my already crowded belly. So of course one more growth was entirely understandable, even if it was in an unusual place, right?

I figured my doctor would agree. However, at my next appointment, she didn't seem nearly as certain as I was that this was no cause for concern. When she told me to schedule an ultrasound exam, I felt my blood pressure rise just a little. And yet, I remained fairly confident that the ultrasound would confirm beyond doubt that this was totally normal. I prayed about it, but I didn't worry much.

Then, after the ultrasound, the radiologist came in and explained that, given my good health, my relatively young age, and the fact that I'm pregnant, this was most likely nothing serious, but he could not be entirely sure. This particular lump wasn't something he could diagnose merely by looking. The only way to know if it was cancerous was to perform a biopsy.

I don't know how it strikes others, but to me, "biopsy" is a rather scary word. It now brought the idea of cancer into the realm of real possibility. And, because I had been expecting an "all clear" from the ultrasound exam, it struck me as both scary and disappointing. I wanted this to be over. However, with my due date looming ever closer, I scheduled the dreaded biopsy appointment for the earliest available day.

I was nervous about the procedure, but as it turned out, an ultrasound-guided needle biopsy wasn't such a horrible experience—not something I'd like to do on a regular basis, but not a whole lot worse than having a few of cavities filled. 

I still didn't really think I had cancer, but waiting to find out was more of a test of my own trust in God's plans than I would have expected. I happen to be reading through the book of Job this month, and as I read chapter 13, I had to pause at verse 15: "Though he slay me, I will hope in him; yet I will argue my ways to his face."  Would I, if I were faced with this deadly disease, still be able with Job to hope in God? Could I argue my ways to his face?

Mercifully, the pathology report came back in just a couple of days. Those two days, however, gave me cause to meditate more than ever before on how everything I have, including my health, has been a gift, and that my life is not and never has been merely my own. You can imagine with what gratitude I heard the lovely word "benign" read to me at my next appointment. After facing the prospect—however remote—of a serious trial like cancer, the expectation of maintaining the status quo comes as the best kind of news. It comes like gospel.

So now I face two more weeks (give or take) of third trimester pregnancy. I am still achy. I am still tired. I am still fat and slow and prone to heartburn. I still get kicked in the ribs in the middle of the night. I am even coming down with a cold. But I also still get to enjoy another glorious day of the "same old thing."

Cinnamon Rolls and Bacon: The Title Track

My soul will be satisfied as with fat and rich food, and my mouth will praise you with joyful lips.
—Psalm 63:5

Now that this blog has been around for a while, I suppose it is high time I explained why I chose Cinnamon Rolls and Bacon as the title. As you may have discovered, if you're looking for breakfast recipes, this is not the site you need (although I will try to make up for that at the end of this post). No, it's more than just the morning meal that I'm concerned with here. Cinnamon rolls and bacon have become our traditional Sunday morning fare, and, by extension, a metaphor for Sabbath living; we commence the week with joyful table fellowship, gratitude for God's kindness, and a very tangible celebration of the resurrection—all of which should spill over into the rest of our daily lives.

Many of the families in our church community have come up with lovely and creative ways to make the Lord's day the high point of the week, and one tradition that our own family has adopted and grown to love is a copious Sunday breakfast. What better way to begin a day of rest, worship, and feasting than by weighing down the table with buttery homemade cinnamon rolls and oven-fried bacon?

But lest you think we are slowly killing ourselves with cholesterol, remember that Sunday comes but once a week. So, while some may argue that such luxuries are bad for the arteries, when taken in weekly moderation they are unquestionably good for the heart.

We want our children to grow up loving the Sabbath, tasting and seeing that the Lord is good from the moment the day begins. Before they can understand the goodness of God in almost any other way, kids can understand the rich combination of butter and sugar upon their tongues, and ours have learned to love it and look forward to it week after week.

There was a time when I was not confident enough in my baking skills to attempt making a pan of cinnamon rolls from scratch on a weekly basis, so we usually opted for the cardboard can variety instead. Those (or a box of doughnuts) will still suffice in a pinch, but now that I've found a reliable recipe, it's awfully hard to settle for anything less than homemade. I bake them the night before and pop them back into the oven on Sunday morning until they're warmed through and ready to be frosted by one of four eager volunteers who will, of course, get spatula-licking privileges when the job is done.

And then there is the bacon. I always check the little "sample slice" windows they provide on the backs of those packages at the grocery store, and if there's not a fat-to-meat ratio of at least three-to-one, I pass it by. The fat is honestly the part we want. Those little pink stripes of meat are simply there for looks—garnish in the form of pork.

But lest you think that bacon is nothing more than a greasy indulgence, let me explain its deeper significance. (No, really!) Bacon is also an edible reminder of one of the things that we, as Christians, believe—that Christ, in His death and resurrection, has fulfilled the Old Testament ceremonial laws, including the prohibition against eating unclean animals (i.e. pigs). Those animals represented the gentiles (i.e. us) who are now granted full membership with the New Covenant people of God. Ergo, bacon is, for us, a very tasty (and greasy) way to celebrate the gift of the gospel to the gentiles.

Granted, when we started our Sunday morning tradition, we simply liked the occasional rasher of bacon and hadn't considered of any of those theological points. It's not as though we set out to plumb the great metaphorical depths of all our breakfast choices. But still, having noticed some of the religious implications of bacon, we did think it seemed that much more fitting for a Sabbath meal.

To complete the morning feast, in addition to the cinnamon rolls and bacon, our kids are also treated to their weekly glass of chocolate milk, and we each have an egg or two fried in (what else?) a bit of bacon grease. We also grace the table with a bowl piled with whatever fruit may be at its seasonal peak. Right now it's peaches and nectarines that leave sweet juice dripping down our chins and forearms with the first bite.

The Sunday table is no place for fasting. Nor is it a place for half-hearted feasting weighed down by guilt. If it helps, leave off the first syllable when you say, "Cinnamon Rolls," for there is no sin in them at all. They are instead a reason for joy and gratitude, and one small way that we set this day apart from the rest—this day that points us toward the great wedding feast at the consummation of all things. Therefore, as Nehemiah exhorted God's people long ago, "go your way. Eat the fat and drink sweet wine and send portions to anyone who has nothing ready, for this day is holy to our Lord. And do not be grieved, for the joy of the Lord is your strength.”  (Nehemiah 8:10)

                                                                                                   

Sabbatarian Cinnamon Rolls

1 packet of yeast (2 1/4 tsp.)
1 1/2 c. warm water (I normally use half milk, half water.)
1/3 c. sugar
1 1/2 tsp. kosher salt (or 3/4 tsp. table salt)
1 egg
1/3 c. unsalted butter, softened (Crisco works in a pinch.)
1/2 tsp. vanilla (real, if you have it)
3 1/2-4 c. white bread flour (All purpose flour works fine)

In a mixing bowl, dissolve yeast, sugar and salt in water. Wait about five minutes until foamy. Stir in remaining ingredients. Knead in flour when stirring becomes too difficult. (I use the flat beater on my KitchenAid for everything and skip the kneading hook altogether.) This dough will be nice and squashy, not stiff. Resist the temptation to add more than 4 cups of flour to the dough.

Let rise until double in a greased bowl covered with oiled plastic wrap. At this point you can punch it down and refrigerate it until Saturday night. (I find the dough easier to work with when cold.) Otherwise, dump the dough out on to a very generously floured board. Roll (or pat with well-floured hands) into a rectangle about 16" x 20".

Filling:
1 stick (1/2 c.) butter (Absolutely no substitutions!)
1 c. brown sugar (or up to half white sugar)
2 T. (yes, tablespoons) cinnamon

Melt the butter and spread evenly over the rectangle of dough. Mix together sugar and cinnamon and spread evenly over the butter. Roll it all up, pulling the dough toward you to stretch it a bit as you roll. (This results in lots of nice, thin layers to unroll as you eat and keeps the butter and sugar from melting out and forming a caramelly ooze on the bottom of your pan. If you like the caramelly ooze, then, by all means, roll these more loosely.) Slice into 20 even slices. (Again, this is easier to do if the dough is chilled.) Arrange rolls in a 4 x 5 pattern in a well buttered 9 x 13 pan. (I have always had best results with glass.) Let rise until almost doubled, and bake at 375° for 25 minutes. (Longer if the dough is cold to start with, a bit less if it's been a hot day in the kitchen. See note below.) Cool.

Icing:
This recipe is up to you. Some people like cream cheese or buttercream frosting, and I can't argue. But my normal recipe is simply:
1-2 c. powdered sugar
1 tsp real vanilla
Enough heavy cream to reach desired consistency—spreadable or drizzlable, depending on what you like.

Mix sugar, cream and vanilla thoroughly. Frost cinnamon rolls. (If you baked them the night before, save this step for after you have rewarmed them in the oven for 5-10 minutes. Otherwise the icing may scorch or melt away into sticky nothingness.)

Additional Notes:

1. Sometimes these have a tendency to rise skyward into little cinnamon roll mountain peaks. Check them half way through baking, and if they are forming something of a topographic map of the Rockies, then take a flat spatula and gently press them back down into a surface more reminiscent of the Iowa landscape.
2. You can double the dough recipe and, after letting it rise the first time, freeze half of the dough in an oiled gallon sized Ziploc bag for next week's cinnamon rolls.
3. If there are too many rolls for your family, share the joy, or else bake the rolls in two 9" round cake pans. Carefully wrap (foil inside a plastic bag) one of the two pans after they are baked and cooled, and freeze until next week. They keep surprisingly well. Then just thaw overnight, and warm in the oven before frosting.
4. Bonus: If you leave the vanilla out of the dough recipe and omit the cinnamon and sugar from the filling, this recipe makes fabulous crescent rolls suitable for Thanksgiving dinner. Just roll the dough into two dinner plate-sized circles instead of one big rectangle, and butter each circle with half a stick.  Slice each circle like a pizza into 12 or 16 equal wedges and roll up starting with the wider end, firmly adhering the pointed end to keep from unrolling. Let rise on two greased or parchment-lined cookie sheets, and bake at 375° for 15-20 minutes, until golden.