a recipe for love

celery + onions + cornbread + birds = love

Giving Him My Yes

"And in despair I bowed my head
'There is no peace on earth,” I said,
'For hate is strong and mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.'

~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

It is easy to forget to savor the small moments, or take time to commemorate them once they have passed. On this early day in January, when the city of Tucson remains shrouded in grief, a few memories call out to me, twinkling like stars in an ocean of darkness... It was Christmas morning. The first we had ever spent alone as a family.

The fragrance of fresh pine branches mingled with the smell of cinnamon buns, baking in the oven. While I prepared the coffee, the girls stalked in and out of the kitchen in stockinged feet, alive with that peculiar brand of eagerness that only comes on Christmas morning.

Dutch sat in the blue velvet chair before a whispering fire to read the Christmas story and Audrey bounded down the steps to meet him, and was caught up in his great strong arms. Once her laughter had subsided she stood between his knees and batted her eyes, a genuine look of interest and curiosity streaked across her face, while Evangeline made circles around the pair, examining the designs in the carpet and only looking up to utter a single word: "Nice...nice."

Dutch read from a black leather-bound volume called The Life of Jesus. Its delicate pages fluttered like birds' wings, like the most delicate tissue paper – as if the book were itself a gift being opened – and a hush fell over the room. As each new narrative detail was introduced – the angel, the stable, the wise men, the star – I could see the story come to life in Audrey’s eyes, betraying a look of wonder such as is only seen on the faces of children…

Then came the shepherds, out in the fields watching their sheep: “And the glory of the Lord was shining around them,” Dutch read, his voice quiet and even. “The shepherds were very afraid. The angel said to them, ‘Don’t be afraid. I have some very good news for you – Today your Savior was born in David’s town. He is Christ, the Lord…”

The words came like a shock, like a revelation. Dutch looked up at me and our eyes met – tearful, smiling eyes – as my heart expanded to take in the miracle: Today your Savior was born... He is Christ, the Lord.

It never happens the same way twice, but it always happens that each year, on Christmas, the story of Christ's entrance onto the stage of history - into a world that without Him is full of dread and gloom - strikes me deeper; its meaning and power penetrate further into the furthest recesses of my soul.

I don't know why.

Perhaps it is because I have had 365 more days of exposure to the horrific realities of sin in the world. Oppression. Greed. Cruelty. Violence. The swelling gravity of these things serve as a terrific backdrop for the work of Christ, which has the power to redeem the seemingly unredeemable, to bring life out of death, and to take the ashes of this world and remake them into something beautiful.

"Peace on earth and mercy mild, God and sinners reconciled..." We sing the words, but can we comprehend their meaning? "Peace on earth" - it is very obviously not a peace which has been made manifest in the material world. Not yet, anyway. But for the anguished heart which has been stilled by Christ's touch, it is a peace which is true, and which endures. "Peace, I give to you," says Jesus; "My Peace, I leave with you. I do not give as the world gives."

"Therefore being justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ” (Romans 5.1). But Christ’s propitious death not only opens the way between man and God, but between man and man. He was born, lived, died, and rose to stand between us in all our dealings with other living beings... His death and resurrection mean that we can, by the power of His Spirit, truly love and be loved in return.

For this reason, for Christmas this year, I decided to give Dutch a tiny golden key with the word "YES" inscribed along the blade. After all (or so I thought), what husband would fail to appreciate receiving a symbol of his wife's continued commitment to love and honor him? But the idea wasn't mine entirely; instead, I borrowed inspiration from Maria von Wedemeyer, the woman whose engagement to Dietrich Bonhoeffer became official following a letter she wrote to him, giving him her ‘yes.’ With joy inexpressible, Bonhoeffer immediately responded. “I sense and am overwhelmed by the awareness that a gift without equal has been given me," he wrote, "– this 'Yes' that is to be decisive for our entire life.”

But the tumultuous times in which Dietrich and Maria’s love bloomed were impossible to forget or ignore – even in a single letter. And so Bonhoeffer ended his effusions with an admonition: “But let us not dwell now on the bad that lurks and has power in every person,” he wrote, “but let us encounter each other in great, free forgiveness and love, let us take each other as we are – with thanks and boundless trust in God, who has led us to this point and now loves us.”

It is because of Christ’s work on the cross that I can – not only in the springtime of love, but on and on, until the end – approach my husband in this spirit of “great, free forgiveness and love;” because of Christ I have the opportunity to do my utmost to make and keep peace between us.

And - perhaps best of all - through all the circumstances that work to try my patience, to test my endurance to its limit, I can exhibit and foster “boundless trust in God.” For I have His “yes” – the grandest gesture of love that ever was or will be, expressing itself most perfectly on the cross of Christ.

This, to me, is Emmanuel God with us. And it signals that the work which He completed, once and for all, on Calvary will one day be complete in me.

“Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
‘God is, nor not dead doth He sleep;
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail
With peace on earth, good will to men.’”

Christmas Time

I snapped these pictures (some were part of our Christmas photo shoot) before we left for Portland - for a day and a half, the girls and I reveled in putting Christmas lights and balls and chocolate into jars. When Dutch came home from work I was sitting at the dining table separating candy kisses into color-coordinated piles. "Do you realize you live with three children?" he asked, counting himself as the third. "Most ordinary people cannot live with this kind of temptation." I shrugged and said it was one more reason to be grateful we were leaving home for a few weeks; exempting ourselves from the struggle. It hasn't been so long since we've been gone, and we're having a marvelous time, but I must say one does begin to miss home, sun and all.

holly leaves

We are still looking for the french hens, and the turtle doves, but we found the holly leaves. Lots of them.

this old house

Right now heaven is spelled: this old house. It doesn't matter that we're only renting it for two weeks because I plan to treat the house like it is my own best Christmas present. Dutch gets all the credit for finding it - it's not only a short commute for him, it's crammed, floor to ceiling, with old books and artwork. Everything – and I do mean, everything – about it creaks: banisters and stairs, doorknobs and floors, the piano bench and dining chairs, and all three of the four mattresses I’ve tried. Even the gas burner squeaks hell-oo when you turn the little black knob. It’s like a small enchantment, having a conversation with one's place of residence. Unlike most human beings, the house picks up on even the subtlest cues – a tip-toe, a nocturnal change in position, a shift in weight from right foot to left. No matter how small the gesture, it always talks back. And sometimes – in the middle of the night, when it is shiftless, unable to sleep – the house talks to itself, creaking and sighing, and all that is required is that I lay where I am lying, and listen.

Winter

This is not an ad for Land's End; but it could be. These are not my children; but I wish they were. In fact, they belong to my old college friend, Al, whose blog will make you want to run outside and make a snowman, whether or not you have children, or a yard full of snow. If I were in the business of exploiting people for money, hers would be the first door I would knock on. As it is, I will remain content to admire her from a distance, and seize every opportunity to enjoy the season - such as, for starters, catching the next plane to Portland to enjoy two weeks of rain and cold!

MFEO

I never imagined I would wind up with someone whose qualities stand out in such stark contrast to my own ... but God did (Isaiah 55.8). So we did. Eight years ago today.

for the girl who grew up by the name of karen brennan

When I think back upon my childhood it is difficult to say, “Here, precisely, was the moment my mother taught me grave lessons about patience, or discipline, or self-sacrifice.” What I have are vague memories of small kindnesses, dropping a bag of groceries onto the doorstep of a hungry family’s home; bringing a meal to someone who was ill – curried chicken and broccoli! meat loaf and mashed potatoes!; bothering – for it is often such a bother! – to care about ordinary people, and I mean really care, enough to ask the grim grocery clerk how her day was; or to visit with the mail man; to help the little boy in the park tie his shoe.

Likewise there weren’t many ‘brass band moments.’ We never lunched at Claridge’s; never visited the Louvre; never strolled through the Borghese Gardens or the Tuileries, never rode in a glistening elevator to the top of the Empire State Building and looked out over the stultifying city, beautiful beneath a halo of stars.

But I do remember small moments… playing with my porcelain tea set in the stenciled nook; riding my blue and white Superwoman bike with the banana seat and the streamers coming out the handlebars… I remember piano lessons and ballet lessons and walking three blocks to the park in my plaid flannel skirt and white eye-lit blouse, you swinging me on the swingset and braiding my hair.

I remember the Humboldt State Park, with its dizzyingly high slide carved into that enormous tree trunk; and the animal-shaped French fries we used to eat from the concession stand in the Zoo next door. It was you who introduced me to “Mary Poppins” and “The Sound of Music,” to “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory,” films full of so much joy and imagination, which I still relish and relish introducing to my children.

We planted strawberries in the back yard; and watered and picked the sweet peas that grew in tangles up the garden trellis. I remember standing in my blue-collared shirt and purple jellies, holding a bouquet against the shed door – the one with the heart cut through it.

I remember spending hours setting up army man kingdoms in the bark between the two trees where the striped hammock swung. We were happy there; and safe, riding our bikes to the 5th and L market to buy Nerds and Laffy Taffy and Lemonheads with pocket money we earned for doing household chores…

One thing is certain, you always took me seriously. To you, my small problems, being about the size that I was, were just as big as any big man’s problems. My hardships – whether I came home crying because I’d received a red chip at school; or had fractured my femur — always invoked your tenacity – that fighting Irish spirit, always fighting to endure.

Summers you took us to upstate New York, to “the Brennan mansion,” and the pond where you used to lifeguard as a girl. We learned to swim where you had learned to swim; and we bought colored popsicles from the ice cream man that dripped and stained our bathing suits.

Christmases were always memorable. The tree blinking rainbow colors between the two French plate windows. Striped stockings always jammed full of treasures, an orange and a candy cane prized alongside whatever small trinkets you had wrapped in tissue paper … Breakfasts of eggs and jam on toast, hot chocolate, orange juice. A fire in the hearth.

No, these were not great or glamorous moments. But they loom larger now in my memory, more immense and worthy of celebration, than any of the ‘grander’ moments I have lived to see. And I know that none of them would have taken place if you had been absent… No, the same thread runs through them all: you loved us; and your love expressed itself in thousands of infinitely small ways that, taken together, became very, very big.

I love you, Mother. Happy Day.

the remains of the day

He is Risen Indeed!

An homage to the Irish

We spent all morning coloring pictures for a certain Mrs. Mary Elizabeth Dunn Brennan of 2 Robyn Drive, New York: my grandmother, of whom we are most proud.

If only we lived around the corner we would have dropped by to give you this plant, the oxalis regnellii, or, Everblooming Shamrock.

We love you Nana B.!

Just a Spoonful of Sugar

A Valentine's Day filled with delight... started out with browsing for half-price books at the library sale. Hooray! And went on (extravagently) to include tickets to Mary Poppins. I suppose - compliment of compliments - I must bear a slight resemblance to Ms. Poppins because every time she went offstage Audrey put her lips to my ear and whispered hoarsely, "Oh! Where'd you go, Mom? Where'd you go?"

Happy Halloween!

...We had the Minnie Mouse costume all laid out... Pink and white polka-dot (or pocket doughnut, as Aud would say) dress... puffed sleeves... eye-lit bloomers... and, in the remote possibility that it actually got chilly, striped stockings to go underneath... but when it came time to change Aud would have none of it... "I not like it, Mom! It's too scratchy!" ...so it was Nanny's brilliant idea to just leave the stockings on, add a few freckles, and call her "Pippy Longstocking."

I, on the other hand, was in "costume limbo"... intending to dress as a gypsy fortune teller... but looking more like a hippy wearing too much make-up... Dutch didn't mind.

Trick-or-treating at La Encantada was the best... when was the last time you walked into Tiffany's and the man behind the counter offered you a sucker?