faith, life together

A Friend to Sorrow

It is hard to be a friend to Sorrow. She slips in at the least convenient times, always uninvited. You may sit down at the family table, close your eyes to say grace, and feel her cold, strong hand take hold of yours. Or she may slip into your quiet bed, wrapping you in her gown of her grey, rain-soft silk.

At other times she rages: shattering every mirror in the house, overturning the Christmas tree, shaking us by our shoulders until our teeth ache.

We grant her rights at funerals, and grudgingly admit her to hospital rooms. In the autumn, and in certain hours of the evening, we notice that she walks with a kind of grace.  But come sunrise and summer, out she goes, banished through the backdoor.

It is hard to be a friend to Sorrow. She speaks a language we have labored to forget, and her veil makes us nervous, like one who is foreign or deformed. Many, hearing her approach, run away, abandoning home for the sake of escape. Even the best of us grow shy in her presence, baffled by our own helplessness.

It is hard to be a friend to Sorrow, but when she comes, do not drive her out. Offer her a chair and set the tea in front of her. Ask her why she’s come, or if you cannot speak for fear or shame, then simply sit, and let her rest with you. If you let her roam the rooms of your house, you may be surprised to catch her singing a song your mother used to hum.

She attends every birth, dances at every wedding, and has the key to every home. If you open when she knocks, she will not need to batter down the door. So sit with her, and listen, and one day, when you have grown brave again, ask her to remove her veil.

It is hard to be a friend to Sorrow, but we dare not drive her out: for her other name is Love.

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poetry, prayer

And Yet We Wait: An Advent Prayer

Last week, Lord, we gathered and gave thanks,
tasting your goodness,
wondering at the laden table,
holding tight to hands we love.

Today, we rise to empty rooms,
scatter back to distant homes,
savor simpler, sparser meals.

So much seems lost,
so much postponed,
so much beyond recall.

And yet we wait,
not failing nor forgetting,
not rushing nor delaying,
but welcoming the change we cannot see.

For daily bread, O God,
for the kingdom here and coming:
for you, our bread, our king,
we wait.

Amen.

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baking, everyday parables, prayer

Prayers Like Pie Crust

“Promises, like pie crusts, are made to be broken.” So goes the old saying, and it’s hard to dispute the analogy when you spend much of a November morning rolling out rich, thin dough for Thanksgiving pies. You think you’ve shaped the pastry to the perfect circumference, only to see a hole forming where the dough has been stretched too thin. Or the dough sticks when you attempt to transfer it from the counter to the dish. Or you set it in the oven to bake and watch the crust slide down the sides of the plate, muddling into a buttery lump in the bottom of the dish.

However many ways there are to break a pie crust, I think I discovered them all this week. However, as I mixed the dough, rummaged through the cabinets for a rolling pin, rolled and re-rolled, pressed into a pan, it was not promises, but prayers that I was imagining.

Prayer was much on my mind as I prepared for Thanksgiving this year. While I mixed extravagant quantities of butter and flour, my parents and my fiancé were traveling hundreds of miles from the north and the west. This would be their first meeting, and while the particular concerns of each person around the table is family business, the fundamental truths would be true for nearly any table in the world: we were gathering in gratitude, but also in brokenness, our hearts stretched thin by disappointments, fears, and cares.

As I watched and waited for my guests–my family–to arrive, my prayers seemed as fragile as my pie crusts: they were messy, oddly-shaped and stretched much to thin. I would begin one, then doubt its strength, scratch the whole thing and try again. It seemed impossible that my requests for guidance, or peace, or love, could cover all of us. I worried that they would not bear the heat of our need.

In the end, however, I found hope in my little kitchen parable. So my crusts were frail and broken: what else could they be, coming from human hands? Of course, I could have gone to the store and purchased pre-made crusts, buying peace of mind instead of working for it. My prayers were uncertain, too timid, and seemed much to small, but as I prayed them, they reshaped my own heart, pulling into something more strong and vast than I have ever known it to be.

Feeling this strength, I did not give up on my prayers, just as I did not give up on my pie crusts. I took a deep breath and put them to work, filling them with rich pears and spicy ginger, homegrown pecans and hearty sweet potatoes. When we brought the pies to the table, everyone could see and smell that they had done their work. Everyone, whether joyful or fretful, took a bite and pronounced them good.

Prayers, like pie crusts, are made to be broken, not because they are weak, but because it is only in the breaking that they feed us. Like human hearts, like Christ’s body, when our prayers break, they begin to transform us. Break, taste, and see.

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Watching for these everyday parables has become one of my most challenging and rewarding spiritual disciplines, and I find that I notice far more about the life of the spirit when I am working with my hands. If you’re interested in exploring how prayers are like pie crusts–or if you simply want a delicious, easy pie crust–here’s the recipe I love to use.

Bethany’s Simple Pie Crust

(adapted from Elise Bauer’s No-Fail Sour Cream Pie Crust)

2 cups all-purpose flour

2 sticks unsalted butter, cubed

1 teaspoon salt

2 teaspoons sugar (omit for savory recipes)

1/2 cup Greek yogurt

Cube the butter and set aside. Whisk together the flour, salt, and sugar (if using). Add the butter and use your hands to incorporate the butter and flour mixture. Continue mixing until you have a crumbly dough with only a few chunks of better visible. Using a fork (or your hands) to mix in the yogurt. Mix until the dough is consistent in color and texture.

Form dough into a ball and cut in half with a knife. Flatten each half into a disc and wrap tightly in plastic wrap. Chill in the refrigerator for at least thirty minutes.

Before rolling out, sprinkle your work surface with flour. Each disc will roll out to 12-14 inches, enough for a single 9-inch pie plate.

Use the crust according to your own purposes: if you do not pre-bake the crust before filling, you may wish to place it in the freezer for 30 minutes, so that it sets before you fill it. Unless your recipe says otherwise, the crust will bake to done in about 20 minutes in a 350° oven.

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