I have to admit that I have been for a few months, well, less than inspired in my cooking.  We get in a rut easily and cook the few things that come quickly to mind.

Then I will read something or hear something that sparks my imagination….even for, wait for it…..yes…..cooking.

I begin to think of making a meal as something more than just feeding the family. Something that could nourish more than just bodies.

That sounds a little pompous when I actually write about it. Still, when I read just about anything from www.smittenkitchen.com I get inspired.

Her pictures make me want to cook! That added to hearing Andi Ashworth again at our women’s retreat, and reading her article Learning to Cook, and Why it Matters  that desire to cook increased.  (By the way, if you are looking for that small-rainish refreshment, grab a cup of coffee and spend some time slowly reading the articles at arthouseamerica.com.  Wonderful nourishment there).

So, I started trying some new things, or some different takes on old favorites. And….I started taking pictures of the food. How silly is that?!

Pictures of bell peppers that became part of a pretty good black bean soup. Oh and…

Carnitas! The black bean soup  is in the mug. The Carnitas were fall-apart tender after cooking for 2 hours in orange juice and lime juice. Topped with just a slice of avodaco, a bit of pickled red onion and some lime juice…oh my!
Last night I tried another black bean soup for Biblestudy…

This one had pumpkin in it. I never would have attempted that without the encouragement of the Smitten Kitchen. It turned out warm and wonderful on a rainy Fall evening.

We finished it off with a pear custard pie. This one came from Shutterbean.com and reading what she did while the pie was cooking is worth clicking over.  Although the pie was not my favorite (it falls apart a bit without a crust), I finished it off on the drive home, nibbling little pieces of custard and pear…

So, I’m looking at cooking a little differently. We still had pizza once this week, and I’m not sure what we’ll have tonight. Maybe cereal.

We’ll have that cereal at the table, all sitting and talking and listening. Because the cooking is just part of the equation….the eating is art as well. Edith Schaeffer inspired Andi Ashworth, as you’ll see in the next paragraph. Andi inspires me….

One of the most life-giving authors I discovered in those early days was Edith Schaeffer. Fireworks went off in my brain when I read her books. Edith saw family life and caring for other people as an artwork. The details of caring for human life were the playground of creativity and the place where our choices were significant in communicating love. Her language captured my imagination and I began to long for good stories in our household, and to value the work that might bring them about. 

My boys are little, but the stories already begin to flow. And when we are able to be with my family in New Mexico the stories flow even more because my mother already placed a foundation of meals and stories. I’m just continuing the story…

I have the absolute delight these days of watching the daily vibrancy of a 5 month old. She has gone from being able to just look about to being able to reach out and touch…to being able to grab and hold….to being able to communicate….to now being able to lift herself up and just about motor about on her knees.

Literally every day brings some new growth, some new discovery, some new strength.

I find myself wanting to capture every moment. To capture in a picture or a video…to hold that moment and not release it. Sometimes, honestly, it is difficult to just enjoy the moment as I scramble to grab the camera. I’ve had to be intentional about just enjoying the moment.

Treasuring these moments in my heart. Sounds familiar, huh?  How good of a thing is it that Mary didn’t have a camera? That she didn’t tell Jesus to freeze every moment for pictures or to capture the moments on video. Instead she simply treasured these things in her heart.

They are safe there….or are they?

Madeleine Jane. My girl is named after two rather amazing women…well, kinda. Her first name is really just a hat-tip to Madeleine L’Engle. We loved the name, and I loved how L’Engle spelled her name. L’Engle and her writings have had a great impact on my faith. She is a wonderful example of a strong and vibrant woman. A woman who thought deeply and treasured things in her heart, and who communicated them wonderfully.

Jane. That is for my mother, although technically my mother is Janie…her grandmother was Jane. So, Jane.

She has lived an amazing life, and I got to as a result of being by her daughter. She had an incredibly bright and quick mind, a wonderful singing voice and a sharp wit. She could intimidate the best competitor and be incredibly tender and generous to those in need. She was in many ways larger than life.

And she is fading.

As quickly as Madeleine learns a new talent, Mother forgets a piece of who she is. She forgets who her husband is, or the events of her remarkable life. She forgets her children, or remembers that she has children but does not know we are they. She forgets the day, the week, the place.

Yet, she is still present with us. And sometimes, we get the bittersweet gift of her being present mentally with us.

She delights in Madeleine, sometimes just as any baby that she would encounter, and sometimes…..sometimes she knows that this little image bearer is her namesake. And then she will hold her a little differently, speak to her a little more tenderly and tell her that she will pay attention to what becomes of this little one named for her.

And I want to grab the camera or the video and capture that moment. Because that moment is precious, and I am keenly aware that it will slip away before I am ready to let it go. I want to be able to feel it again, to hold it longer.

I want Madeleine to know this woman she is named for.

5am.

Sweat.

Workouts.

Not my favorite things. However, in the attempt to regain some strength and health after our bit of a scare after Maddie’s birth, I was at the gym at 5. I was on the treadmill and watching the dozen or so people in this venture with me. There were a few women my age, all on treadmills or ellipticals, a few college age boys working out with the weights.

And one older, white-haired man. He had that kind of glare when he looked at you…the kind where you are not sure he is actually glaring at you or just staring through you and thinking about something else. I kept glancing at him and at first was a little annoyed by his glare.

That was my 5am instinctual response. Annoyance.

Then I looked over and noticed that he had stopped working the machine he was on. He was just sitting there with his hands folded in front of him. He didn’t look to be in distress, but he was obviously lost in thought. I watched him as I walked and noticed that he sat likes this for one minute…another minute…another.

Then he wiped away a tear.

Then he shifted himself and began to work the machine again. And to glare.  Or maybe just stare through everyone.

I said a prayer for him as I walked. I wanted to walk by and place my hand on his shoulder, but I was afraid I would embarrass him or overstep the acceptable boundaries for the gym at 5am.

When I left I was bothered by my instinctual response of annoyance.

I have claimed to follow Christ for 20 years now. I was deeply sad that my instinctual response hadn’t changed all that much.

I left with a prayer for him, and a prayer for myself that I would be more motivated by the Spirit…more quick to think with compassion than annoyance. More quick to pray and to desire to help than to brush off.

Praying that my instinct would be over-ridden…..changed….transformed….to be like Christ.

I’ve been thinking for a bit about having a blog, and inevitably I come back to the question of why?  Why on earth do I need a blog? Who would I think would read, and what would I write about?

Well….I have no idea who will read. I have an inkling what I will write about, and that is mainly why I want to have a blog. Life is going by a little too quickly for me at the moment, and this is my way of slowing things down.

I want to have a space where I can think, where I can wave my hand at some friends and shout across the country about what is happening in this corner of reality.

So, off we go.

Actually, off I go.  I’m not telling anyone about this little venue for thoughts until I have a few thoughts. This is just my kick-off post. To actually commit to doing this for a bit.

Oh, and the title….I hate coming up with titles. So I stole this one.

It’s from Madeliene L’Engle’s first novel, The Small Rain. One of my favorite novels, made all the more favorite because, well, she signed my copy of her first edition.

The title comes from an anonymous poem from the 16th Century:

O western wind, when wilt thou blow
That the small rain down can rain?
Christ, that my love were in my arms
        And I in my bed again!

Sometimes, I think we need the small rain. Not the flooding, overwhelming downpour, but just the small rain that comes and refreshes. That is part of what this blog is about…a chance to refresh and think.

So, The Small Rain. Off we go.