The Southern Man's Cookbook

They say you should write the book you want to read.

Right now, I have a hankerin' to flip through the pages of a book titled "The Southern Man's Cookbook." Unfortunately, I can't cook so I can't write the book.

I am blessed to have a wife who is a very good cook. Very good. Here is just one of a thousand examples - she pays a lot of attention to what foods people like. So if someone is at our house and comments that they like a particular dish, they are likely to see a different but related dish next time they visit. See, that to me is the mark of someone who really likes to cook and really likes people to enjoy what they are eating.

Here is another example - she regularly tries out brand new dishes on company. See, if it was me, and we had company, I would make something I had made many times before and knew was really good.

OK, I'm on a roll - here's another example. Sometimes when she is doing some meal planning or looking over some recipes, she will ask me a question that starts something like this... "Does this sound good to you? 2 1/2 cups of flour, 1 cup of sugar, 2 eggs, teaspoon vanilla..." I'm thinking, is this a dessert?

So, I have not learned to cook. Sure, I have a few standby dishes for the occasional weekend she's out of town. My repertoire runs heavy to breakfast foods but also includes Mexican Lasagna (a dish everyone who has ever tried it loves and is very easy to make), a few things like subs and tacos where the kids enjoy building what they eat, and of course grilling out. OK, I admit it - I need this woman!

When I was a college boy, I decided it would be quite witty to claim the last part of I Sam. 15:7 as my "wife verse." The Lord told Samuel that "man looks on the outward appearance, but God looks on the heart." So I began praying over this verse, saying "Lord, I want a wife that looks good to You and me both!"

My prayers were answered. My wife is outwardly beautiful (more now than ever before, if that is possible). And she has a heart that is pleasing to God. She is beautiful inside and out. Plus, she is a good cook.

(Soon after we were married I told her the only way she could have been any better for me was if she had been rich. Needless to say, she didn't think that was funny.)

The book that I want to read now is titled "The Southern Man's Cookbook." It would be funny, and have a lot of shortcuts about how to get good results with less effort, with a chapter on grilling and a chapter educating on various cuts of meat, a chapter on how to cook foods the kids will eat, and a whole section on breakfast and an entire chapter devoted to tools and gadgets of the kitchen.

Unfortunately my wife is a great cook and a great wife and a great beauty. It is all her fault I do not have the knowledge or experience to write the book I want to read.

Why Are You Weeping?

11 Mary stood outside the tomb weeping. As she wept, she knelt to look into the tomb and saw two angels sitting there, dressed in white, one at the head, the other at the foot of where Jesus' body had been laid. They said to her, "Woman, why are you weeping?"
13-14"They took my Master," she said, "and I don't know where they put him." After she said this, she turned away and saw Jesus standing there. But she didn't recognize him.
15Jesus spoke to her, "Woman, why are you weeping? Who are you looking for?"
She, thinking that he was the gardener, said, "Mister, if you took him, tell me where you put him so I can care for him."
16Jesus said, "Mary."
Turning to face him, she said in Hebrew, "Rabboni!" meaning "Teacher!"
17Jesus said, "Don't cling to me, for I have not yet ascended to the Father. Go to my brothers and tell them, 'I ascend to my Father and your Father, my God and your God.'"
18Mary Magdalene went, telling the news to the disciples: "I saw the Master!" And she told them everything he said to her.

Love Has a Voice

Several weeks ago my friend Tami made a comment that has really stayed with me. "Love has a voice," she told me. Isn't that beautiful?

I've been thinking about that ever since then. What does the voice of love sound like? Lyrical, like reading poetry? Strong, like working construction? Compassionate, like caring for the needy? Firm, like lifting up those cast down?

The voice of love sounds like all these and more. The voice of love is like rushing water, not a single note but a multitude of sounds together. Lyrical and strong, compassionate and firm, practical and dreaming. The voice of love is a symphony.

The voice of love is like a heartbeat, always there, underlying everything, but you may not hear it unless you listen for it. The force that gives life and reason to it all. If I give, if I work, if I achieve, if I sacrifice - unless the voice of love is speaking in and through all these, they are worthless. I haven't said a thing.

But if the voice of love is speaking, even the smallest and seemingly most insignificant act is infused with meaning. An act of kindness, a word of encouragement, a cup of water - these become the very heart and life of God expressed in a needy world. The purpose of the Eternal is being fulfilled.

I am learning to listen for the voice of love. I am learning to hear love speaking in and through the everyday comments and actions of those around me. And I am learning to let love speak through me. Her voice is a symphony, the greatest treasure of all.

Evening Musing

I'm on the back patio. It is dark and peaceful, with a chill in the air. The beginnings of spring are on the gentle breeze, with the stars and moon shining a light that is crisp and full of promise.

Most all my personal quiet time alone is in the early morning, but tonight is a musing by twilight.

I have been surprised tonight by grief. It has come to me like a neglected friend, demanding some attention at last. Reminding me of times we have shared in the past and loved ones lost. My mother lives in heaven now, and has for 3 years and 73 days. During that time grief has visited me, but I have pushed him away and never let him stay. I would reminisce for a moment or two, occasionally agreeing that I was, indeed, sad in some way that I could no longer speak to her simply by hitting my speed dial, but I was unwilling to express the things my heart wanted and needed to say that were far more painful and profound than words can express.

Tonight, unexpectedly, my heart decided to give voice to some of those emotions I have so long denied. Don't know why, tonight seems no different than most other nights, except that it's Friday so I don't have to go to work in the morning (except that I really do, instead of my desk I will be doing taxes yet again, and again without pay for another really deserving family...)

I cannot say that I wept, to me that indicates a lot of tears. I did have some tears tonight, and not the first that I have shed for her. But tonight was the first time I told her I was sorry. I said I was sorry that I could not take care of her like I wanted to, and that I could not fix it, and that I could not be there like I wanted to, and that someone besides me had to take care of her, and a paid caregiver had to give her a bath instead of her own family, and finally at the end to feed her and do all the things that she could not do for herself. Not so much a weeping as a wailing. My ears were surprised at the raw emotion they heard, sensing the rend in my heart as I cried out I am sorry Momma, I am so sorry. Suddenly I felt like a little boy again, I have not felt tears on my cheeks in a very long time. I remember my momma would wipe my tears and kiss them away. I felt her gentle touch as the spring breeze kissed my wet cheeks, my heart heard her telling me, as she always did, that everything would be ok.

I am sorry, Momma, that I could not care for you as I wished. I am sorry that someone besides me and my family brushed your red hair. You know the commitments I had at the time. You know I did my best. I hear you saying you know, that it is all ok. I wish I could talk to you now, but I need to go inside. My own children look to me as I once looked to you, wanting to know they are loved and that everything will be ok.

"Blessed are they that mourn," Jesus said, "for they shall be comforted." My Savior is a man acquainted with grief. I do not know the way forward but he does. Perhaps that was a part of his pain on the cross, seeing his mother and having to ask another to care for her. Knowing He could not wrap his arms around her, arms that were nailed to His task much firmer than my own have ever been. Perhaps He took this pain, too, on that cross. This Man of Sorrows, He is my Shepherd. Let me take this comfort I have received tonight and share it with those in need.