Ugly Corn

I have a very close friend who used to be afraid of ugly corn. I once chased her with an ugly ear of corn which in hindsight I suppose makes me a bad friend. If your friend tells you he/she is afraid of something strange like ugly corn, do not taunt him/her. It's just not nice.

I received an ear of corn as a gift for driving someone home the other night. It was well past midnight when I dropped him off at his house and he ran into his garden and pulled off an ear of corn as an appreciative gift. I finally got around to cooking it tonight.

Apparently I don't know how to cook corn because it's now the second time I'm boiling it. I really miss BBQ'd corn on the cob.

When I peeled away the husk and silks, I realized...this is an ugly ear of corn. If my friend didn't read my blog, I would post a picture of it. But for her sake (and everyone else who is afraid of ugly corn), I will refrain.

Ugly corn isn't really what it sounds like. It's not like bent over crooked and discolored. But the kernels aren't straight. They aren't in perfect rows. They are...janky (in contemporary terms). There is no pattern, there is no consistency. They are yellow, bulbous, unaligned, randomly placed kernels on a cob. That is ugly corn. This one is particularly ugly because there are weird spots missing kernels.

But ugly corn is still corn. Ugly corn still does its job...which is to grow up and make fat kernels and be consumed. It's not like the ugly corn chose to grow its kernels in crooked rows and lose a few along the way. And it's not like the guy who grew the corn decided only to grow ugly corns this year. He tilled the soil, planted the kernels, weeded the soil, watered the kernels. He waited patiently for them all to grow. Then when the time was right, he plucked those ears of corn. I am a blessed recipient of his hard work and harvest.

(I'm eating my ugly ear of corn as I write this blog...and it's finally cooked and delicious!)

Life can sometimes feel like ugly corn. I feel like ugly corn some days. I got friends with all their kernels in a row--they got a job and a house and a car and a relationship and a church and they're good looking and fashionable and everyone likes them and everything is going great. When I look at them, I feel pretty ugly. My kernels aren't lined up and I got holes where kernels should be.

But regardless of how I look to myself or to others, I am still His creation. I have been given a purpose by God. Because He chose me. He knew me before I ever came to being. He knew I would feel like an ugly ear of corn and that others would tell me I'm an ugly ear of corn and my life isn't where it should be. But I am His. He carefully placed people in my life to till the soil of my heart and plant a seed. He let circumstances pull out the weeds. He surrounded me with people who showered encouragement on me. I am His creation. I am not here by accident. And my life, ugly or not, will not be wasted.

If you read this blog, whoever you are and wherever you are, if you feel like ugly corn, remember you're still corn...and Someone loves you just the way you are.

"For you formed my inward parts; you knitted me together in my mother's womb. I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well. My frame was not hidden from you, when I was being made in secret, intricately woven in the depths of the earth. Your eyes saw my unformed substance; in your book were written, every one of them, the days that were formed for me, when as yet there were none of them. How precious to me are your thoughts, OGod! How vast is the sum of them! If I would count them, they are more than the sand. I awake, and I am still with you."

Psalm 139:13-18

Scars

We all have them. Some of us more than others. Some are unnoticeable. Some are eyesores. Some are cool designs and we've tried to replicate them so we're symmetrical (what?! who's done that?!). Some we forget about until someone points them out, but usually we remember. We remember what happened, where it happened, who pushed you down the stairs, and why you were fighting next to the stairs in the first place.

I have a ton of scars--mostly because I'm semi-accident prone and played too many sports. But I remember what my scars are from. Left elbow--Chibi-K race when I was maybe 5 years old and I tripped out of the starting line and all the kids behind me ran over me (there's a video to prove it). Right pinky knuckle--bike ride with Mom before school and I hit a garden hose and ate it in a housing development driveway. Strange webbing between left thumb and left pointer finger--palm fraun (frawn?) accident in 4th grade (don't ask).

I recently had an accident...in my shower. And by recently, I mean it's been 3.5 weeks. I managed to gouge out a chunk of my left pinky knuckle one Wednesday night while showering. It bled...a lot. It was deep. It hurt. I taped more wads of tissue paper to the back of my left hand than I have in the year that I've lived here. It bled for a couple days. I lathered it in Neosporin and slapped a Bandaid on before I went to work every morning. My Bible study prayed over my wound. Finally after a week, a scab formed.

I'm a scab picker. I don't know why, but I do. I know most people think it's gross, and it is, and it probably is the reason why I have so many scars to begin with. But I knew this wound was deep. In fact, for 10 days, every time I took the bandage off to take a shower it would bleed, like it knew that's where it had been ripped apart. I decided to be patient and let it heal. I was careful not to snag it on shirts and jackets. I always put a bandage on it before I put my work gloves on to help Pegleg with the gardening. But it still hurt and was still tender, and I noticed it all the time.

The scab finally fell off though. I looked at the scab this morning at church wondering when it would fall off. I pushed on the top of the scab and the wound was still tender. I let it be. While I was sitting on my couch reading my Kindle after a long Sunday, I looked down and noticed the scab was gone. I didn't notice it fell off, but my wound is finally healed.

I have wounds on my heart. We all do. Some have taken longer to heal than others. Some are still quite fresh, painful, and fleshy. Some are scabbing over, and we're doing everything we possibly can to keep the scab from being ripped off. Some are infected, and bitterness and anger and despair have surfaced. Some are scars--reminding us the wound happened and sometimes it still hurts but usually reminds us to not be so careless next time.

I think wounds on the heart, like the one on my hand from my freak shower accident, take time to heal. Heart wounds take time and patience. They take prayer. They take bandaids in the forms of hugs from your closest friends and shoulders to cry on so hard that sometimes you get your snot all over their shoulder and new jacket. They take begging Jesus to take away the infection and to erase the memories of the wound and the pain and everything associated with it. They often take many nights of tear-soaked pillows wondering when or if it'll ever stop hurting.

But wounds heal. They do. Not because I forced my left hand to form a scab and send little white blood cells and other biological things to mend the flesh. I never told my hand to stop bleeding after 3 days. It healed on its own because that's what wounds do.

I have heart wounds that are still healing. And this week, I know that one wound in particular is pretty sensitive. I am reminded this week that wound happened and it still hurts, but healing will come. I know healing is coming and it's happening, but the wound still hurts years later. I am aware there will be lots of tears this week and nights curled up in a ball begging Jesus to make it all go away. I know my heart is healing and I'm in a much better place now than I was when I first allowed Jesus to begin healing my heart. 1 Peter 2:24 says, "By His wounds you have been healed." Present perfect progressive tense (have been healed) describes an action (healing) that began in the past, continues in the present, and may continue into the future. I know healing will come because healing started and continues today and will continue tomorrow. And this heart wound will one day be a scar, and I will remember how my Healer healed my heart.

"Scars also remind us that healing is possible, healing happened, and healing is freely given."--a sister's comment on my Facebook status

Stained & Secured

It's harvest season again and I've been getting loads of veggies from Pegleg--particularly tomatoes. I decided I would make some pasta sauce and freeze it for later because Ragu doesn't exist.

I know putting spaghetti sauce stains Tupperware. I did it plenty times before. So I decided I would freeze my pasta sauce in an ice cube tray. I would have little bricks of pasta sauce and I could defrost just as much as I needed.

Monday is my Sabbath. This was my Sabbath project--skinning & boiling tomatoes down to a sauce. I pulled out my ice cube tray from the cabinet and started pouring red tomato sauce into the little molds. I put the tray in the freeze and went to bed.

I couldn't sleep. HOW STUPID AM I?! I just put RED tomato sauce into my ice cube tray! I was going to have a reddish/pink stained ice cube tray in the morning! I rolled around trying to think of some remedy for my disastrous idea(stupid thing to lose sleep over, isn't it?) . I got none.

A reddish/pink stained ice cube tray is still an ice cube tray. It will still do what it was created to do--make ice cubes--white plastic or reddish/pink stained plastic. The tomato sauce stains on the ice cube tray don't define the ice cube tray.

I often look at myself as a tomato sauce stained ice cube tray. Words said to me, visions ingrained in me, sins done against me--all sitting inside leaving their red stains in and on my life. There's bitterness, anger, shame, guilt, and whole array of stains and residue in my life because of what I let in. But my stains don't define me. I am a child of God. I am a fellow heir with Christ.

And I fell asleep to that. My identity secured in Christ--not my past, present, or future. Tuesday when I got home from work, I popped the frozen bricks of pasta sauce out of the tray into a plastic bag. When I looked at the tray, there were no stains at all.

"But you were washed, you were sanctified, you were justified in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and by the Spirit of our God." 1 Corinthians 6:11

Bittersweet

After a long week, I stay up late Friday nights to chat on Skype with two of my best friends. In college, we'd walk to class together, eat lunch together, take classes together, study together, sit next to each other in the library and not study together, go to football games together, go on road trips together, travel across the country together, and of course stay up late talking together. But now, we're separated by crazy time zones and, well, life. So every Friday morning they wake up and I stay up late and we Skype. It's not every day, but it's every week, and it's consistent and steady. Even though by Friday night I'm ready to pass out as soon as I walk in the door, I look forward to my late night Skype dates and the laughter and smiles and goofy faces.

As I waited for my friend to come on Skype, I sat on the couch and busted out my Kindle. I'm reading an amazing book right now called, "Bittersweet: Thoughts on Change, Grace, and Learning the Hard Way" by Shauna Niequist (She wrote another book called "Cold Tangerines" which I highly recommend.). The chapter I read tonight was about the author's three-day getaway with her four college girlfriends in a two-bedroom house.

"[B]ecause there are things you can't know, and questions you can't ask, and memories you can't recover via email and voicemail. It was about the being there, about being there to really see what's exactly the same and what's totally different about each one of us." (pg63)

"If you're lucky enough to have your Monica and your Sara and your Kirsten all right in your very own town, I hope you soak it up, and that you lie around in each other's backyards every Saturday afternoon or stay up late on one another's porches three nights a week. But if you're like me, and if those faces are far away, get a weekend on the calendar and get there.

Share your life with the people you love, even if it means saving up for a ticket and going without a few things for a while to make it work. There are enough long lonely days of the same old thing, and if you let enough years pass, and if you let the routine steamroll your life, you'll wake up one day, isolated and weary, and wonder what happened to all those old friends. You'll wonder why all you share is Christmas cards, and why life feels lonely and bone-dry....

So walk across the street, or drive across town, or fly across the country, but don't let really loving friendships become the last item on a long to-do list. Good friendships are like breakfast. You think you're too busy to eat breakfast, but then you find yourself exhausted and cranky halfway through the day, and discover that your attempt to save time totally backfired. In the same way, you can try to go it alone because you don't have time or because your house is too messy to have people over, or because making new friends is like the very worst parts of dating. But halfway through a hard day or a hard week, you'll realize in a flash that you're breathtakingly lonely, and that the Christmas cards aren't much company. Get up, make a phone call, buy a cheap ticket, open your front door.

Because there really is nothing like good friends, like the sounds of their laughter and the tones of their voices and the things they teach us in the quietest, smallest moments." (pg65-66)

I miss my old friends, the ones I left to come here. I miss the constant companionship and ease of friendship. But now, it's an hour, sometimes an hour and a half, once a week. I wish I could buy a cheap ticket and visit every time I felt lonely out here or they needed someone to sit with in the silence. I wish I could. But I can't. But in the late night hours on Friday night, there really is nothing like the sound of their laughter and the tones of their voices. There really is nothing like good friends.

Salt & Pepper

Since I came back to Japan 3 weeks ago, I started cooking. It's Thursday night and I can honestly say I've cooked 4 dinners this week. And I made bread on Sunday to eat for breakfast. Like legit wait-3-hours-to-let-yeast-rise bread. And no, I did not cook ramen. I went and BOUGHT FOOD. Real food. Like chicken and pork chops and fruits and tomatoes.

But I'm lazy. I lucked out that this week is miserably hot/humid (due to the typhoon hitting this weekend...or so I've been told) and it's test week so we have no basketball practice. I come home, go running, and then decide what to do for dinner. It's so hot that ramen isn't appealing...at all.

But I'm lazy. And I have limited spices. I checked. Every time I go to town where I can buy spices I forget which ones I needed for my recipe. But I have the basics: salt, pepper, garlic powder, garlic salt, mesquite seasoning, and cumin.

This week has been SALT & PEPPER. Simple & basic. Olive oil the chicken, salt & pepper both sides, throw it in the toaster oven for 10 minutes, and VOILA! dinner. Olive oil the pan, salt & pepper the pork chop, throw it in the pan for 10 minutes, and VOILA! dinner. It's simple & basic and that's how I like things.

Lately, I wish life were like my cooking--simple & basic, salt & pepper. But it hasn't been. When I left LA 3 weeks ago, relationships were changing...and I left with no guarantee I'd come back to them the way I left them. I came back home and my friends here were replaced by strangers and routines with my closest companions here changed. I've been waking up and it seems like life is a complicated recipe with 15 different ingredients and lots of stirring and mixing and mashing and chopping and dicing. And it's daunting. It feels like I'll never get it just right--I'll say the wrong thing, not be on Skype at the right time, forget birthdays, lag at replying to Facebook posts. Something will go awry and that's the end of my "recipe". It's complicated, and it's been killing me.

Life got complicated, and I got mad at God. So I ran.

I've been running but only about 15-20 minutes. I ran for 45 minutes Tuesday night after work. I ran until I ran out of lit places to run. I ran because I didn't want to sit at my computer and look at the emails and Facebook posts I never responded to. I didn't want my cell phone or anything. I needed to be alone...which is a strange feeling when you live alone in one of the most isolated parts of a country. I didn't want to come inside, so I sat in the dark on Pegleg's porch (I don't have my own porch otherwise I would've sat there). I sat there in the dark outside...waiting.

Life isn't complicated. Well, it's not supposed to be at least. I make it complicated when I try to get creative, when I try to skip steps and cut corners, when I try to do things my own way, when I don't trust things will turn out alright with only salt & pepper. I make life complicated when I start comparing myself with my old classmates--and feel like I'm not successful or good enough. I make life complicated when I get jealous of my dating and married friends--and wonder how much longer I'll have to wait. I make life complicated when I throw pity parties for myself--and convince myself that the world has forgotten me. I make my own life complicated because I choose not to trust God; I choose to trust myself.

Out on Pegleg's porch, He asked me why I liked to make life complicated for myself. I didn't have an answer. Life could be simple & basic again if I only trusted Him. Every time I start reaching for that jar of jealousy or can of insecurity, I have to give it back to Him--I have to give it back knowing what He has for me is better than what I'm holding onto.

Love & grace.

Salt & pepper.

Simple & basic.

"He's God. I'm me. When I remember that simple arrangement, life goes so much better." - John Acuff