Friendship and Togetherness

Friendship can come in different ways,

In the answer to the late-night phone call,

In the cheers for successes,

In the consolation for losses,

In the sharing of stories,

In the witnessing of life.

Friendship can come in many ways.

A few days ago, it came to me

In the sitting and watching,

In the giggling and joke-making,

In the splash of pool water and in the sinking onto an air mattress at 3 A.M.

Friendship comes in many ways.

One of the other ways it came just a few days ago was in the kitchen . . .

I pulled ingredients off of shelves,

Opened cupboard doors to measuring cups,

Pulled out drawers to reveal teaspoons and tablespoons.

One looked up recipes on her laptop,

The other read recipes off of chocolate chip bags.

I read off of brownie mix boxes.

I cracked eggs,

Added vegetable oil,

Water -

Too much water -

Went to get more mix,

To fix the mistake,

Make two pans of brownies instead of one.

I poured in the chips,

She stirred while I searched,

Laid out bowls

And another began measuring,

Pouring,

Dumping,

Mixing.

More bowls,

More measuring cups,

Someone stirred the batter,

Dumping all instead of mixing slowly,

Causing laughter and joy to overflow.

We changed the recipe,

Added cocoa not called for,

Made the cookies more chocolatey than they were.

Soon, two trays of brownies were in the oven,

Four cookie sheets were covered in unbaked dough.

One helped me squish out the snickerdoodles,

All three of us spooned out the chocolate-dark-chocolate-mint ones.

Still more ingredients were poured,

This time into a saucepan.

Cocoa boiled,

Tiny brown bubbles rising high.

Peanut butter was extracted from the jar.

I got it all over my hands

And on the outside of the measuring cup.

It was dropped into the boiling mixture.

Then came the oatmeal.

They both mixed,

One left to roll out waxed paper,

The other set down hot pads,

Moved the pan,

And they both dropped chocolate-peanut-butter no-bakes onto the counter.

I stood at the sink,

Washing dishes,

A chore I normally despise,

But this time did not mind.

I was surrounded by friendship,

Joy,

Laughter,

Friendship.

The evidence was all around me,

In the two trays of brownies

And the three batches of cookies.

In the helping hands still working

And, yes, in the dishes waiting to be cleaned.

Memories of other late-night escapades came to mind,

The crepes (inspired by an episode of Hogan's Heroes, of course),

The chocolate pudding (which splattered quite a bit, as I recall),

The empty two-liter of Diet Dr. Pepper (which kept us up until 5 A.M.).

For some reason, we like to bake together,

Or, sometimes, cook together,

And, always, eat together.

I remember making sugar cookies and chocolate chip cookies at one's house (on two separate occasions),

Cooking an English breakfast and making lemon “pancakes” (they were really crepes) at another's (on the same day).

At some point, at someone's (I forget whose) house, we baked chocolate chip cookies the size of our heads (which we plan to do again - soon).

We really like to bake

And cook

And eat . . .

Together.

We like to do pretty much anything together.

That's what friendship is,

Never-failing togetherness.

Even when we're apart,

Friendship's ties still bind us together,

And I hope

And pray

And believe

That they always,

Always

Will.

  

"Forgiven and Loved"

I woke up thinking of all I had to do.

Model for Grandma,

Pack some clothes,

Laminate a paper for Mom,

Blog.

I came out after I had finished getting ready,

After my alone time with God,

After combing my hair and putting some gel in.

I ate a couple of pieces of toast,

Then moved to get things done.

I was interrupted by someone wanting to play a game.

In spite of everything on my to-do list, I said yes.

Yes.

Yes, I will play with you.

After beating him at checkers (in spite of not really remembering how to play),

She asked for Clue.

She pulled out the box,

Unfolded the board,

Shuffled three decks of cards

And placed one from each deck on the center of the board.

I slid the cards into the envelope,

Ripped pieces of paper off of the pad,

Asked someone to go get pencils.

I picked up the die,

Rolled a four,

She a nine,

He a ten.

He went first.

Players slid around the board,

Moving from room to room.

Voices guessed,

Mrs. White in the Study with a wrench,

Mr. Green in the Dining Room with the rope,

And the "infamous" Colonel Mustard in the Ballroom with a lead pipe.

Once she did it,

Once I did it,

Once he was terrified that he did it,

That the card in the envelope was his.

Really, his card was in my hand.

There's something about playing the detective,

Some sense of justice

That enjoys eliminating possibilities until only one remains,

Finding the one responsible,

Sometimes even by accident.

After solving the mystery five or six (or seven) times, we put the board away.

The guilty parties had been located and apprehended,

The evidence had been secured.

It was time to move on.

Someone slide the Clue box back into its spot,

Carefully extracted the box of Apples to Apples cards.

I thought for a moment of how we are all guilty,

How we are all imperfect,

How we all mess up so much,

How, in so many ways, I am like the character I used

Whose card inevitably ends up in the envelope much more frequently than those of the others.

In spite of it all,

We have all been offered a way out,

A way to be forgiven,

A way to learn to change,

A way to be made new.

We just have to take it.

She opened the box,

Said seven,

We each grabbed that number.

Someone flipped over a green card,

Became the judge,

Reminding me of another Judge,

Judging the feeble attempts of the imperfect,

Seeing our failures,

Noticing the few successes,

Just, but merciful,

Forgiving those who believe in His act of justice,

Not condemning the guilty who have been forgiven.

No condemnation.

Forgiven and loved.

The song "Forgiven and Loved"  is performed by Jimmy Needham.  Many thanks for this wonderful reminder that there is no condemnation and we truly are forgiven and loved.

"Beautiful"

It seems like all I've been doing.

I spent a week with stencils and colored pencils,

Tracing vines and flowers,

Gently coloring in.

I'd been trying to recreate nature's beauty on white cardstock,

Trying to imitate God's workmanship with my own imperfect hands.

Obviously, it didn't work very well.

The table has been covered in markers,

Markers pulled out of my colored pencil basket.
 

Traceable flowers still rest where they fell

And scissors and hole punches have been left where they do not belong.

In the midst of the mess,

Surrounded by chaos,

I tried to imitate beauty.

I stood to sharpen pencils,

Returned to trace lines and bumps,

Wore down the formerly sharp pencils and sharpened them again.

I finally finished,

Finally drew the last swirling vine,

Finally shaded in the last colorful flower.

Then she asked for a poem to go at the end,

Someone's quoted words to finish pages upon pages of pictures and drawings.

It was late, after midnight.

I copied the first section of one of the first poems I found.

It may have been quick, but it was appropriate, true.

I pasted, hit "Print".

I chopped the edges, found a yellow paper, chopped its edges.

Tried one hole punch.

It didn't work.

The paper was too small.

Cut more yellow paper,

Tried a different hole punch.

This one worked.

(Of course, I'd made the paper much bigger this time.)

I found the tape, ran it over the back of the printed paper,

Stuck that paper on the yellow paper,

Ran the tape over the back of the yellow paper,

Stuck the yellow paper on the hand-drawn treasure chest,

Stepped back to admire my work.

It was finished,

All finished (except for one last page that needed to be laminated).

I finished it at 12:30 - A.M.,

But it was finished.

My imperfect recreation,

My attempts at beauty,

Finished.

Far from perfect,

Far from lifelike,

But,

In their own way,

Beautiful.

I wonder if I could learn to see myself like this,

Imperfect but beautiful.

After all, He calls me beautiful.

Maybe I should learn to call myself that, too.


Please teach me.

"Call Me Beautiful" is written and performed by Ginny Owens.  Many thanks to this artist for her incredible music.