Heather Holleman's Blog, page 217

The Right Wrong Thing

Two of my students serve as volunteer firefighters, and today we have a brief discussion about why one shouldn’t open windows during a house fire. You never want to add oxygen to a fire. If a fire begins in the oven, don’t open the oven. Keep it closed; remove the source of oxygen.

The conversation reminds me of how much I do the wrong thing, that seems right, because of instinct. Back in 2014, I wrote this about a similar revelation:

We were in an elevator:

My daughters observe the signs in elevators that tell you to use the stairs in case of a fire.

This makes no sense if you’re interested in a fast way out. Wouldn’t the elevator take you out faster than the stairs? If the building is going down in flames, wouldn’t the elevator make so much more sense?

No! Never! We learn that fires interfere with electrical systems and can trap us inside malfunctioning elevators. Also, since smoke and flames rise up in the elevator shaft, the elevator can quickly become an inferno. We’d be cooked!

I’ve been thinking of the principle that the safest and best way out isn’t always the fastest. When we feel trapped in a situation, we often go to that thing that promises a fast exit. A much better principle is to stop and think about the thing that’s promising freedom. What if that thing is just another trap in itself? What if that thing will create even more heat in your life?

No thank you. I’ll take the stairs.

I remember that the thing I’m eyeing that promises some way out often isn’t a way out at all.

Proverbs 14:12 warns: There’s a way that seems right to a man, but in the end it leads to death. Even more in 2014, I want the wisdom to take the way that leads to life. I want the path of righteousness, peace, and joy. I don’t need easy or fast; I’ll take slow and safe. I’ll take life.

God, lead me down right paths.

The Children?

Today I prayed and confessed about one of the ways I know God wants to teach me to become more like Jesus: in His love of children. Since my own daughters have grown to teens, I find myself thankfully spending less and less time with small children. I remember those days as labor-intensive, loud, and as a never-ending, sticky battle to clean up after them. I don’t like feeling this way! Isn’t that terrible? I’m ashamed to admit this to you. Can you believe I think these things and live with a thankful heart to be in a new stage of parenting?

I have been reading in the gospels just how much Jesus loves children. Why don’t I love children like He does? Could the Holy Spirit draw me again to children to love and care for them as He does? Jesus explicitly tells us this in Matthew 18:10: “See that you do not look down on one of these little ones. For I tell you that their angels in heaven always see the face of my Father in heaven.”

As I’m thinking about these things, I receive an email from the Children’s Ministry Director at our church to ask me if I would please be the Sunday School Storyteller for the children in March. Me? But I’m a college instructor. I’m a mom of teens. Everyone knows I’m impatient with children and have become a rusty, crusty, irritable person with those little ones!

But God moves. God teaches me. I find myself overwhelmed with love for those children as God’s spirit moves in my heart. Yes, I’ll be your Storyteller. 

Well, You’re Home Now

You’re home now.

I say the expression to a teen wearied from stress and difficult social interactions. I say the expression to my middle schooler you endured the onslaught of everything comprising middle school. I say this to myself after a day of marching through the rain, late to my office hours, and then running from class to class.

You’re home now. Relax and refresh here. Here’s a snack placed out for you, a warm beverage, and a soft song. Here’s a candle lit, a cozy blanket, and a listening ear. Here’s the relaxation of lounging about. Here’s where you’re the favorite, the blessed, the adored. Here is where we champion you, attend to you, and promise great things ahead. You’re home now. Here is a tea tray with homework and grading, the smell of lasagna cooking, and the crumbs falling off crusty Italian bread. Here is where evening will fall on you, where you will sleep tucked in and deeply loved. You’re home now. 

“Look to the Lord and his strength; seek his face always.” Psalm 105:4

When in distress, I wonder where we look for help. Today I love the encouragement to look to the Lord and His strength and to seek Him always. What do I seek? Where do I look? Whose strength?

It’s God! I think about how to seek His face “always” and how to set my mind upon Him. I think about how to fix my eyes upon Jesus. I remember all the ways He has taught me these past five years: I know I’m seated with Christ, and I picture it now.

I know I’m in the fortress of His care, and I think of a castle. I know I’m in the guarding care of God. I’m guarded by righteousness, peace, hope, power, and the crucified life. I know I’m included in the family of God. I think about my identity as chosen, strengthened, renewed, filled with the Holy Spirit, and proclaiming.

Why do I write all year long on verbs and images? It’s how I look to Him. It’s how I seek His face and His strength.

A New Favorite Soup: Chicken Corn Chowder

Fill the crockpot with a few large cans of chicken broth, a bag of frozen kernel corn, and the pulled chicken from a cooked rotisserie chicken (without the skin). Meanwhile, chop an entire bunch of celery and one onion, and sauté in a pan with a little olive oil and two tablespoons fresh thyme. Cook until celery and onion soften but don’t turn brown.

Add the celery and onion mixture to the crockpot, and season your soup with salt, pepper, and some red pepper flakes for a little spice! You can cook this in the crockpot for a few hours (or on the stove), and then enjoy soup for your lunch or dinner all week long.

Enjoy!

Mostly Cutting It Out

I’m amazed at just how much writing never makes it to the final product. Writers often compile massive amounts of material. The manuscript comes about through paring down, cutting out large sections, and then trimming even more.

Having too little to say isn’t ever the problem; it’s having too much. 

The reader doesn’t need to know everything you know or experience everything that brought you to the project. That’s what makes you a writer: you’ve sorted and discarded, you’ve distilled and refined, you’ve narrowed everything down till it’s a beautiful little gem for your audience.

You’ve cut, cut, cut to make the diamond.

Blessed Meals, Blessed Housework

I know it doesn’t have to be me. It could be someone else—a paid housekeeper, a spouse, or children trained to do the work of meal preparation and cleaning, but it’s me.

Someone must keep the home. It might not be you, but it must be someone. Maybe it could be you.

As it turns out, I love it. It’s sacred and blessed. It enlarges me, and I’m thankful for the daily work of it. When I’m not working in the classroom or involved in ministry settings, I’m here at home. It’s richly blessed.

Today, for example, I loved the smell of fresh thyme in the chicken and corn chowder I made for a recovering neighbor. It simmered all day, fragrant and warm as the bitter wind blew against the house. I loved chopping bacon for the spicy bacon vinaigrette on the salad we’ll have with dinner.

I loved noticing how blackberries look against fresh cut pineapple in the fruit salad.

I loved the smell of fresh laundry. I loved folding each load and moving on to more tasks.

I loved wiping counters and then the warm dishwater on my hands.

You don’t ever sit down; someone or something needs your attention: a cat to feed, a floor to sweep or scrub, the next meal to plan, a table to set, an activity for the family to enjoy, or someone needing a ride.

Everyone and everything scatters throughout the day, but the one keeping the home eventually gathers it all back together to nourish and comfort in the predictable rhythms of eating dinner, resetting the home, turning down beds, and extinguishing candles.

Sometimes we’re taught to resent the work of keeping a home, but more and more, I find the work is good and peaceful.

Another Kind of Sixteen: Celebrating My Daughter

My firstborn turned sixteen today, and it turned out nothing like I might have pictured from my John Hughes movie upbringing featuring boys, parties, and some misunderstood teen just wanting to escape from her family.

It turned out nothing like anything you’re imagining at all.

And this is good. This is so good that, if you’re a parent, you’ll rejoice with me. If you’re worried about our nation’s youth, you’ll rejoice with me.

(My wise neighbor told me that when my children became teenagers, it didn’t have to follow the script you’ve read: rebellious, angry, boy-crazy girl who hates everything and everyone. It could be different. She was right! She was right!)

On the eve of her Sweet Sixteen, Sarah was exactly herself, requesting exactly the things she loves:

She chose a family movie, Jumanji: Welcome to the Jungle since it was 5$ movie night down the road. I laughed so hard. We ate popcorn and teased each other.

For the birthday breakfast, she made her specialty, Eggs Florentine.

For her birthday dinner, all she wanted in the world was Ina Garten’s Turkey Meatloaf. It’s cooking right now. And spinach and goat cheese salad.

Later, she wants to watch The Empire Strikes Back because she’s taking full responsibility for my Star Wars education, but we’ll probably watch her little sister’s show, The Goldbergs.

She lounged in her room with her dad as he custom-built a cork board / dry erase white board combination on her wall so she can “work out all her math problems” and hang her polaroid photos.

She went to test for her driver’s permit while her sister and I made celebration cookies. We’ll have cheesecake with cherry topping for dessert. In a week or so, she’ll have friends over for a sleepover party where I’m sure she’ll play Monopoly and Risk.

That’s it. That’s another kind of sixteen.

I’m so happy for her.

 

A Special Gift from an Older Woman

While standing in front of her grandmother’s house in Williamsburg in November, my daughter says hello to a passing neighbor on her afternoon walk. This neighbor—surely another grandmother—stops to engage Sarah in conversation.

Sarah politely describes her studies as a high school student back in Pennsylvania. She learns that many years ago, this older woman was once a high school science teacher. I stand off to the side and imagine the woman younger and sturdier, with chalk in her hand, teaching with lively steps in a classroom of her past. How quickly our careers end. How quickly we age.

My daughter’s face brightens as she explains her love of microbiology, but then she shares a true dilemma: she loves both history and biology equally. How will she decide upon a future career?

It was a simple question to a new, older friend.

Weeks later, a strange present arrives under our Christmas tree back in Pennsylvania. The older woman that Sarah met just once (who I have since learned has no grandchildren of her own), sent Sarah a precious gift:

a book on the history of microbiology. 

With an attached letter, equally precious to Sarah, the woman explains that, with Sarah’s interest in both history and biology, she might love this book. She tells Sarah of its 1926 publication that quickly became a beloved classic that the woman read herself when she was Sarah’s age. The book, Microbe Hunters, by Paul de Kruif, captivates Sarah. Sarah reads on of how inspired the woman was about each chapter’s recounting of how some monumental discovery in biology and medicine was originally made. 

The woman writes, “this book may have some influence on where your future studies take you.”

My daughter felt so loved and so seen and heard by an older person other than her parents taking interest in her future. That single letter, that single gift, that single conversation might just set a young girl on her course; it might set her sail in the right direction to catch some new wind.

I felt myself tearing up with appreciation for this older woman who never stopped being a high school science teacher after all. I thought of her pulling the dusty book off the shelf and thinking of my daughter. Maybe she saw herself as that bright 16 year old, torn between two paths.

I felt aflame with love for her. She taught me something, too. I thought of how, in 20 years, I might one day be the kind of older woman who sends letters and books to young writers I meet on my afternoon walk.

 

Without Faith

I think about doing that which requires faith in the New Year. This means I might do things exceeding my capacity, resources, and understanding. What a marvelous place to be!