I've got the squash peeled, gutted, chopped, November's sun food, and water's bubbling in grandma's pressure cooker, the one with the decades old, hand-smoothed wooden handles, and I only need the weight, that thing-a-mo-bobber that will dance in the heat.
And she not on the shelf by the stove where I tuck her away, or in the cutlery drawer -- or pot drawers -- or utensil drawer. And I call Levi from Latin chants, Levi always with knitting needles in hand, even now, Levi the dryer and returner of all things enamel, stainless and shiny.
I ask almost without angst, "Have you seen the weight for the pressure cooker? The meat's nearly done and Dad has to be at Uncle John's by 1:30 to combine the next batch of corn -- so lunch really has to be on the table when he gets in because he'll have to go. Did you see it when you put the pots away last night?"
And he lays he needles and yarn down real slow on the counter and falls to the floor.
"Levi?"
"I heard it fall last night...." He's feeling along under cupboards. He's all sprawled legs, the gangly arms groping. Steams rising from the pot, still waiting for the squash.
He looks up. "Could you move the fridge for me?"
"The fridge? No... maybe not the fridge right now." I glance up at the clock. "You think it rolled under the fridge?"
"I don't know. I just heard it drop when I was putting away the lid last night."
"And you didn't pick it up right then?" I try not to sound exasperated. It's a noble effort but not much more.
"I was thinking about stuff and forgot." He's got a yard stick and swiping underneath the fridge.
"Well, I guess I'll just put the squash in, but without the weight pressurizing the steam. It will just take twice as long." I deep breathe, choose to receive the fullness of this moment as grace. I'm trying to let the pressure do its work, let Him do his deep, hot work in me.
I'll need the pressure cooker's trivet, to steam the squash, in the now un-pressure cooker --- but no. Not on its shelf in the cupboard. Not in the sink. Not in with the pots.
I want to cook, not hunt.
I want to lay my head down on the counter. I want even more to be godly and I prayer beg. Levi's rifling through stack of enamel bowls in a cupboard, a stack of bread pans.
"Leev, any idea where you might have put the trivet?"
"The trivet?" He closes the cup drawer. "I saw that...."
My smile's weak but I'm grateful for its valiant appearance.
"I think I put it...." He's back to the pot drawers. Deep breathe... Pray for grace. Are there leftovers in the fridge in case I don't have Farmer Husband's plate steaming ready when he comes hustling in here?
I let Levi retrace his trail and I move onto potatoes, count out ten of the Irish tubers from the spud bucket, our oldest son's field of dreams harvest. I check under the sink for the potato brush. Only jugs of vinegar, soap. Exhale. The mudroom sink? Just a ring of gritty sand back there. Really, all I really want to do is cook dinner.
And I'm almost ready to holler "Leeeevi?!" when the heart beats out Words that it knows, the words known by heart, Words that a week memorized, just reviewing note tucked in a bowl of apples by the sink:
"And he who does not take up his cross and follow after me is not worthy of me..." ~Mt. 10:38
Patience is the willingness to suffer.... Then isn't patience the willingness to take up a cross? The willingness to suffer and come follow after Him? Will I be worthy of Him and His name that I claim?
I whisper the heart-known words, what the heart now beats out because now the Words are in the veins and the genes: "And he who does not take up his cross and follow after me is not worthy of me."
I will take up a cross and I will suffer and I will be patient, and oh, all for love of Sweet Savior.
I'm hushed and gently turned around, the soul creases smoothed out, the heart dust brushed off and, I know, this cross of domestic patience is really but driftwood for the spiritual midgets, but I'm grateful that He knows my frame and what I am made of. And now too, I am made out of the memorized Words.
"Aha!" Levi's grinning. "In with the dishcloths! I remember now!"
He's holding the pressure cooker weight up in his hands, trophy. "There you go, Mom." When his eyes do a jig like that, who can't laugh? I grab his neck, pull that beautiful face in close, kiss that cowlick of his.
I drop the squash into the pressure cooker, lock the lid, carefully place the thing-a-mo-bobber onto it's crowning stage. In moments, she's whistling.
With Words known by heart, I too dance in heat.
Recitation of Mt. 10:37-39, 42 from annvoskamp on Vimeo.
(You were asking about our memorization card entitled 3M?
3M is a congregational project that a kind friend and I founded to encourage Scripture memorization within our faith community. Standing for Memorization, Meditation, and Motivation, passages are selected that synchronize with the current Sunday speaking series, with the prayer that verses would not only be memorized but thoughtfully meditated on during the week, which would shape and motivate our daily living.
We've tackled larger 3M projects in the past, such as the whole book of first John, Ps. 145, and topical packages, but have currently decided on a shorter passage in an effort to make memorization widely accessible and success certain -- because this isn't a contest but rather a thoughtful way to change a heart.
For every verse memorized, a designated donation supports Partner's International -- so not only is God's Word hid in hearts, but lives are changed around the world.)
Every Wednesday, we Walk with Him, posting a spiritual practice that draws us nearer to His heart.
To read the entire series of spiritual practices
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