Flesh

         So I freaked out yesterday.  Something that if my husband witnessed, he would refer to for many years to come as "an episode".  I've had a few episodes in our twelve and a half years of marriage, and from time to time he likes to reference them in casual conversation--something I don't so much appreciate.  Probably because it is my flesh at it's worse and I kind of pride myself on maintaining my cool in crisis situations, which is probably my first mistake.  You see my mom has had some pretty serious health issues which has added a lot to my already full plate.  It's been somewhat horrifying to confront the thoughts that run through my head as I get a glimpse of my future taking care of an aged parent sooner than I would have expected.  She is going to be fine, but the truth of the matter is that I selfishly want her to be fine and independent forever--a reality that doesn't exist.  She will get older and I will be the one to care for her.  On top of that I have a husband that has struggled with chronic health issues for seven years, and when his debilitating symptoms rear their ugly head, I will occasionally have horrible thoughts of being alone and raising my four boys alone while the man I love more than anything wastes away in a chair.
           Consequently, as those two very blaring realities collided while Lucas "the Freak" dog was being entirely too naughty and the 'to do' list juxtaposed to the ongoing bank balance crisis was spinning in my head, tears streaming down my face I sat in my car insulated by glass and a nice big garage-- and screamed.  I mean I really lost it.  I guess I was screaming at God.  In that moment I very much wanted Jesus to appear on the hood of my car.  I wanted physical contact with Him, to see what I envision as a sweet calm expression looking back at me.  I wanted Him to grab me by the hand and gently lead me inside and heal all the brokenness.  That of course did not happen so I continued on to the grocery store to pick up some prescriptions and a few ingredients for the cooking project I had planned on doing.
        Now, I am not an ambitious cook.  I like to cook and at one point, early in my marriage, I had a small obsession with Martha Stewart and Williams-Sonoma.  That has faded as the number of my children has grown and the size of my expendable income has shrunk, but recently I have had my desire to create something more that fancier Macaroni & Cheese or a healthier chicken nugget grow.  Mostly because I have been surrounded by people who truly love to cook.  Not only do they love to cook but they love me and my family even though we are almost always in some sort of needy state that can't be fixed.  This crazy conglomeration of humanity has poured themselves out onto my family in a way I could have never imagined.                
       So before the episode occurred yesterday morning I had planned on making Potato Knishes after being inspired by a friend who has a very cool food blog.  You see, she and I both have husbands rooted in Judaism and she made some Matzo Ball soup to honor that side of her family, her post made me realize how much I miss good Jewish food.  Living back East there is not a shortage of great Jewish Deli's and my mother-in-law is a great cook, but the Beehive State is somewhat lacking in this category of fine food.
      I know this story is a little round about, but I do have a point and that point is that even though I had not recovered from my "episode" fully as I began to prepare these tasty little 'buns' filled with potatoes, as I peeled the potatoes, cooked the onions, kneaded the dough and prepared the egg wash I felt renewed.  I pressed my frustration into that dough and imagined the ancestors of my husband and their suffering.  I connected to, in real time, what I have been studying in Exodus.  God calling His people, pulling them out of their suffering, not taking it away fully but still calling them His.  Giving them His law and His way of doing things and allowing them to be apart of it regardless of their flesh, their episodes and their doubt.  I was comforted by the promise that in my messed up, all to human state, that I too am called by Him.  I made comfort food.

        I still wish Jesus would've descended
into my kitchen, that I could have poured him some $9 wine and served him a delicious Knish with gravy and cried.  But instead my boys came home from school and gobbled them all up--a little to my surprise.  Yesterday sucked on one level, I felt totally out of control, my mind went to dark places but my cries were heard and prayers were answered, stories for another day.
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