Baking Is a Spiritual Act

(Scroll to the end of the post to print your copy of Praying & Making Biscuits including my favorite recipe and a spiritual exercise!)

I peered into the kitchen on the way to my bedroom. I watched my mother glide the rolling pin over a batch of sugar cookie dough. It was December and today was a baking day.. I enjoyed the smells in the kitchen. After baking the cookies, my mother would layer them with wax paper to be stored inside a five-pound coffee can. The cans, eighteen of them, would line the wooden shelf in the cold garage, waiting to be delivered to friends, neighbors, work colleagues, and teachers at the school my brother and I attended.

I wanted to be part of it. I longed to enter my mother's world and learn how to bake the cookies everyone looked forward to receiving. I wanted to reach out to my mom so she would reach out to me, a longing that had been in my heart for many years. I yearned to learn family secrets that were delicious and comforting instead of those that were horrid and traumatic. By the time I turned twelve, I resigned myself to the reality that I was there only to witness experiences, but not to participate in them. 

Some of the cookies were simple to prepare, like snickerdoodles, others time-consuming to decorate such as  holiday wreaths covered with green icing and small pieces of red citron for berries. My favorite were the chocolate balls. My mother also made peanut butter cookies dipped in chocolate and nuts as well as sugar cookies cut in various shapes - a tree, Santa’s face, a bell, a star, and an angel. My father stepped in to perfectly decorate each cookie using sprinkles, tiny silver candy balls, and coconut for Santa’s beard.

Aside from my father’s help with decorating the cookies, the kitchen was my mother’s domain. She kept everyone else out of the kitchen when she baked Christmas cookies or any type of cake or pastry. She kept her eyes on her work, mixing, rolling, setting the timer, putting the cookie sheet into the oven and taking it out. I knew my place. From previous rejections, too many to count, I learned that I wasn’t to bother her or even ask to be part of what she was doing. I missed out on the opportunity to learn recipes for ethnic dishes and pastries from my mother’s Russian heritage as well as techniques to make the abundant number of cookies she baked at Christmas. But now I realize she too missed out on passing down these recipes and time spent bonding with me over cracking eggs, stirring, naming ingredients, and rolling out cookie dough. 

As with so many repressed interests when I was growing up, I resolved to teach myself to bake when I got older. 

Shortly after I married, I learned to bake bread. For our wedding we received a set of nesting bowls, the largest a perfect size to hold a rising ball of dough. My mother didn’t bake bread, so I was carving out my own identity in the kitchen.

I quickly learned the preciseness of bread baking. Making sure the temperature of the milk was right, not so hot that it would kill the yeast or so cold that the yeast didn’t rise, was central to preparing the dough. I depended on a thermometer for those early years of baking, but in time, I was able to calculate the temperature by putting a half stick of butter in the milk and watching it melt.  I knew when the melting butter formed a rectangular ring, the temperature was perfect. 

I continued to bake our bread for many years after we were married. We  welcomed the wonderful smell of the kitchen when the dough was baking. We enjoyed sinking our teeth into  the crusty top and the soft middle. A slice of fresh bread right out of the oven with butter melting into the holes of the bread was the perfect treat.

At Mike’s first church appointment following seminary, a middle-aged couple invited us to dinner. They served biscuits with the meal. I never had a biscuit before and was intrigued with the circular bread. I asked lots of questions about baking biscuits.

“Here is an old biscuit cutter and my recipe,” the hostess said as we left for home, “Let me know how your first batch turns out! I love baking biscuits.“ 

I was touched by her kindness and desire to help me learn to bake something new. What a contrast to my mother, who didn’t want me anywhere near the kitchen.

As I made biscuits, I held the sticky dough in my hands gauging carefully how much flour to add to make the dough smooth and easy to mold.  

With the addition of a second child eleven years after we were married, I was too busy to make bread. I also worked part-time and had very few extra moments to bake.However, I could still bake biscuits regularly. They took less time, did not involve dough rising twice, and I could easily get them made with the assistance of a daughter.

I loved having my children in the kitchen helping me. With a child standing on a chair close by, we stirred and added ingredients, talking as we worked together. Baking cookies or biscuits or bread with my two daughters was a great way to teach language using descriptive words. Color, texture, mixing, rolling, and kneading. Learning the names of kitchen utensils like bowls, biscuit and cookie cutter, rolling pin, measuring cups, and spoons. Naming ingredients like flour, eggs, milk, and cooking oil. Action words like cracking the egg, stirring the butter, chopping the nuts, rolling the dough. These made each baking project a learning experience.

I can still hear them dragging a chair across the kitchen floor to a spot next to me at the kitchen counter. Standing on the chair gave them a few extra inches to see what was going on in the bowl. I found each child relaxed as we prepared and rolled the dough. We talked about whatever was on their mind: school, friendships, being part of a group, after-school activities, special interests. Working together side-by-side created an intimacy and closeness for discussion. They were not witnesses, but meaningful participants in kitchen preparations. 

Every November, when Mike was pastor of Center United Methodist Church on the southside of Indianapolis, the church would hold an annual action at a chicken and noodle dinner. Once, I decided to auction a year of biscuits at the event, one batch a month. When it came time for the bidding several people were interested. I listened with excitement wondering how much my biscuits would bring. My donation eventually brought  $30.00 to the top bidder, a retired couple.

Baking biscuits for the year was so much fun. I couldn’t believe someone would donate thirty dollars to the church for what I made in the kitchen. Each month I delivered the biscuits I was greeted with joy and gratitude.

“You make the best homemade biscuits,” the couple said. “We like to cut the biscuit in half, put cheese in the middle and melt in the microwave. Sometimes we put honey on the biscuit. However, we eat them, we enjoy them so much. We are glad we won your donation.”

Every time I left their house after a delivery I felt gratified knowing I provided something they found meaningful. Their appreciation warmed my heart.

When we lived in Vincennes, 1989-1996, my reputation for baking biscuits spread quickly as I shared batches with friends and neighbors for birthdays or as Christmas gifts. I could barter any favor from a friend, including childcare, as long as a batch of biscuits was involved.

Baking biscuits was woven into my daily routine just like brushing my teeth or washing my hair or swimming laps.

When Mike was assigned a church in Fishers, Indiana, I had no idea how my participation in programs and morning events at a local Catholic retreat center would deepen my faith and affect my biscuit baking. Moving to a larger city opened many opportunities for spiritual growth. My soul was thirsty to grow and deepen in God’s presence, but living in smaller towns, I had trouble finding resources to help with the spiritual growth I was seeking.

One day, I was exploring the different names listed in the Bible for Jesus, wanting to name my image of God’s Son - shepherd, morning star, counselor, etc. When I read “bread of life,” I paused. With my history of baking bread and biscuits, I was drawn to the image of Jesus as the bread of life. Taking the communion bread, I experienced Jesus tangibly. I never saw shepherds or the morning star, but I did bake biscuits, and bread was a familiar way for me  to relate to Jesus.

Thinking about Jesus as the ‘bread of life’ helped me experience baking biscuits in new ways.

Before I started, I lit a candle, a reminder that God was with me,  God’s presence filled my kitchen. I blessed my hands recognizing God is in my hands, in all parts of my body and my life. My hands were doing holy work. I put all of the ingredients on the table, ready to gather each one prayerfully to put in the bowl.

The simplicity of ingredients for biscuits – milk, flour, baking powder, and baking soda – reminded me that Jesus was a simple person, unencumbered by possessions or wealth. Jesus noted the power of small things: yeast, seeds, a pearl, and a mustard seed. I wanted to be more like Jesus.  I thought about how I could simplify my life. Maybe I could eliminate a few magazines I was receiving. Did we really need a new couch? I was thankful my job made a new requirement for all employees to wear scrubs not street clothes. I could surely save money and effort by simplifying my wardrobe.

Stirring the ingredients helped me to ponder how God was stirring my soul. What new thoughts surfaced about God?  How was my prayer life changing? I realized that saying a lot of words before God could be superfluous, and quietly resting in God’s presence became a new way to pray. Where could I make connections in the body of Christ to spread God’s love?

I felt connected to the body of Christ while kneading the sticky dough, blending in more flour to make the dough smooth. In time my hands listened to the dough. I could feel how much flour the dough required without even looking. If I was giving the biscuits to someone, I prayed for that person or a circumstance they were facing. Love and prayer were kneaded into the dough. 

While the biscuits baked I smelled the aroma coming from the oven. God was with me each step of the baking process. I was co-creating with God, preparing bread in the presence of the Bread of Life..  After nine minutes in the oven, the biscuit tops took on a golden hue. I rubbed margarine over the top of each one noting how baking biscuits is a tangible venture from creation in Genesis to the transformation of the resurrection.

While the biscuits cooled, I tore a piece of paper into the shape of a biscuit. Tearing rather than cutting represents the unpredictability, the uneven edges and unknowns in life. Sometimes I would write a sentence, prayer, reflection, or blessing expressing how I felt during my mini retreat making biscuits. When giving the biscuits to someone else, I would include the paper so they might sense holiness in this tangible expression of the body of Christ.

Gathering the pans, bowls and measuring cups to wash, I thanked God for being with me, for speaking to me while I baked. 

Inspired by my personal experience of God’s presence in the kitchen, I even put together a day-long retreat, “Praying with Bread,” which I presented to several church groups. I explored passages in the Bible mentioning bread. Participants drew around their hands on a piece of paper and thought about ways we used our hands in everyday life. We would discuss reflection questions for each topic, and after lunch, the group made a batch of biscuits, spending time in silence while the biscuits were baking in order to reflect on their experience that day.  When the biscuits were done, each person shared what the day had meant personally. Each participant took home a couple of biscuits and reflection questions to conclude the time.

Although it’s been a few years since I gave the retreat, baking biscuits is always a holy time for me. I continue the practice of lighting a candle and blessing my hands, pondering the stirrings of my heart with each step. If I am baking biscuits to give to someone I pray for them, kneading prayer and love into the dough.

One day, I sensed God leading me to express the joy I felt baking bread and biscuits. I got a sheet of white paper and two pens, the blue one for my right hand and the red one for my left hand. I started at the top of the paper and drew a sketch of myself wearing an apron with a bowl filled with rising dough resting on a table in front of me. A star on the apron bib represented Jesus as the morning star. I’ve learned that the morning star is the brightest one in the sky. Even though clouds may cover the light, I know that the morning star is still there, giving me the comfort of knowing Jesus is always with me. Combining the two names for Jesus, morning star and bread of life, in one drawing took me deeper into God’s presence. (See drawing at beginning of this post.)

I also sketched a bowl of rising dough and wrote a poem about feeling like a warm loaf of bread, expressing my need for comfort and containment. (See drawing below.)

“I want to be

The loaf of bread

Wrapped in cloth

Warm and resting

On a table

By the fire.”

When I was growing up, the kitchen was not a place where I was welcome. When I started cooking for myself, after finishing graduate school and starting my first job, I was an awkward and uncomfortable cook, relying on hot dogs and pre-prepared meals for dinner. However, after I got married, the kitchen became a place of exploration and creativity, putting ingredients together, following a recipe or venturing out on my own with self-made dishes. When I began to make bread, a whole new world opened. Can you imagine that learning about biscuits in the mid-70’s paved the way for my spiritual growth?

All work is holy work.  Acknowledging the holiness of ordinary tasks keeps us aware and closely connected to God in our everyday life.

I am reminded of Brother Lawrence, a 17th century Carmelite monk. Brother Lawrence was known for “the practice of the presence of God.” Assigned to work in the monastery kitchen, he peeled potatoes, prepared meals, mopped floors, scraped burned bowls, and all other tasks to keep the kitchen clean and functioning. Brother Lawrence said, “The most effective way for communicating with God is to simply do ordinary work with a pure love of God. Our actions should unite us with God when we are involved in our daily activities, just as our prayers unite us with him in our quiet devotions.”  Brother Lawrence was equally prayerful cutting carrots in the kitchen as he was attending chapel services several times a day. 

After reading about Brother Lawrence many years ago, I applied his practice of the presence of God to ironing Mike’s shirts, my blouses, and the cotton clothes the children wore. I did not like to iron, and approached the pile of clothes begrudgingly. However, praying for my family while I ironed brought God into an ordinary task, added my love to their garment, and helped me feel refreshed and renewed when I finished. 

 

A few years ago, I read an article in “O” magazine, March, 2004, “What They Did for Bliss.” Journalist Sara Davidson visited the Abbey of Regina Laudis in Bethlehem, Connecticut. There, nuns live on 450 acres of land where they grow their own food and make cheese. The religious community is unique because the forty women in the Benedictine order had attained success in the world before becoming nuns. A few of the nuns have been married with children. They pray in Latin, sing Gregorian chants eight times a day, and take vows of chastity and obedience. 

During the author’s visit, she helped in the cheese-making process. One of the sisters, Mother Mary Margaret Georgina explained, “The cheese, if created with love and tenderness, ‘will speak.’ Everything we make that goes out of here speaks. That’s one way contemplatives speak to the world.”

Sara spent several days at the abbey, following the sisters doing their work and participating in worship. Preparing to leave, she read a sign in her room asking guests to change their linens. She found the clean sheets in a cupboard and began yanking and tugging at the antique bed. Frustrated, trying to hurry and get the job done, she suddenly paused.

“The nuns put love into the cheese, the flowers and fruit they grow, the animals they care for, the shawls they weave. Why not put love into the linens for the next guest who may arrive feeling shy, uncertain and expectant like me?” She slowed down and smoothed the pillows gently, and tenderly as Mother Margaret Georgina had suggested handling the cheese. She imagined the material would hold, even remember, the love she offered as she made the bed, silently welcoming the next guest.

When we approach menial tasks with an awareness of God’s presence, love is transferred into all we do: ironing clothes, cooking, scrubbing pots and pans, making a bed, or kneading dough. 

What elements of your daily life might have room for prayer? 

How can you increase your awareness and welcome God, who is already present, into what you are doing?

When I was growing up, the kitchen felt like my mother’s domain, but it really was God’s domain. As the psalmist says, “The earth is the Lord’s and everything in it.” Through the years, whether baking biscuits with my daughters or alone with God there was a sense of community in the process: the community of God, and the ingredients in my hands as I worked the dough and prayed over church members and friends. 

Print your copy of Praying & Making Biscuits 

including my favorite recipe and a spiritual exercise.

Brother Lawrence quotes are taken from the book, “The Practice of the Presence of God.”

 

Goodbye Hug

GOODBYE HUG

Holding his sturdy, toddler body close to mine, 

Long, chubby legs dangling, 

Yellow crocs, perfect first shoes to anchor

Wobbly steps. 

Up to now I had seen his face only through a screen

Longed to play and hug him with my own two arms

Heard his voice through a cell phone speaker

Poor substitute for being in the room with his baby talk

Now I breathe in his essence, 

Cheerful, pleasant, happy

Constant smile, curiosity, 

A ball of delight in my own two arms

I watch him giggle, pouring water from red plastic cups, 

Bubbles surfacing, having fun in the bath.

Eyes tracking a dog as it passes by,

Toddler opening his mouth to pant in response.

Eating avocado with crackers, 

Bib catching occasional crumbs.

Outdoors together, 

Feeling the texture of moss 

Covering the base of the tree in his front yard. 

He is new to the world, 

He is new to himself, 

I have a great dent into living. 

We bond over a set of plastic farm animals from my suitcase 

Repeated choruses of “Old MacDonald had a farm,” 

Sending spasms of excitement from head to toe, arms waving. 

Baby babbles add language to our play. 

Sobbing over his shoulder, 

Saying good-bye 

To this sweet, new human, 

Born in a pandemic.

He points to something in the sky, 

Bringing delight to a hard goodbye, 

Too young to realize the meaning of farewell. 

I give him a long squeeze,

Hoping my hug will leave an imprint of his heart on mine, 

Sealed love between grandson and gramma, 

Until we are together again. 

Stirring the Water: Swimming as Prayer

There was no such thing as a neighborhood swimming pool when I was growing up in the 1950s in Columbus, Ohio.  Families who were affluent joined a country club in a wealthy suburb on the west side of town and could swim whenever they wanted in the summer. The only place for a kid like me to swim was the inside pool at the downtown YMCA twenty-five minutes from my house. 

One year, the YMCA offered swimming lessons for girls participating in Brownie Scouts. Learning to swim seemed like a good idea, but I was apprehensive. Not only had I never seen a swimming pool, trying new things was overwhelming to me, a child whose world consisted of going to school, attending church, and playing around the house or in the backyard.

I didn’t even have a bathing suit of my own to bring. Fortunately, the Y provided towels and cotton suits in navy blue for all of us to wear. My suit didn’t fit, but there were no smaller sizes available. The straps hung loosely over my thin shoulders. I feared my suit would slip off in the water. I hid at the back of the line, embarrassed at my small frame in a suit that was too big.

 

The pool was bordered by a narrow tile deck that looked too close to the water for my safety. I scanned my eyes from the shallow end where the water was light aqua to the deep end where it became dark blue. A plastic divider stretched from side to side, separating the shallow from the deep. 

My friend, Rachel, asked, “What’s that smell?” I wiped my runny nose with the edge of my towel. My eyes watered. 

The teacher replied, “That’s chlorine. Chlorine kills any germs in the water and keeps the pool clean. Once you get swimming you won’t notice the smell anymore.”

The friend in front of me slipped on the slick tiles around the edge of the pool. I pressed my feet into the ground with each step to keep myself steady.  I followed the lead of the other children and found a spot on the edge of the pool.  We began the class by kicking our legs in the water. I started slowly, but in a short time I was making big splashes like the others. 

The teacher instructed us to get into the pool and jump up and down. I was the last one in. I gripped the side tightly. Because I was short, I couldn’t touch the bottom. The water was cold. Everyone else was laughing and splashing and making waves in the water. I wanted to go home.

I knew I needed to participate. With reluctance, still clinging to the side of the pool, I stretched my legs to the bottom, the surface of the water almost reaching my mouth. My first jumps were short, but gradually I gained confidence and began to make my own pattern of splashes and waves. 

Soon, the teacher instructed us to take a deep breath, put our faces in the water, and blow bubbles. Once again, I let the other girls take the lead. Although I wasn’t afraid of the water, trying anything new required that I give myself a pep talk. In time, I put my face into the water. I felt the bubbles brush against my cheeks, tickling my face, making me laugh. Blowing bubbles was fun. 

Right before the lesson ended, the teacher had us extend our arms from the side, blow bubbles, and kick our legs. We were beginning swimmers, learning the basics of what to do with our bodies while in the water.

Pulling myself  out of the water, the warm, stuffy air, was surprisingly cold against my wet body.  I quickly wrapped a towel around my shivering shoulders, feeling water drip down my legs from the heavy cotton suit. We walked into the locker room, changed our clothes, dried our hair, and prepared to return home. 

I was glad to leave the pool. Although I was pleased with my efforts and ended up having a little fun, I needed some time to think about what I had learned and experienced. Even when I was seven, reflection was important. I needed time to recover from the stress of going to an unfamiliar place, meeting people I didn’t know, learning the procedures for swim class, and immersing myself in a container of water so much larger than my bathtub. Riding in the car on the way home, I realized how much I had accomplished in one short lesson. Each step of learning to swim came with hesitation, yet I had the courage to try anyway. 

The remaining lessons taught us to coordinate our arms, legs, and breathing. I learned quickly and enjoyed the feel of the water over my back. The uncoordinated movements of my arms and legs soon became a smooth rhythm. I liked swimming!

The last day of class, we went to the deep end. Oh my, there was so much water.  Would the water hold me? Would I sink? Would I disappear? The teacher reassured us swimming in the deep end was just like swimming in the shallow end. 

Instead of jumping into the deep end and swimming across like the other girls, I slid carefully into the water. The other side seemed so far away, but when I took a quick glance to compare  the  width of the shallow end, I realized the distance was the same. I had swum the freestyle stroke across the shallow end many times over the past few days with success. Taking a deep breath, I pushed away from the side. My arms moved in a steady rhythm. I turned my head to get a breath when needed. I somehow made it across without swallowing any water. Although no one cheered or celebrated my accomplishment, I realized how far I had come in two short weeks. 

I was developing a connection with the water. I felt a sense of success there like no other experience or environment I had been in. I longed to come to the pool and swim every week. I felt there was more the water wanted to provide for me than just a place to exercise.

I was at home in the pool. Enveloped by the water, I felt held and secure. Even though I was fearful at first, I enjoyed the freedom of movement the water allowed. I kicked my legs and swirled my arms over the water, making the water smooth, like icing a cake with a knife. When I let go of the pool’s edge I did jumping jacks in the water.

  

Although opening my eyes underwater made them sting, I liked watching the bubbles circle around when my friends swam near. Whether I floated on my stomach or my back, the water held me. Being in the pool was a calm and safe experience, something I was missing at home., I wouldn’t have the chance to swim again until four years later when I was eleven years old. 

When I was twelve, my family returned to Columbus, Ohio. Again, I would be absent from the water for a few years. At one point, a new housing addition built a swimming pool offering memberships to anyone in the area. My mother and her close friend chose to join. 

The first afternoon we went to the pool I was so excited. I put on my new green suit. The straps on my shoulders criss-crossed in the back and fastened my suit securely with  clear buttons. Unlike my first experience in the water at age 7, both this suit and the idea of swimming were now a good fit for me. 

During the ten minute drive, I thought about the strokes I knew the free-style and the breast stroke. From the front seat, my mother told me all children must be able to swim from one side of the pool to the other before having permission to use the diving board. In the back seat, I practiced moving my arms and turning my head to breathe. I remembered the strokes in the car, but what would happen in the water?

Arriving at the pool, I immediately joined the line of children waiting to pass the test. I didn’t want to waste any time sitting on the side. I was so confident, I jumped right in the pool when my name was called. The movements of the free-style returned like an old friend the minute I felt the water around my shoulders. I easily swam to the other side of the pool, my arms, legs, and breathing in perfect rhythm. I climbed out of the pool with a big grin.

“You passed!” the life-guard said, And with that , I jumped right back in the water making a huge splash and celebrating this moment of personal triumph and success.

I was in the pool for two hours. I swam from side to side and  went off the diving board multiple times. I swam underwater, watching bubbles dance and swirl from other children who were learning to swim like I did years ago.  I felt at home in the water. 

When I finally pulled myself from the water, I found my mother and her friend in a grassy area a few feet from the pool. The day was hot, there was no shade at the pool and I was thirsty.  I grabbed my towel, explored the snack area, and got a drink of cold water from the water fountain.

On the bulletin board, I noticed a sign advertising a life-saving class. In just two hours a night for one week I could become a certified life-guard. Although I wasn’t old enough yet, I decided to take the class the following summer when I was fifteen. Being a life-guard would allow me to earn money to buy clothes, but more importantly, I would have the opportunity to spend more time in the water and teach children how to swim. 

I thought about the life-saving class long after the pool closed and school started. Even in the middle of winter with snow on the ground, I thought about being in the water and taking the class when summer came. I was so excited to finally find a place to develop my skills as a swimmer, but also to teach children how to swim and be responsible for the safety of others in the water..

The next summer, I took the class and became certified as a senior life-saver.  I could life-guard, but I was most looking forward to the first week-long session of preschool swim classes. I got to the pool early on Monday morning and was paired with another guard, Ben. At 9:00 we  met our group of four-year-olds.. Every child jumped into the waist-high water, bobbing up and down with excitement…except John. John sat crying at the side of the pool, fearful of the water, holding on to his mother who sat with him. I wondered what it must be like to have a mother who cared enough to sit close and talk through a child’s reluctance. I had not had a caring mother like that, but I had been coached by a caring swim instructor. I had not cried during my first time at the edge of the pool, but I had felt uncertainty and anxiety. I was drawn to this hesitant child.  

“Ben, I want to work with John until he feels more comfortable.”

“Go ahead, “ replied Ben. “The other kids are doing just fine.”

I started talking with John, hoping to gain his trust. Each day, he returned to the pool, more confident. His mother was finally able to sit and relax at the picnic table close to the snack bar.

By Wednesday, John was putting his face in the water, joining the other children playing and splashing. All five children passed the beginning swimmer test on Friday, including John. Their coordination was a little out of rhythm, but they were off to a good start as they swam from one side of the shallow end of the pool to the other.

As I was saying good-bye to the children and getting ready for the next class, John’s mother walked toward me. In her hand, she carried a  plate covered in aluminum foil.

 “Thank you for helping John learn to swim,” she said as she handed it to me, “His father and I are so excited.” Surprised and not accustomed to affirmation, I thanked her and told her how much I had enjoyed working with John. I told her the story of how scared I was when I first learned to swim. I felt honored to help this little boy overcome his fear. I hoped in time he would come to enjoy swimming as much as I did. Watching John and his mother walk out of the pool gate laughing and holding hands made me smile. 

I took a minute before the next class of the day to look under the foil. It was a plate filled with brownies. I smelled the chocolate and could hardly wait to eat one. Although I had heard of brownies, this would be my first time actually tasting one. And this was also the first time in my life I could remember someone expressing appreciation to me. I was almost sixteen. I grew up in a home unaccustomed to extending kindness. Holding the plate, I savored the grace of her gesture. I felt special.  

I only taught swimming one summer. Life changed the next year. My mother went to work full-time and I had no way of getting to the pool. I was sad and disappointed. I yearned for the peace the water gave me. Unfortunately, many years passed before I would swim again. 

Four months after my husband, Mike and I were married, I convinced him to start swimming laps at Duke University where he was a Divinity School student. I remembered how much fun I had swimming in the summer when I was a teenager teaching children and lifeguarding. Since none of the  eleven high schools in Columbus had pools, my time in the water was limited to summer workouts at the neighborhood pool. Now, with Mike in school, we had free access to the university pool year-round. I was eager to get into a regular habit of swimming.

 

While Mike went to school full-time, I worked in a school for hearing impaired children.  Every evening after dinner, Mike would study for a couple of hours and then at about 9:00 pm we would drive to the university pool and swim laps.

The first time we went, Mike mentioned his breathing was not well-coordinated with his arm movements. I gave him a few suggestions. He practiced holding on to the side of the pool, turning his head to breathe with his arm overhead. His timing improved, and he swallowed less water with each stroke. Gradually, he developed a smooth, coordinated rhythm eventually moving faster than me! We swam for almost an hour each night, returning home refreshed, ready for a snack and bedtime. We continued this routine until he graduated.

After Mike was assigned to a pastorate, I swam intermittently as pool availability was limited.  One small town where Mike served two churches, had an outdoor pool open only in the summer. The next church was in a large town with a YMCA. We joined within a week of moving.

I swam half a mile the day I went into the hospital to deliver our first daughter. For the second daughter, I had to stop swimming two weeks before she came because I was in early labor. Otherwise, I have continued to spend at least five days a week swimming laps since January 1975.

Swimming began to take on a deeper meaning after I had children. I realized the forty minutes spent going back and forth from one side of the pool to the next offered peace and a quiet rhythm, which I lacked during the day. 

In 1997, as memories of my childhood trauma surfaced, I found myself overwhelmed, out of control, grasping to find ways to cope. Water, a continuing thread in my life, was sustaining during these challenging years. I thought back to passages in the Bible where Jesus interacted with water. He walked on water, taught large groups of people next to rivers, baptized with water, and changed water into wine. 

I especially connected with a story in John 5:1-5, describing the pool called Bethesda near the sheep gate in Jerusalem. Crowds of sick people gathered around the pool. Some old manuscripts add a few verses omitted from most Bibles. “The people were waiting for the water to move, because every now and then an angel of the Lord went down into the pool and stirred the water. The first sick person to go into the pool after the water was stirred was healed from whatever disease he or she had.

”I read these verses over and over. When I went to the pool, just before I jumped in, I began stirring the water with my hands, inviting God to be part of my swim. I prayed I too would experience healing with each lap.

Swimming was a way to pray. While I swam, I felt carried, not pulled in by the mental and emotional events with which I was dealing. The time in the water raked away these concerns. In the water, I was immersed in God’s presence. 

When I swim, God often gives me a word, insight, or image, reminders of God’s presence.  Both my muscles and my mind relax. I am grateful for what I encounter in the water, God and myself, growing in strength and confidence to persevere along a difficult path. 

Some days the water loosens emotions which have not been able to surface. Anger, frustration and sadness come out when I think about challenges in my life. The water is always open to receive whatever I bring. God hears the struggles of my heart with each stroke.

Occasionally, tears seep through my goggles blending with the water.  I am grateful for the way I can truly be myself with God while I swim.  I finish my laps feeling like I have talked to a good friend, and when I dry off on the deck, I feel better, cleansed, refreshed. 

In time, I reached a place of wellness. The emotional challenges were overcome. God’s companionship in the water reminded me how well God knew my needs and cared for me. 

I am grateful for the swim lessons offered to me when I was a seven-year-old Brownie Scout. Even today, I follow the instructions my swim teacher gave me all those years ago, stretching my arm and leg muscles and feeling the bubbles tickling my cheeks when I breathe out into the water. I wasn’t as aware of God then as I am now, but I have a sense that God was right beside me carrying me along during those moments of apprehension and anxiety, teaching me to love the water and helping me to feel held and healed.

Natural-Dyed Fabric: A Story of Giving

A few years ago I started to dye my own fabric from flowers, tree bark, blueberries, black beans, walnut shells, dried leaves, and other items found in nature. 

The process of preparing fabric for dyeing is not difficult, but it takes time. I use 100% white cotton fabric, soaked for twelve hours in a mixture of soy milk and water. Then, I prepare a pot of water and boil the things I’ve found on my nature walks.

In early January, I collected pine cones during a walk in my neighborhood. I had no idea what to expect or if boiling pine cones would do anything at all. It was all an experiment to me, but I put four pine cones in boiling water and was surprised to see burgundy appear.

I put small pieces (8” x 8”) of the prepared cotton in a pan of dye, letting the fabric soak for about an hour. Removing the fabric, it air dries, then it’s ready to use. 

The muted colors that come from dyeing items found in nature bring peace to my soul. 

I also dry flowers, making paint by soaking the petals in a mixture of water and a pinch of baking soda. I can also use dye to paint fabric or paper. 

When I gather flowers or tree bark or pine cones or other items from nature I see their beauty. I notice colors, shapes, patterns and feel the texture. 

Dyeing fabric with natural color is a story of giving. I appreciate the beautiful flowers in my neighbor’s yard. When a particular flower’s season comes to an end and my neighbor shares the petals with me, I make natural dye or paint,  and then transfer the color to fabric. In this process, the flower continues to give. The flower might be dried or seemingly “dead” but its beauty carries on in the color now soaked into the fabric. 

[📸 The hand-pieced and quilted hexagon pattern in the photo is called “Flower Garden.” I dyed the fabric using items from nature like flowers, leaves, and bark, as well as fruit and vegetables. The pale yellow center is from a bunch of fresh daffodils. The row around the center contains pink fabric from an avocado skin. The brown fabric is from a collection of items I found on a walk along the Monon Trail including a walnut shell, acorns, bark from a tree and dried leaves. The last row contains gray fabric from black beans and purple fabric from blueberries. The dye for the bright yellow binding comes from the skin of a yellow onion.]

Working Through a Complicated Grief: Sympathy Cards and Papermaking

99..100..101. I counted each sympathy card in the pile on the floor of my small home office, some opened, some still sealed. I received these cards from kind and thoughtful people after the passing of each of my parents four days apart in mid-January 2013.  When the cards first started to arrive, I opened each one, freezing each time the card said something about happy memories or beloved father and mother.  No one who wrote the cards was aware of the strained relationship I had with my parents.

With their passing I was plunged into emotional turmoil, merely going through the motions of everyday life for many months. Kind remarks from people at their services and on cards made me confused, angry, and eventually numb. I wanted to grab these friends by the shoulders and tell them the truth. My parents, who were deeply admired by many and were mentors to countless teenagers and college students, had deprived me of love and care and hurt me, making me feel invisible and unsafe in my own home.

I had no voice to tell the truth. I stood numbly shaking people’s hands and receiving hugs.

Verses on many sympathy cards imply loving relationships. I quit opening the cards toward the end of January because I couldn’t tolerate the words. Reading a card with a loving sentiment was like hammering a nail into the middle of my heart.

Not knowing how to process what happened, I  googled “How to Grieve Abusive Parents,” and found nothing helpful on the internet. I met with a friend at the church I attend who was often consulted on grief. He listened attentively to my story, only to say, “Your grief is complicated.”

The counselor I was seeing at the time did not know how to help me. I realize grief has to be expressed with words and emotions out in the open  in order to have something to work with in a professional setting. But I was like a frozen statue. I was looking for a special set of steps, unique to my situation, that I could walk through to find relief.

At any funeral home visitations I had ever attended, anyone I knew who had lost a mother or father was sad, crying, clinging to items the parent had owned, putting together scrapbooks of family photographs and recalling pleasant, happy moments together. I wanted nothing to do with any of my parents’ material items. I felt I had nothing positive to remember. My brother who describes his childhood as happy and loving willingly packed boxes from their apartment to take home with him.

By early June, six months after their passing, I found strength to open all of the sympathy cards. I finally realized the cards were not about my parents, but for me. The love expressed in handwritten notes was sincere and meant to bring comfort to a grieving daughter. Being able to receive love from well-meaning people who sent cards was a large hurdle for me to overcome along this unusual path of grief.

Interacting with the cards in creative ways helped me find peace. The people who sent the cards to express their sympathy had no idea they were providing me with material to work through the complicated grief I was experiencing.

First, my writing coach at the time introduced me to the concept of “found poems.” A found poem is created by taking words, phrases or sentences from books, magazines or other sources and putting them together in lines.  I used my exacto knife and cut out phrases from the cards to which I could relate such as, “Jesus holds your hand,” or “God brings comfort.” I made several found poems using phrases taken from the cards. 

Here is one:

“Someone will keep your troubled heart,

Holding it close, with peace coming, during a difficult time.

Words are inadequate to express concern and sympathy

When deepest comfort is needed for the heart.

Jesus reminds us, “I give you my peace. Let not your heart be troubled.”

Next, I wrote thank you notes to the people who sent cards. I looked at illustrations on the front of the card, noting colors and designs. Opening the card, I read the verse or personal note and again looked for colors and objects. My thank you notes often made reference to the colors on the card and how a particular color affected me. For example, I wrote to one individual,  “The blue border on your card brought me peace. I think of peace when I see the color blue.”

Occasionally, I made a comment on my relationship to the sender. “I remember the fun we had with your family going to the swimming pool when I was in seventh grade,” I wrote to my parent’s close friends in the neighborhood where I lived from sixth grade through college.

I wrote twenty letters, but didn’t send them. I wasn’t sure about the appropriateness of sending a thank you note for a sympathy card. I concluded that the exercise was merely for me, a way to loosen feelings buried deep within, unexpressed feelings toward my parents who were now gone and couldn’t hurt me or anyone else anymore.

Over a year later, in April 2014, during my private art lesson, I mentioned the struggle I was having dealing with my parent’s passing, especially not having language to process my inner turmoil. I had no words, except the found poems I wrote from the sympathy cards, and those words weren’t fully mine.

My teacher, a kind and compassionate Seventh Day Adventist, asked, “Have you ever made paper?” 

“No,” I replied, but I trusted this young woman’s ideas and listened while she explained the simple, but time consuming task of making paper. 

Then she gently suggested, “Maybe when you are ready, you can tear the cards into small pieces and I can show you how to make paper from them.” 

I went home and looked at the cards still resting on the floor of my office. Some of the cards were intact, others sliced open by my exacto tool for found poems.  

I gathered a few cards, sat on the floor and started tearing. My mind recalled the day when my brother called Friday morning, January 11, telling me my father died during the night from aspiration pneumonia. He had been hospitalized in early December, and by Christmas he joined my mother at the Columbus, Ohio nursing home where she had lived for two years.

My husband, Mike, and I left for Columbus on Monday afternoon. Wanting to minimize contact with my father even in death, I chose not to attend the visitation at the funeral home Monday evening. I didn’t know what to expect at a funeral for someone I didn’t like. I was so confused thinking I should be sad. Friends whose fathers died were sad. I didn’t know how I felt.

The service was the next morning at the Greek Orthodox Church. On the way to the church, Mike and I decided to stop by the nursing home where my mother was receiving extended care. When we got to the facility, I asked for a chaplain at the front desk. I needed spiritual support for what I was about to face.

Walking down the wide halls and around a few corners, I reviewed the nature of the relationship I shared with my parents. My childhood and adolescence were not happy. Trying to sort out the various emotions surfacing left me feeling numb and confused.

We last visited my mother in July when we had hoped to take her on a walk outside in her wheelchair. Unfortunately, long-standing dementia had made her unresponsive and we left disappointed.

As we entered her room before the funeral, she was thrashing from side to side in bed, very agitated. The nurse standing nearby said she would get medication to calm my mother.

The chaplain arrived and introduced himself.  I sat next to my ninety-year-old mother’s bed. Her eyes were closed tightly. I put my hand on her shoulder, and spoke into her left ear, knowing hearing is the last sense to leave a dying person.  I asked God for words to say to a woman who had not known how to show love to me and failed to protect me from harm.

I quietly talked to her, telling her it was ok to go, to be with her mother, her two sisters, brother,  father, and husband. I tried to get into my mother’s grieving seven-year-old-heart from the loss of her mother to diphtheria, articulating what she never was able to put into words. Her grief had morphed and expressed itself in her actions as an abusive, controlling mother. I told her she would be able to see her mother and spend eternity with her. Her mother would give her as many hugs as she wanted, something she missed growing up. She and her mother would live together side by side forever.

When the nurse returned prepared to give my mother a shot, I told her to wait. During the time I spent talking, my mother’s body became calm and relaxed. God gave me the strength to show care to my mother during what would be the final hours of her life. 

I asked the chaplain to say a prayer before we left for my father’s funeral. When Mike and I walked out the door of my mother’s room, the chaplain, having seen how I had interacted with my mother, said,” You must have come from a loving family.” I wanted to tell him the truth, but I had no energy. We had to get to the church, and my mother’s nursing home room was not the place to explain my life story.

Reflecting on his words as we got to our car, I realized how they had made my sadness worse. I felt he should have been more hesitant   to make a quick assessment on the nature of a person’s relationship with a parent based on an end-of-life observation. I felt he should have kept his impressions to himself so I could grieve without more complications. But, as I reflected, I thought back on how quickly I had sometimes made mental assessments about people as I observed their interaction with siblings, parents, family members, and friends in various circumstances. Being married to a pastor had brought many opportunities for me to be around others  in times of trial, perhaps more than the average person. I made a mental note to apply caution and restraint in the future, not to be hasty in my thoughts, never assuming family dynamics, and most importantly to keep my observations to myself.

Following my father’s funeral, a steady stream of people came to tell me how much he was loved by students and colleagues where he taught at a Big Ten School. When I could bear no more, I told Mike it was time to leave. On the way home, we stopped to give my mother the flag from my father’s casket, typically given to the surviving widow. She was as calm as when we left, her eyes closed tightly.  I tucked the triangularly-folded flag under her stiff arm and described the military ceremony a few hours ago, kissed her forehead, and forced out the words, “I love you.”

About two hours into our trip home, my brother called to say my mother had died. 

When we got home, Mike went to the church for a few hours to work. We took care of some business on Wednesday and headed back to Columbus on Thursday. Two deaths and two funerals in four days. I was exhausted emotionally and physically.

Sitting on the floor with a growing pile of tiny paper pieces on one side and a few last cards in front of me, I didn’t realize how quickly the cards took me back to those horrible seven days in mid-January. I didn’t feel as overwhelmed or angry as I did during the weeks following their funerals. Although I didn’t feel peace, maybe I was making progress going through the uncharted territory of complicated grief, by interacting with the cards.

When I walked up the steps of my art teacher’s quaint house, holding my shoebox of torn sympathy cards,  I was curious about our project. The artist greeted me at the door with a smile. “Are you ready to make paper?”

I stepped into the living room and saw three tables, one for each stage. The first table had a large tub of warm water. “Dump the torn pieces into the tub. The paper has to soak and get soggy.”

I stood next to the tub watching the paper gradually absorb the water. At the same time, I felt God softening my heart, a feeling I had not experienced for many months. I was like the paper, beginning a transformation.

Next, we dipped a sheet mold (window screen nailed to a wooden frame) into the tub of warm water, filling the mold with soaked paper.  Finally, we used a rolling pin over the pieces, squeezing out as much water as we could. The pieces gradually blended into one sheet of new paper.  We flipped the new paper from the screen to the third table covered with plastic to dry.

 I made four sheets of paper. “When you come back next week you can take the paper home,” my art teacher explained.

As we were cleaning up, I noticed pieces of the sympathy cards still floating in the tub of warm water.

“Can I take these leftover pieces home?” I asked my teacher, not wanting to leave any part of the cards behind. I had become quite attached to the cards. The companionship they had provided  for over a year made them seem like a friend, walking beside me, holding me up as I stumbled along the endless days of confusion, anger, and unknowing.

“Sure. Maybe you can figure out a way to use them.”

I put the tiny, wet paper scraps on a cookie sheet that my art teacher loaned me. When I got home, I spread the pieces over the counter of the spare bathroom. After a week,  I gathered  the wrinkled, dried remains, arranging them on the floor of my office. 

I trusted God to lead me to further exploration with the fragments in front of me. I spent time with the pieces each night, sifting them through my fingers, noting the ones with legible writing and signatures. I sorted them by color, and size. One night, I threaded a needle with white thread, and sewed the pieces together, making an X, a strong, basic embroidery stitch I remembered from long ago.

Each night I sewed more of the tiny pieces of paper.  God guided the direction of the pattern. When I started, I never knew what would happen, how I would sew the pieces or what shape they would take. I worked on the pieces for about three weeks, and had a strong sense when it was time to stop. I looked at what I had made – something done completely with God’s guidance – a paper quilt.

Sewing the pieces each day, moving the needle in and out of the dried, curled paper, slowly  brought a sense of calm to my heart, reminding me how I felt God’s presence when I quilted. When I finished and looked at the rectangular shape, my heart finally experienced peace. The turmoil was gone, my body relaxed. I was in awe of God’s goodness and use of these cards and this craft to help me when no one else was able to reach the place of my deep wounding.

The sympathy cards were transformed in many ways from the time they arrived at my home. Although I wasn’t aware at first, I was being transformed too. After initially feeling resistant to the cards, the colors had ministered to me. Then I ignored the words that weren’t helpful and cut out the ones that were helpful to make my own found poems. I had torn what remained into pieces and soaked them in water to make fresh paper. Then, I had sewn together most of the pieces that remained intact. About twenty small pieces remained after I finished making the paper quilt.  I wanted to honor the remaining pieces so I buried them in the woods behind my house. They returned to the earth.

When my art teacher suggested making paper from the sympathy cards, I had no idea what would happen in the process. But transforming these well-intentioned words of love and kindness into something new brought me to a place of comfort and peace.