Chicken

Dave just recently got me a very nice present.

Like my nesting doll measuring cup?  That wasn't the present, but she's cute, right?

 I feel totally inept in the kitchen.  And with just I can't eveneven finish that sentencecan't he two of us here, and neither of us being really all that snooty when it comes to food, well, there isn't a whole lot of need for real live cooking in this house.  So if it's dinner time and I'm home alone, I am totally not above pickles and peanut butter for dinner.  Maybe I'll go all out and fry an egg, but really, why bother.

 But then I watched a movie and read a book and listened to a sermon ("If you want to experience God but not good food, not breathtaking views, not music and dancing, not beauty, then you have fundamentally misunderstood the nature of God." I mean, of course! Of course!), and it has motivated me to move.  Not so much as a self-improvement (although there is that too), but as a deepening of joy and expansion of life.

 So the other day, I made this thing with a French name but it is basically chicken in a spicy cream sauce.  It has to be French because it came straight out of Mastering the Art of French Cooking, the Julia Child authoritative textbook, as faithful an execution as I could manage.  Yup.  Dave bought me the boxed set of volumes 1 and 2, and guys.  I never thought something so delicious would turn up in my kitchen not in a Macaroni Grill leftovers box.

So am I writing you today to tell you about chicken?  Well, sort of.

I went into surgery the other day.  It was my first time to be admitted to a hospital, you know with the whole being knocked out for several hours and waking up with a four inch gash in my neck and who knows what-all side effects.  Which sounded awwwwesome.

And what's the question you always ask people going into surgery?  "Are you nervous", right?  Right?  Because presumably this surgery involves you voluntarily letting a guy with a knife I can't even finish that sentence.  And results in a four inch gash and who know what-all side effects (which turned out to be numbness from my neck across the shoulder cap and down my upper arm with minimal muscle authority).  But I really wasn't all that nervous going into this...and why?  A couple reasons, I guess.  Denial is a good one.  The good old fingers in the ears lalalalala, this isn't happening schtick.  Also, like the chicken, when you have an international expert telling you it's all going to be ok, you tend to believe them.  It turns out my neurosurgeon is one of those, just like Julia Child. Sort of.

But my favorite reasons are two: my husband and my Mom.  Mom came in the day before the surgery and will be here for a few more days, helping me wash my hair and make dinner and keep me company (and transplanting day lillies, whoohoo!).  And David has been nothing but gentle support and kindness and encouragement.  With this kind of loveliness enveloping me, how could I worry?  God has provided for this expensive fiasco, both in the practical and the comfort of the soul.  I really feel the "leads me beside still waters" right now, even with the inability to use my right arm except as a sort of club with fingers on it (I can still type, as long as my left hand places my right in the right spot).  It turns out that the mass they removed was about the size of an egg, and several nerve strands were stretched taut across it.  When they moved those taut strands, it shocked them...which is why I've lost so much feeling.  But the Julia Child surgeon said both feeling and strength would most likely all return...in time.

So.  Here I wait.  In this beautiful place, surrounded with love and care.  I miss my family, but I am so grateful.  I'm so grateful for this sweet time of dependence, the ability to give the gift of asking for help, and the gifts lavished on me from all sides.  I am so grateful for this "trial" which is really just an invitation to let go, to be small and weak for awhile. To not be the capable one.  Thank you.