We bought an oven when we moved here. It was expensive–a luxury in a country where most people cook only using a gas-powered two-burner stovetop. I can count on one hand the number of people I know here who have an oven of any type. One of my expat friends has an electric oven; another has a large metal box that she puts on top of her burners to bake the occasional cake. Neither of those options fit within my image of what my kitchen should be like. I wanted a gas oven, one that I could rely on through power cuts, one that I could turn to a specific temperature and reasonably expect the oven to maintain it. My husband was on board. He counted out the stacks of cash for the men at the store. I think he couldn’t imagine having a kitchen where freshly baked cookies weren’t an option. My expectations were a little broader. I envisioned cakes, roasts, lasagnas.

Oppressive heat, pre and postnatal joys, inaccessible ingredients, language learning, workworkwork–it all limited the products of my oven. I’ve used my oven here for plenty of things–even for my first turkey, but I haven’t been keeping our home constantly stocked with from-scratch sourdough or regular roast chickens, as I at first imagined. Many things about life here are like life at home; one similarity is that I have plenty of other things to do than spend most of my spare time in the kitchen. My mouth waters for multi-step, multi-hour meals, but my mind, my time rarely seem to accommodate the necessary preparations.

These kitchen dreams and tendencies reveal deeper truths about myself. My mind–in novels, in relationships, in family life–gravitates toward the marinated, the roasted, the slow, the purposeful, the invested, the worthwhile. I realized last night, though, as I struggled to pull not-yet-tender beef for barbecue, that I usually settle for the microwaved, the pan-fried, the quick, the easy.

Maybe I think it hurts less if a shorter term investment doesn’t pay off? Maybe I think quantity, variety is more satisfying than a subtle melding of flavors in a product or relationship that took time to develop? Maybe. More likely, I’m just impatient. With myself, with others, with God.

I want to be more of an oven-y person. I want to be someone who takes time to invest in relationships, to really understand and love the people with whom I interact. I want to commit to things for the long-haul, to start something because it’s worthwhile and to finish it for the same reason. I want to see the projects I accomplish, the games I play, the dinners I cook, the diapers I change, and the conversations I have as ingredients in a bigger dish, as a part of a whole life lived with joy and purpose. What will it take, this switch? Time, energy, motivation? Isn’t that what I have? Isn’t that all I have, by the grace of God and the power of His Holy Spirit?

Oh, and by the way–I got a bread maker, a beautiful bread maker, for Christmas. It’s waiting for me in America. I just might be able to accomplish some of my domestic dreams with its help.

It’s a labor of love.

I take my black beans from Thailand, my fresh produce from South Asia, my chipotle and vinegar from Florida. I soak and simmer, choose and chop, sprinkle and season, until I come up with something that’s close to my memory, that’s close to home.

Where I’m from in Florida, we eat Cuban food all the time. We eat Mexican and Spanish, too, but Cuban will always taste distinctly of home to me. Whether the plate of pork, beans, rice, and plantains is from a bricked Ybor City institution, a hole-in-the-wall near my house, or a friend’s kitchen, its warm, tangy flavors comfort me.

Tonight, I serve up plates and a highchair with simple piles of rice and beans. The only condiment on the table is hot sauce. My daughter digs her pudgy fingers into her beans. Some of the food makes it in her mouth. Most makes it on the floor. It doesn’t matter, though. She gets a taste. She’s forming her own tastes of home, guided by my memories and my cooking.

The next night, I make black bean cakes, held together with cheese and cornmeal, piled high with salsa and sour yogurt and avocados. My husband jokes that we eat beans so that we can afford the expensive toppings we like with them; avocados, jarred salsa, and cheddar cheese are all pricey special treats here. He’s sweet to me. He knows one of my love languages is food.

Dinner is too late this night for Baby, but I leave her some small cakes for lunch the next day, along with some precious slices of avocado. I want to make sure she gets exposed to these flavors. I want them to lodge in her memory, like they are in mine. When she tastes them for the first time in Tampa, I want her to get a bite of longing and comfort along with me.

I have more to teach her. Much more. In the coming months and years, I’ll be helping to shape her into a little girl and then a young woman. That eighteen-year-old I’ll send out into the world seems so far away now, but I’m sure, when she’s here, these highchair days will seem like yesterday.

What kinds of things do I want her to love, to remember? What kinds of things do I want her to feel are a part of her identity? What kinds of things do I want her to pass on to her own children because they’re just that important to her?

I do want to teach her a passionate hunger, an unflagging yearning, but not (just) for Cuban food.

No, I want her to hunger for Heaven. I want her to so long for her true home that she works hard, sweating and striving in love, to make parts of life taste as much like Home as possible.

It takes a change of focus, this living-the-Kingdom-now kind of work. I think Peter says it well: “Therefore, preparing your minds for action, and being sober-minded, set your hope fully on the grace that will be brought to you at the revelation of Jesus Christ.” (I Peter 1:13). When our hope is set on the grace of Jesus and our desires are trained on the full revelation of His glory, our minds are prepared to to think clearly and our wills are prepared to love dearly.

I’ll be her first teacher in this cuisine. I’d like to show her what it looks like to live here while longing for a heavenly home. I want to teach her what ingredients she needs to bring Kingdom shalom to the people around her.

To be prepared for this work, I need to stand humbly under the guidance of the Holy Spirit. I need to refine my palate to recognize the Already of the Not-Yet when I taste it. I need to set my own focus on Christ and my own will on His. I need to have such a strong assurance of and yearning for my living hope that I go out of my way to share it with others.

It’s a labor of love.

Over the years, I’m sure we’ll find some of those tastes of joy and samplings of hallelujah. And when we catch them, by God’s grace, I pray I’ll see wonder in her eyes and hear praises on her lips as she recognizes her true Home.

We sit on the roof. The clouds haze most of the view above us, but I can still make out a few stars.

He points out a satellite.

“It’s not a plane?” I ask.

“No. It’s too far away, moving too fast.”

The breeze dances over us. It feels much cooler than September in South Asia should. Something stirs inside me. “You know what this reminds me of? Watching the stars with you in the cold.”

“Oh yeah?” I think he smiles at me.

“Yeah. Like that once, in that field, when we were staying in the mountains with your family. Remember that? We were so cold.”

“I think so.”

“Or the many times in college that we watched the stars. In trees, sometimes. On the hood of your truck, too.”

The call to prayer sounds, echoing off the tall buildings around us, counterpointing with calls from other mosques, hauntingly hanging in the thick air. We sit in silence.

“What are you thinking about?” I ask after a bit.

I hear his voice, deep with reflection and the remnants of a cold: “Lots of things. What our future will look like. What kinds of jobs I could apply for. But the call to prayer interrupted me.”

I nod, but I’m not sure he can see it. “Me too.”

I think about all the people around me who are stopping their lives right now to pray. Maybe they’re in the middle of cooking dinner. Maybe they’re sewing clothes in a nearby factory. Maybe they’re studying for an exam. Then, they stop.

Their stopping stops me. I pray for them. I pray for us. I pray for me.

I look around at the other roofs, the plants growing on some of them, the construction sites on top of others, the neon signs sitting on some further away. I breathe deeply. The air somehow seems fresh up here.

So, I bring some things out to air: the habit of “prayer without ceasing;” the habit of stopping, staring, reflecting; the habit of remembering the past and trusting Him for the future; the habit of loving those around me right now. These moments of simplicity and silence out here on the roof have reminded me of the joy of discipline, of the importance of vigilance.

“Do not be slothful in zeal, be fervent in spirit, serve the Lord” (Romans 12:11 ESV). Yes. Please.

Later in the evening, as we drift off to sleep, I ask him, “Can we go out on the roof again soon?”

For the past two Mondays, I have been meditating on love, using a quote from T.S. Eliot’s The Four Quartets, as a starting point. You might want to read part 1 and part 2 to get the background to today’s thoughts. Next week, I’ll still be mulling over related ideas.

Technology fascinates my baby. She has no toys that require batteries, but she’s managed to claim our computers, our cell phones, our camera–everything that makes light or noise–as her rightful replacement.

She uses all of her effort to scoot towards a bright computer screen. Her little hands still don’t have very good aim, but sometimes I’d swear that she’s purposefully turning off the computer’s volume or pausing our dvd with her wavering swats. She stops making cute faces when we bring out the camera and simply stares blankly at it. When she wakes up in the middle of the night, she’ll sometimes stop crying when she sees the light on one of our phones as we check the time.

The (early) perils of raising a twenty-first century child?

The other night, I was working on my computer. My sweet husband was holding the baby. He grabbed his phone to make a call and baby predictably swatted at it. She started to fuss once he took it away, and since I was busy, I handed her my phone to hold. The (early) perils of being a twenty-first century parent.

Something–the Holy Spirit, probably–caught me. I asked, “When does it stop? At what point do I stop giving my child what she wants just to keep her from crying?”

God graciously used this small episode to teach me a big lesson: love is hard.

I know that it’s not loving to let a child have whatever she wants. To love her is to teach her to love, to teach her to be patient and kind. But when I’m busy and I need to concentrate, giving into her desires is much easier than any other option.

“Love is itself unmoving, / Only the cause and end of movement,” Eliot said. If that’s true, then actions, not apathy, should result from love’s unwavering presence.

Really loving is hard. It means setting aside my priorities, forgetting about my comfort, not settling for the easy way out. Really loving my baby might mean setting aside my work (and perhaps going to bed later as a result) in order to play with her or feed her. It might mean listening to her cry for a minute while I work. Really loving my baby means doing something consciously out of love for her, not mindlessly doing things in order to keep her from disturbing me.

Real love has consequences. 

It attacks my goals, my preferences, my conveniences.

It makes me consider another’s best at the expense of my own.

It strips me bare, leaving me with nothing but the cross of Christ on my shoulder.

It destroys my plans, leaving me with nothing but His steps in which to follow.

So thankful for these beautiful, marvelous, everyday gifts:

84. the Church–past, present; near, far; known, obscure

I’m counting my gifts from God with others today:

“Be still, my soul! Thy God doth undertake
To guide the future as He has the past.
Thy hope, thy confidence let nothing shake;
All now mysterious shall be bright at last.
Be still, my soul! The waves and wind shall know
His voice who ruled them while He dwelt below.”

from the hymn ”Be Still My Soul” by Katharina von Schegel; Psalm 29:3 taken from the NLT

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