I promised myself that this year, instead of just writing (complaining? venting?) about the sadness of this illness, I would write about the joy (aka GOG or the Grace of God). If you're not a believer, you can just call it 'joy'. I don't mind. So here's my joy story for January.
I have always hated cooking. I had exalted dreams of my future, in which I would be this professional powerhouse. On the flipside of my 'powerhousedness' however, I had waking nightmares of being in a kitchen in a hot pink power suit and an apron. In this terrible dream, there were two squalling children sitting on the floor behind me (holding the apron strings of course), while I stood slaving over a hot stove, steam wafting up into my beautifully made up face. Yeah, well I have a pretty vivid imagination. As a consequence of this nightmare that I was sure would befall me should I learn to cook, I didn't. I refused to cook though I did quite like baking.
Imagine my surprise then, when just this morning, I realized how much I enjoy (not saying 'love' just 'enjoy') pulling a meal together. It is relaxing even when I'm tired, to create something edible and enjoyable. Moreover, since I didn't learn to cook at my mother's or my grandmother's elbow, it's a very personal accomplishment when I get things done in a timely manner.
Don't get me wrong, I'd still prefer to be working full time and I'm working on that, but it brings me peace and joy (there's that word I promised to use more this year) when I present a pretty, well-balanced, good tasting plate.
So today, after I'd baked West Indian coconut sweet bread and then made lunch and set the lunch in front of my mother, even her, "Miss, I can't pay for this you know" (indicating the plate) couldn't slow me down. I'd already found my joy for the day and her confusion wasn't about to steal it from me.
The truth is, my joy is grace. I don't talk about my faith in this blog because (i) I don't know who reads it and I don't want to offend and (ii) it usually isn't germane to what I'm writing about. Except, today it is. So please allow me just this one time to say, that His grace allows me to find joy in stirring a hot pot in spite of that vivid dream. His grace today allowed me to keep going in spite of Mummy's, "Miss, I can't pay for this you know". Honestly, were it not for grace, there would be no joy and plenty of weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth.
And just so you know, these two sweet breads taste (and smell) even better than they look! It's going to be a very good weekend. I can tell. Next up: tangerine muffins. Can't wait!!! Oh joy!
I have always hated cooking. I had exalted dreams of my future, in which I would be this professional powerhouse. On the flipside of my 'powerhousedness' however, I had waking nightmares of being in a kitchen in a hot pink power suit and an apron. In this terrible dream, there were two squalling children sitting on the floor behind me (holding the apron strings of course), while I stood slaving over a hot stove, steam wafting up into my beautifully made up face. Yeah, well I have a pretty vivid imagination. As a consequence of this nightmare that I was sure would befall me should I learn to cook, I didn't. I refused to cook though I did quite like baking.
Imagine my surprise then, when just this morning, I realized how much I enjoy (not saying 'love' just 'enjoy') pulling a meal together. It is relaxing even when I'm tired, to create something edible and enjoyable. Moreover, since I didn't learn to cook at my mother's or my grandmother's elbow, it's a very personal accomplishment when I get things done in a timely manner.
Don't get me wrong, I'd still prefer to be working full time and I'm working on that, but it brings me peace and joy (there's that word I promised to use more this year) when I present a pretty, well-balanced, good tasting plate.
So today, after I'd baked West Indian coconut sweet bread and then made lunch and set the lunch in front of my mother, even her, "Miss, I can't pay for this you know" (indicating the plate) couldn't slow me down. I'd already found my joy for the day and her confusion wasn't about to steal it from me.The truth is, my joy is grace. I don't talk about my faith in this blog because (i) I don't know who reads it and I don't want to offend and (ii) it usually isn't germane to what I'm writing about. Except, today it is. So please allow me just this one time to say, that His grace allows me to find joy in stirring a hot pot in spite of that vivid dream. His grace today allowed me to keep going in spite of Mummy's, "Miss, I can't pay for this you know". Honestly, were it not for grace, there would be no joy and plenty of weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth.
And just so you know, these two sweet breads taste (and smell) even better than they look! It's going to be a very good weekend. I can tell. Next up: tangerine muffins. Can't wait!!! Oh joy!
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