The City of the Mountains

Ah, Monterrey, the "City of the Mountains", you have captured my heart.

I've just returned from a week-long excursion to central Mexico. What an adventure! What an adventure and what a blessing! I have a million things to show you: chandeliers in caves... the sunset in Saltillo... a volcanic mountain hike... and so forth. But for now, let me drag out my pictures and show you my favorite part of the trip: Monterrey, Mexico. The City of the Mountains. Here she is, the way I saw her.

The Catedral Metropolitana de Nuestra Señora de Monterrey. Began in 1770, this cathedral serves as the seat for the local archdiocese. As I laced my fingers through its ornate iron gate and gazed up to the tip-top, I realized I was hardly breathing. It's that spectacular in person.

Even from across the street.

On now to La Macroplaza, one of the world's largest plazas and the seat of cultural (and shopping!) goings-on in Monterrey.

Monterrey is second in size only to Mexico City. It's a capital city... the capital of Nuevo Leon. The city bustles, but in a siesta/it's-too-humid-to-move kind of way.

(Don't be fooled by the mountains in the distance. This place was not cool. And don't be fooled -as I was - by claims of "air conditioning". Two things, I learned, mean very different things in our separate cultures: "tacos" and "air conditioning". In Mexico, "air conditioning" is a one-bladed, wobbly ceiling fan or a rolled-down car window. And don't even get me started on the tacos.)

The shops and vendors along the plaza, however, are wonderful... lively and colorful and unlike anything I've seen this side of the Rio Grande. I browsed the market an entire morning, stopping finally at the candy booth for coffee-flavored nuggets. The atmosphere here tickled me... the candy booths look nothing like those in our malls. No plastic-filled bins of neon-colored balls or blobs here. In La Macroplaza, sweets seemed to revolve around sugar, nuts, grains and chocolate... although the chocolate isn't as tooth-bending sweet as we're accustomed to. But hey, chocolate is chocolate. I bought a piece, wandered out into the sun and squinted up at this - the Fuente de La Vida.

You don't see this in your town square every day.

By now it's early afternoon and we're tired and hot... too tired and hot to walk anymore. We descended to the depths of Monterrey and found ourselves in a cavernous monorail station. It was unbelievably well kept. I was shocked, to tell you the truth, having ridden the trains in New York City, Boston, and Dallas, to find a subway system this clean in Mexico. This clean and deserted.

Silly Americans. As it turned out, our destination was only two blocks from where we were. No matter the rail was deserted. Our guide laughed at us as we boarded the empty train and asked why no one was aboard. "Because," he grinned, "no one in Mexico would pay 460 pesos (about 45 cents) to ride two blocks."

Of course they wouldn't.

Back on the street, I took my time taking in the sights and sounds of Monterrey. After tasting some authentic Monterrey cheese from a sidewalk cart, my wanderings took me by this man, whom I've since affectionately come to call the Monterrey Man. Locals say he sits against this tree every day, feeding the pigeons.

Whenever I close my eyes and think of Monterrey, I'll always remember him... sitting there tossing out pieces of tortillas to flocks of strutting, multi-speckled birds. I'll remember him and I'll remember the mountains. Always the mountains....

Ah, Monterrey... you and your people have stolen my heart.

Monday Moment: Cleft of the Rock

When my glory passes by,

I will put you in a cleft in the rock

and cover you with my hand

until I have passed by.

-Exodus 33:22

If you had asked me, prior to last week, what it took to climb a mountain, I would have shrugged. I guess getting up a mountain is no different than getting through a grocery store, I would have said. You do it one step at a time.

Ha. True, but ha.

Let me tell you what I learned this week: there are so many factors that go into hiking a mountain. First of all, tennis shoes hardly cut it. I know this because the second day on the mountain I chucked my hiking boots in favor of tennis shoes because my feet were killing me. Stupid, stupid, stupid. My inner thighs ache because of the splits I did when one foot (usually my left), would suddenly and violently slip away from the rest of my body. As the rocks and sand I disturbed would slide, slide, slide away, my heart would pound as I pulled my wayward left foot back to me, like closing a pair of scissors. Yikes.

Secondly, water. Even if you don't drink enough of it in your daily life, you will on a mountain. And it's amazing. You drink four bottles of it, one after the other, and never have to use the restroom. Which, as it turns out, is a good thing.

And, of course, there's the sheer elevation of the whole endeavor. Two steps and your head is swimming. Ten steps and you're panting and gasping. Twenty steps and you want to throw up. I mean, no kidding, we had a hard time getting sparks to spark up there, there's so little oxygen.

Yep, mountains aren't like grocery stores. On a mountain, even the most elementary of tasks become a monumental challenge. You find yourself praying for level terrain. For a cleft in the rock.

My point today, although I'm really too exhausted to have one, is this: there are days ... times ... in our life when we're doing well just to put one foot in front of the other. Right? There are moments we're battling to breathe. Fighting for footing. Struggling to stay where we are. Even as Christians, we can spend days... months... years, even... simply clinging to the Rock... not advancing, not retreating, but just hanging on.

And if... like me on that mountain outside Saltillo... you're just hanging on today, that's okay. Our God is faithful and mindful of your place. Of your location. And as He passes by - just as He did for Moses - He can put you in a cleft in your rock and cover you there with His hand.

So hold tight to the Rock. But at the same time, let the same God who covered Moses provide a shelter for you in your time of need, too. He will be faithful to cover and hide you as everything passes over. And when it has... when it's all blown by... He can set your feet upon the rock once more.

You can learn a lot on a mountain. But you can learn even more in a cleft.

Praise God.

A wonderful Savior is Jesus my Lord,

A wonderful Savior to me;

He hideth my soul in the cleft of the rock,

Where rivers of pleasure I see.

He hideth my soul in the cleft of the rock

That shadows a dry, thirsty land;

He hideth my life with the depths of His love,

And covers me there with His hand,

And covers me there with His hand.

-Fanny Crosby, 1890

Monday Moment is a little devotional to help kick-start your week. Hope to see you again next Monday!

Home From the Volcanic Rock

The interior of Mexico

consists of a mass of volcanic rocks,

thrust up to a great height above the sea-level.

-Edward Burnett Tylor

Oh but they are beautiful volcanic rocks- those crumbly heaps of stone that rush up into the sky. I spent my week among mountains dotted with trees and dusted with clouds.

Can't wait to show you all about it.

But for now, I'll rest. Glad to be home. So glad.

Monday Moment: Beginning To Live

Pharaoh gave this order to all his people: “Every boy that is born you must throw into the Nile.” Now a man of the house of Levi married a Levite woman, and she became pregnant and gave birth to a son. When she saw that he was a fine child, she hid him for three months. But when she could hide him no longer, she got a papyrus basket for him and coated it with tar and pitch. Then she placed the child in it and put it among the reeds along the bank of the Nile. His sister stood at a distance to see what would happen to him. Then Pharaoh’s daughter went down to the Nile to bathe. She saw the basket among the reeds… she opened it and saw the baby … and she felt sorry for him. Then his sister asked Pharaoh’s daughter, “Shall I go and get one of the Hebrew women to nurse the baby?” “Yes, go,” she answered. And the girl went and got the baby’s mother. So the woman took the baby. When the child grew older, she took him to Pharaoh’s daughter and he became her son. She named him Moses, saying, “I drew him out of the water.”

-Exodus 1 and 2 (excerpts)

It grabs me -the story of Moses’ birth. The story of the child among the reeds, placed there as he's just beginning to live.

The biblical account of Moses’ childhood has always fascinated me. As a child, I delighted in imagining a floating basket cradling a crying baby. As a girl, I thrilled with the mention of a sister monitoring baby Moses (what with being the older sister of three brothers myself). And as a teenager, I was intrigued by the irony of the story: how Moses was spared Pharaoh’s death sentence – by Pharaoh’s own daughter, no less – and grew to become the man at the head of the parade during the Hebrew nation’s exodus out of Egypt.

But now, as a young woman, when I read this story, I’m struck with this thought and this thought alone: our God… yours, mine, and even Moses’… is a hope cradler. A dream knower. A heart saver.

I can only imagine what she must have felt, Moses’ mother. I can only imagine her short-lived joy at realizing she was pregnant. Please, please, child, she must have whispered as her baby grew and kicked inside her, please don’t be a boy. What a bittersweet day then, the day she birthed her son. What she must have felt… cried… prayed… as she held her baby. How she must have anguished when, in the dark, she held his small, soft self close and tried to come up with a plan to save him. How terrified she must have been those three months… hurrying to silence his cries and hide him away.

Did she give up then, finally? After 90 long, sleepless, worrisome days, did she make her plan and abandon her hope? The utter heartbreak that woman must have endured as she tucked her son… her precious son… into her basket and released him to the Nile. Did she watch, do you think, as he floated away? When she turned her back on the water’s edge, did she hear his cries? When she closed her eyes, did she see his face? Did she smell his hair? Did she feel his weight against her?

As a piece of her sailed away that day, what did she do with her hope? Her dreams? Her prayers? Did she blame God? Question Him? Believe Him?

I’m yet to be a mother, but I know a little of longing. Of love. Of loss. And I wonder: as we stand at the water’s edge and release pieces of ourselves to a changing tide, does God have a bigger plan for us - just as he had for her?

I think so. I think just maybe He does.

Did you read Moses’ story? The story of his birth? Did you read about how his mother was forced to abandon a piece of herself and walk away, only to have it returned to her by the very one who threatened to destroy it? Did you notice how God… in His infinite loving kindness… not only spared her hopes but saved her son… and therefore her heart? Did you see that… even as her family, her faith, and her feelings floated away… God was watching? And not only was He watching, He was guarding. Sustaining. God's plan included the reeds, but it didn't end there.

I don’t know where your hopes lie. I don’t know if you’re waiting to birth them, trying to hold onto them, or have abandoned them altogether. I don’t know what you’re doing as you wait for your dreams to come in. But this… this I do know: just as you have plans, so does God. Just as you make your next move, so does He. And although you can’t see His purpose, He can see your pain. And as you near the Nile… as you come to the place where dreams die… He’s watching. He's protecting. He's in those reeds. He’s guarding your basket.

I love Moses’ story. But even more, I love that of his mother’s. I read in awe of the depth of God’s compassion during the depths of one person’s heartbreak. I read and I’m strengthened by the realization that sometimes the height of our tragedy is just the first chapter of God's great story. That sometimes, as we kneel at the Nile, we are, in fact, just beginning to live.

Come, Saltillo Sunrise

Bits and pieces of part of my little life are falling about me today. Not in a necessarily bad way... no, they're coming together, it seems... those tangents and fragments of my heart that I've held close to my chest except for the times I've unclenched my fists to show them to my heavenly Father and cry, "But what about this? What about this?" I'm blessed, but I'm among pieces this morning. Emotional day.

Looking forward to a week of climbing around the Zapalinamé mountains and breathing in the Saltillo sunrise. Just look at it. There are no words. I think I'm holding my breath until the moment I can plant my feet alongside one of those rocks and lift my face to that burning-away night sky.

Thanks for all the tenderhearted comments and blogging support as of late. You're the best, really. So I'm sure you'll understand why I'm signing off, except for a Monday Moment, for the next week or so. Sorry to leave you like this, but know you're in the knapsack of prayers I'm hoisting along with me into those mountains. And I'll be back, Lord willing, with some amazing things to show and share.

Until then, my love. -B

(Saltillo Sunrise courtesy of Weather Underground)

Under the Texan Sun

The air was fragrant with a thousand

trodden aromatic herbs, with fields of lavender,

and with the brightest roses blushing in tufts....

-William Cullen Bryant

I decided early yesterday morning to begin drying some of the herbs I'm harvesting hand-over-fist around Freeman House. It was a lovely way to occupy a few minutes... walking through the dew, quietly snipping herbs, dropping them in the basket, listening to the birds and the breeze. If I squinted hard enough I could almost imagine I was a young Diane Lane in Tuscany. Almost. [Sigh]

Anyway, I brought in some Greek Oregano, regular Oregano, Sage, Thyme, Rosemary, Parsley, Basil and Lavender and went to work filling the kitchen sink with water. Then I played, pretty much, sloshing and swishing the green stems through the water, letting the dirt whirl away and settle at the bottom of the sink.

For those gardener/cooks out there: how do you dry your herbs? I know there are several ways folks swear by, but I usually hang mine upside down in a paper bag and let them dry that way. I decided yesterday, though, upon the advice of a friend, to try sun-drying the sage and oregano. Does it make much difference? I'm not sure. All I know is that while visitors had to step over rack after rack of cheesecloth-covered herbs to get to the kitchen door, the herbs were dry and crunchy by the end of the day. Texas' fierce August sun wouldn't have it any other way.

Uh-hum. Point being, I figure clipping and drying herbs now will yield plenty of spice blends to hand out as holiday gifts. (Consider this your fair Christmas warning.) While in Dallas recently I loaded up on these glass spice bottles, and plan to fill some of them with these mixtures:

Freeman House Chicken/Fish Blend

2 T. dried basil
2 T. dried oregano
1 T. dried thyme
½ t. dried, grated lemon peel
1 t. celery seed
2 T. onion powder
1 t. black pepper

And, of course, this one, for all things pasta and tomato-y that come out of the kitchen, including Italian herb bread...

Freeman House Italian Blend

2 T. dried basil
2 T. dried oregano
2 T. dried thyme
1 T. dried sage
1 T. garlic powder
1 t. black pepper

I'm also putting together some bath herbs... you know... tying them up in little bags so when guests come they can take their glass of wine or hot tea to the clawfoot tub, settle in, and soak in the smells of homegrown lavender and chamomile and mint....

Hmm. Never, in a million years, would I have guessed that at 28 years old I'd be drying herbs and putting spice blend recipes on a blog like a little old lady. (And teaching knitting classes? I'm halfway to becoming Miss Marple already!) But just so you know, I'm taking off for a mountain adventure in Mexico on Sunday and will be out all next week. So before I go, these herbs really need to get dried.

Besides, it's actually kind of fun to watch your hard work sitting all labeled and dried in shiny spice bottles and sweet bath bags. Just goes to show, I guess, how life really can be terrific under the Texan sun.

Serendipity and Frozen Hot Chocolate

In reality, serendipity accounts for

one percent of the blessings we receive

in life, work and love.

-Peter McWilliams

Yesterday was the last of the summer knitting classes at Freeman House. Bittersweet evening, it was. I stood at the door as the new needles-and-yarn prodigies shuffled out under a summer night sky, bidding "see you soons" and sweet goodbyes.

It was such a good time for me, and I was surprised how, really, the knitting took a backseat to the conversations and connections going on around the table each week. We laughed and joked and learned and left, I think, feeling as though we were among a camaraderie of women. It was just a bonus that we had knitted yarn wrapped around needles.

For the last class I wanted to make something special. Although I'd planned all day long to make Ina's brownies, the August heat slipped in through every crack in the house and there was no way I was turning on the oven. There was no way I was even turning on the stove top to make pudding. I piddled around the kitchen, humming and thinking and poking in bags and boxes. And there, long forgotten, it was: the Frozen Hot Chocolate. Serendipity.

Perhaps you've seen the movie Serendipity. The one with John Cusac? I bought it after seeing it in the theatre, and have watched it seventy-four-ish times. (At least.) Anyway, the movie was a small boon to the already famous New York City shop named Serendipity and its most revered treat, the Frozen Hot Chocolate. After seeing the movie, I had to try this stuff. So I called them and ordered their mix. They kindly sent it here, to my crooked house, and I promptly stored it away and forgot about it.

Until yesterday. There it was, all chocolaty and yummy and staring at me. I plugged in the smoothie machine, grabbed the milk, and began to whirl. Oh gosh. Oh GOSH. Omgosh. Omgosh, omgosh, omgosh. This stuff isn't good. It's heaven. No. Above heaven. Quick... where's the big bar of chocolate I've been saving? It needs to be shaved and curled and sprinkled atop mounds of sweetened whipped cream!

And so it was. The perfect topping to the Frozen Hot Chocolate in the sparkly dishes on the hot summer evening.

I've always wished, I think, for nights like that. Nights where newly-found friends come together and sip frozen chocolate and knit and relax and ... be. I'd always prayed that God - in His serendipitous goodness - would grant me such a life. And... He did. There it was. Here it is. Complete with frozen hot chocolate.

Don't get me wrong: I don't really believe in serendipity. Not since... well... not anymore. But it's okay. I believe, just like Peter McWilliams, that serendipity accounts for very little of the blessings we receive in life. The rest have - and will - come from God.

And until they do, He knows where to find me. I'm here. With my frozen hot chocolate. With my friends. Knitting. And waiting.

Sipping, knitting, and waiting...

(If you are too, and need some of this Frozen Hot Chocolate, I'll make it easy on you. To order it... for the cheapest I've ever been able to find!... give a quick click here.)

Monday Moment: Teeter-Totter Tirade

I loathe teeter-totters.

The only time I ever got in trouble at school was in first grade. I was a skinny, clumsy little bookworm who hated recess. One warm April day, Ms. Shanihan lined us up and explained that we were going to have a 50-yard dash, but instead of marking a finish line, the teacher designated a certain tree as the "end" of the race. The first person to touch that tree, Ms. Shanihan said, won.

As I got into my group, I remember noticing Samantha was there. Big mouth Samantha, my nemesis. Samantha was the tallest, loudest, and meanest kid in first grade. Just that year she'd taken to tormenting my friend Bart, yelling: "BART the FART lives in a cart at WAL-MART!!" every time he walked by. I couldn't stand for it. Suddenly, this 50-yard dash became more than just recess. It was vengeance. For me. For Bart. For all the other kids who were destined to be Samantha's victims. So before Ms. Shanihan blew the whistle to start our race, I told Samantha and the other kids the teacher changed the tree to one farther out, since we were obviously faster runners. On your mark... get set... GO!! Ms. Shanihan shouted, blowing the whistle. Samantha and the other kids bought it, and blew right by the "end" tree without touching it. I won.

I figured it was a fair fight. Mine was a 'brains before brawn' kind of victory, I thought. But Miss Shanihan didn't see it that way. She sent me to the principal's office for lying to my fellow classmates. (I went to a private school. Trickery and 'brains before brawn' were frowned upon.) As punishment, I was banished from further races, and had to watch from the teeter-totter while Samantha and the other kids ran into "end" trees the rest of the year.

Like I said, I loathe teeter-totters. Bad first grade memories. Besides, teeter-totters are boring. You climb on one end and face your buddy on the other end. Then what? You go up. You go down. You go back up. You yawn. You go back down. And if your buddy is your huge cousin Matthew, you don't even go down. You go up once and stay there. Yippee. The only time things get interesting is when your buddy (or cousin Matthew) bails on you mid-air. Then you get a fanny-whacking when you (suddenly and violently) go down.

Yeah. Teeter-totters are the worst. And you know what also stinks? Leaving first grade but still living your life on one. You know what I mean. How many times as Christians do we need to go up - and crash back down - before we realize that we'll always be dissatisfied... we'll always be restless... we'll forever be bored... teetering between living for ourselves and our Savior?

I've always gotten goosebumps when I read this Scripture. I've always thought of a teeter-totter when I read it, too. It's one of Elijah's messages to Israel. In I Kings 18:21, Elijah calls his fellow countrymen to make a choice. He asks, How long will you waver between two opinions? If the Lord is God, follow Him; but if Baal is God, follow him.

I looked it up. "Waver" means: "to move freely back and forth or up and down in the air". Huh. Elijah may as well have said: How long will you teeter-totter? If the Lord is God, follow Him; but if you... your money... your children... your hobbies... your job... your life are your god, follow them. Either way, quit trying to fool yourself and everyone else on the playground and get off the stupid teeter-totter.

Teeter-totters are the worst for several reasons. One is because I was punished and banished to one in first grade. The other is because I've banished myself to one for half my life by wavering between two opinions. By living for myself when I was called to live for my God. And I can tell you, I was always dissatisfied... always restless... and forever bored. Teeter-tottering isn't exciting - on the playground or in life. It's a constant hovering betwixt up and down... between good and God.

Forget the teeter-totter. It's time to examine the games we're playing. It's time to climb down off our fences and choose a side. It's time to answer Elijah's question:

How long will you waver?

Lazy, Hazy, Crazy Days

Thank God for Friday. Especially this one! What a week. Between both my jobs breathing down my neck, two projects to oversee at Freeman House, the first-of-the-month gauntlet and all the other things one has to cram into a day (finding shoes that match... waiting for deodorant to dry... cleaning hummingbird feeders), I find I am crawling toward this weekend with visions of a lazy Saturday dancing in my head.

Nothing but blue skies and me, baby. Blue skies and sewing projects and homemade bread pudding and clean sheets and Chopin on the piano....

...And my clothesline. (Please, someone, help me find one of those addict classes for people who love their clotheslines. Actually, one for people who love clotheslines, coffee, books and Gilmore Girls would be perfect.) Yup, I don't care how much you love your electric dryers -once you stand beneath my clothesline and gaze up at that crystal blue, puffy-dumpling cloud sky, laundry isn't laundry anymore. It's playtime. And the Texas sun, the rustling leaves, the creeping jenny, and the creaky clothespins are your playmates.

Sigh.

Oh yeah. [Laugh] I really need a weekend! Hooray for us... we made it! Hope you enjoy your weekend, too - from these lazy, hazy, crazy days to yours. -Brin

Peaches and The Velvet Room

I finally got around to putting up all the peaches I brought home last week. After countless romps around the yard and to the porch with peach-in-hand, it came time to either stuff down the rest or freeze them.

I went with the freezer. After all, nothing beats a warm taste of peachy summer in January. Nothing.

Last year I put away a few peaches. I took extra care to buy a large container of Fruit Fresh - that powdered preservative that's supposed to keep fruit and vegetables from browning and going bad. This year I did a little digging and found that Fresh Fruit's primary ingredient is plain old Vitamin C. Huh. I opted to save money and skip the Fruit Fresh, deciding instead to grind up a few Vitamin C tablets and let 'er rip. Worked like a charm, I think.

Anyway, as I was slicing up peach after peach, I thought suddenly of my favorite book as a girl: The Velvet Room. Oh, how I loved that book! It was published in 1965, but the story revolves around a Depression-era girl named Robin and her migrant-worker family. As Robin quietly struggles to belong, her family's financial need sends Robin and her sister to work in a peach pit. As I peeled and sliced my own juicy fruits, pieces of Robin's precious story - and my eleven-year-old life - came flitting back.

After the peaches were tucked in the deep-freeze, I found my old copy of The Velvet Room. It's creased and stained and banged up. (No telling how many times I climbed our enormous crepe myrtle and read from these pages.) I smiled when I noticed my name and our family's old phone number - 903-796-9389 - written inside the cover in my childish hand. So here, now, as a woman still sometimes struggling to belong, I sat quietly in the library with my beloved book becoming reacquainted with Robin and the velvet room and its old, found journal just as I first did some 17 years ago.

If you're a mother, grandmother, aunt, or friend to a young girl, buy her this book. Seventeen years from now she will thank you. If, like me, you enjoy quiet, beautiful, smut-free stories of girls learning to belong, buy yourself this book. You'll still be thanking yourself seventeen years later. (It's been out of print for awhile. New and used copies are available at the Freeman House Book Store by clicking here.)

So okay. Guess that wraps up my peaches and summer read recommendations for the year. Can't wait for winter. I saved the end of Robin's incredible story - and a small, separate bag of fruit - for sometime in January. Sometime then, on a raw, gray day, we'll get The Velvet Room down and make a peach crisp, and above the winter wind the only sounds we'll hear is a soft bubbling from the oven and the patient turn of pages....

And things will come full circle once again. This beautiful life with all its peaches and books has a way of doing that, doesn't it?

Tired Day

I'm too tired, too tired.

I ought to be sensible, to stay at home.

-Paul Cezanne

Is it only Wednesday? Gosh. I am tired today. Content, but tired. Have a lot going on behind the scenes. Too much, really. It's bringing on that kind of Christmas-is-finally-over-but-I-still-have-to-do-dishes-and-take-down-the-tree type of brain melted/feet aching exhaustion, you know? (And if you've read this blog for awhile you know what goes on here when I'm beat: a flickering candle bubble bath in the clawfoot tub, a glass of tea, and Chump Chicken.)

Just need to stick my chicken, potato, mushroom, garlic and onion goodness in the oven, grab the quilt I'm working on, slide in I Capture the Castle, and call it a day.

From my weary but happy house to yours... hope you have a peaceful night!

The Blueberry Breakfast Bar

My first job was picking blueberries. Really. At that time, Harper's Blueberry Farm paid 50 cents for every picked and sorted pound of blueberries one could manage. I remember going home with more money than any of my friends, but only because they ate half their berries whereas I had to make myself eat mine. I prefer my blueberries warm and oozing and surrounded by sugar, thank you very much. Sad, but true.

That's probably why, after my recent berry picking adventure, I immediately began searching for a few different ways to bake these bright blue jewels. And by different I mean not cobbler, pie, or muffin. After perfecting a heavenly Pecan Blueberry Pancake (to be featured in my aforementioned foodbook), I was still hoping for something... something... well, something that would be equally welcome as a leisurely dessert, a mid-day nibble, or a quick breakfast. I found it, courtesy of Susan, a fellow farmgirl and foodie. This, then, is my adaptation of her delicious recipe, and what I'll continue to do with the blueberries, nutmeg, and vanilla beans hanging around the Freeman House kitchen...

Blueberry Breakfast Bars

Adapted from Farmgirl Fare

Crust

2 cups old-fashioned oats

3/4 cup flour (all-purpose)
3/4 cup brown sugar, packed

1/2 t. baking soda

1/2 t. salt

10 T. (1 stick plus 2 T.) butter, melted

1 t. vanilla (or ½ vanilla bean, split and seeded)

Berries (Middle Layer)

3 ½ cups blueberries (fresh or frozen)

1 t. almond extract (I use vanilla sometimes instead)

1 cup sugar

3 T. flour

½ t. nutmeg
1 t. cinnamon

Topping

1 1/4 cup flour

3/4 cup brown sugar

5 T. butter, cold

Preheat oven to 425 degrees F. Generously grease a 9" x 13" baking dish. For the crust, in a large bowl, stir together oats, flour, brown sugar, baking soda, and salt. Mix in melted butter and vanilla until combined. Press evenly into the bottom of your greased baking dish.

Next, tumble blueberries into the bowl you just emptied. Add almond extract and stir lightly until coated. Pour berries evenly over pan’s bottom layer. Combine sugar, flour, nutmeg and cinnamon. Sprinkle evenly over blueberries.

For the topping, use a fork or pastry blender to combine flour, brown sugar, and butter until it resembles large crumbs and clumps. Sprinkle over berries.

Bake at 425 degrees F for 15 minutes, then lower oven temperature to 350 degrees F and bake another 20-25 minutes or until top is golden and edges begin to turn brown. Don’t over bake.

Let bars cool before cutting and storing in airtight container or refrigerator. Bars may be individually wrapped and frozen for up to 2 months.


Yum. If you have any berries lying around the kitchen, I urge you: try these. If you don't, keep an eye out for the frozen ones to go on sale. It's worth it. These bars are delicious warm, cold, and everywhere in between. (And of course, ice cream, whipped cream, and extra cinnamon don't hurt either.)
Hope you enjoy! -Brin

Monday Moment: God Doesn't Change

I the Lord do not change.

-Malachi 3:6

I love the very idea of a God who doesn't change. He doesn't change. Never. Not ever. Our God is the forever One. He doesn't change.

Life is constantly changing. I was baffled this past weekend when suddenly confronted by all the things in my life that have shifted over the last few years. Change is an intrusive sort of thing, isn't it? Sometimes we welcome it, other times we simply weather it. Change can be tragic or change can be magic. Either way, life is a series of adjustments that require our attention, our patience, and sometimes our dreams....

Lives change. People change. Feelings change. Skies change. God? He doesn't. Not ever. God never changes.

I'm watching the sky outside my window darken. The weather has been so unpredictable this summer. It reminds me that, undoubtedly, some of us are going through change, too - even at this very moment. We're watching our worlds break. Our hearts sink. Our families adjust. Our jobs transition. We're hanging off to the side, bewildered, as our homes empty. Our faith limps. Our scenery rearranges. Our health slips.

Maybe you're not there today... in the midst of a life change. Then again, maybe you are. Maybe, just like I was, you're trying to hang on in the midst of some very tough circumstances or very sharp curves. If you are, know this: your life might change, but God doesn't. You may change, but God won't. Not now. Not ever. Our God doesn't change.

So hold on, friend. Hang on. Take shelter in the One who has always been there and always will. Find your rest and seek your comfort in the Alpha and Omega - the beginning and the end. And know, as my Mom always said, that this too shall pass....

Know that, and this: that He, the Lord, does not change. His love is secure and His help unwavering. Our God doesn't change. Not ever.

Coming Up Next Week...

Some of What's Coming Up Next Week:

A New Monday Moment

In the Freeman House Kitchen:
Blueberries, Nutmeg, and Vanilla Beans

Girl's Guide To Bathroom Renovation

See you Monday!

Glamour, A Feature, and A Weekend Away

I'm just not very good at glamour...

It doesn't come easily to me.

-Elize Du Toit

It doesn't come so easily to me, either - glamour. Sometimes I think that perhaps I should work on my glamour factor... you know, try being high maintenance and spend an inordinate amount of cash at a MAC counter or on a haircut. Whatever. Every time I hand over a dollar - even for the Visine Redness Relief eye drops I bought yesterday - I think, this would buy a box of screws for Freeman House. I'm hopeless. About as glamorous as I get is painting my toenails Ballet Slipper Pink and serving home-brewed espresso with my handmade cloth napkins. If you're looking for glamour, people, don't come to Freeman House.

That's one reason, I suppose, that I was surprised to read that my little blog here had been selected to be featured as one of DelightfulBlogs' Stylish Living blogs. What?! Me? STYLISH Living? The girl who can't mow in a straight line? The girl who hangs pictures (crookedly, I might add) by standing a ladder on the bed? The girl who, when her clawfoot tub curtain surround comes crashing down because she didn't install it properly, sinks to the floor and cries, "Help me, Oprah! Help me, Tom Cruise!!!" before dissolving into a fit of tears? Wow. They must be looking to scale down their stylish/glamour factor, huh?

I popped over to their website late last night - DelightfulBlogs, that is - and immediately noticed Cote De Texas. One look at her current post had me drooling. I may not be much of a glamour girl, but the pictures she found in Traditional Homes had me written all over them. The first picture, with a few modifications, of course, is my dream sitting room. And the room above is the exact look I'm going for in a girl's guest room. (Although my version will likely feature crooked pictures and different-colored homemade curtains. But you get the idea.)

Yep, it all got me thinking about glamour and my sad glamour factor since becoming a country girl. It's a good thing I'm headed off to the city this weekend. It's always good to see the bright lights and bustling freeways and pretty, pretty furniture, dishes and clothes.

Maybe I'll even go to Anthropologie and buy a new dress while I'm in the city. Of course, I don't think you can line-dry these. So we all know I'll just drool over these dresses and be on my way....

Fun times, I'm sure!

Ah, another weekend. Came quickly, didn't it? Thanks for hanging in here with me this week. From the depths of my unglamorous Freeman House, I wish you a lovely weekend. A lovely, restful, and glamorous weekend. -Brin

The Country Peach Orchard Day

One does a whole painting for one peach

and people think just the opposite -

that particular peach is but a detail.

-Pablo Picasso

Ever since Saturday's cobbler, the only thing I've wanted is peaches. (Sure, my dinner companion and I pretended to eat Mexican food last night, but really, secretly, we were dreaming those fajitas were peaches.) Fresh, grilled, baked, roasted - I don't care. Give this girl a peach.

So all-consuming was my craving for juicy peaches that I left work a tad early yesterday (I started a new oil and gas client on Monday. Did I tell you?) and ran by the local peach orchard. My timing was a little off, but the kind peach folks didn't care.

There were baskets and bags and boxes of the beautiful, fuzzy fruits on top of and beneath every table and surface imaginable. I kept turning in a circle, squinting, thinking, this can't be real... this can't be real. It was. My blue dress and I were in heaven - gastronomic and sensory heaven.

I'm such a simple-minded simpleton. Drop me by a country peach orchard on a sunny, breezy summer day and I'm about as happy as a girl could ever be. Throw in some sweet tea, roll down the car windows and crank up Patty Griffin on the radio, and it's a downright splendid day. Yeah. Huh, it was the perfect summer weekday: coffee, dress, work, orchard, dinner date, sweet iced tea, ceiling fan, bed. They don't come any better than that.

Okay, so maybe I question Picasso and say the peaches were just a detail. But a happy one nonetheless. Now I just need to decide what to do with all this... the happiness and the peaches.

The Beautiful Ache, Explained

What do you long for? Pray for? Save all your hopes for? Does it have a name? A title? A feeling?

Gosh, I wish you could come over. I wish we could sit down in the library and talk about this together. I really do. But since we can't - not today, anyway - let's do this: let's have a book talk. Not a book review. (There are plenty of those out there already.) Oh no, I want to introduce you to a book that has quietly changed my life... has subtly changed the way I look at myself and my oldest wishes and rawest hurts. The book is called The Beautiful Ache: Finding the God Who Satisfies When Life Does Not, and it, my friends, speaks to the most deeply-buried longings in your heart.


I've never met Leigh McLeroy, the author of this book. We've never met but we do have a mutual friend. When I begged our friend for Leigh's information, she did me one better: she put me in direct contact with Leigh. I was ecstatic. Direct communication with one of my favorite authors? Wow!

This is what came of it. This is what came of my chance to ask a favorite writer about a formidable subject: how do I deal with the aches in my life? How do I invite an almighty and all-knowing God into my hurt? This is our conversation, unedited:

*********************

Brin: This book is emotive. Personal. What, exactly, drove you to write it?

Leigh: This book has been slow-brewing. I wrote parts of it more than five years ago, unsure of what (if anything) they might become. The thread that ties them together was revealed to me gradually – but I’m so gratified that it has finally become something whole and true. As to what drove me – maybe it was simply the realization that no one that I know is completely and utterly satisfied with their life. No matter their state or status, they have longings – desires – that seem out of reach. C.S. Lewis said that If we experience desires that no earthly thing can satisfy, the most logical explanation is that we were made for another world. We are! But we live in this one…and this world has aches that can’t be avoided, and shouldn’t be. I’ve come to believe that it is important to embrace these longings and let them teach us…not push them away or try to stuff or stifle them. That’s the message I wanted to share.

Brin: Tell me about having a "beautiful ache". What is it? What's yours?

Leigh: The “beautiful ache” is that nagging “heart hurt” that leaves you wanting more, hoping for more, than what you have felt or known. When I explained it to someone recently, she said “Oh that! I call that my ‘homesick feeling’”. Something inside every one of us just knows there’s more. And we ache for it.

I have many “beautiful aches.” In fact, I describe 17 of them in the book, from the ache to belong, to the ache for beauty, to the ache to celebrate. One ache of mine centers on hope – in particular the hope or ache for a family, for a husband and children. Up to now, that is not the way God has led me. I’m not sure if this ache will ever be satisfied in the way I desire…and it certainly has not been in the timing I desire. But I invite God into that ache by refusing to deny it, or to stop asking him to satisfy it. (Which, by the way, is a lot different than frantically trying to figure out how I can do so myself!) I pray a very specific prayer in this regard, and I believe I will know with certainty if, and when, God chooses to answer affirmatively. But even now, the ache compels me to cultivate other relationships that call out my loving and nurturing side, and that keep me emotionally engaged and honest. And I remind myself in the midst of the ache that there is not a single day of my life I would have traded for marriage and motherhood before now, because God has blessed me with some wonderful relationships and experiences I might not have enjoyed had my life taken a different turn.

Brin: Do our aches have a purpose?

Leigh: My belief is that their purpose is to turn our hearts God-ward, so that we can come to know the one who truly satisfies, even when (or maybe especially when) life does not.

Brin: In the book, you address how to "embrace the gap between the life you know...and the life you can't help longing for". Do you believe this is truly possible?

Leigh: I do. It’s not our natural response to embrace an ache…but experience has taught me that it’s a possible response – and even a desirable one. Because I believe in a God whose kingdom has come, is coming, and will come – I am more able to live in the tension of a world where all is not as it should be, or will be. I am less prone to try to “resolve” everything here, trusting instead that one day, my King will return, will right all wrongs, defeat all foes, judge in righteousness, and rule a new heaven and a new earth forever. When I see my aches in light of eternity, they take on a whole new meaning. They no longer taunt me, they teach me. Mother Theresa once said that, from the perspective of eternity, the very worst experiences of this world will seem like one night in a bad hotel. I like that.

Brin: Wow. Can - or how do we go about - letting God into the midst of our aches?

Leigh: That’s a great question – and a fair one. I try to live “wide awake” – with my heart and spirit and senses engaged. And from reading your blog, I suspect that you do, too. Elizabeth Barrett Browning said, Earth’s crammed with heaven, and every common bush afire with God – but only he who sees takes off his shoes… It hurts sometimes to get glimpses of that beautiful “other” and not have more of it – but the glimpses are worth lingering over, and even the emptiness they leave in their wake is a good, true thing. I try not to rush by those things that elicit the ache, or to medicate the longing they evoke with business or activity or food or drink or any lesser pleasure. I try to let the longing teach me, and take me where it wants to go.

*********************
Seriously. I can't tell you all how deeply this book has impacted me. And I can't encourage you enough to find a quiet corner and a soft hankie and read this book. Ask for it at church or order Leigh's book by clicking here.

And Leigh, thanks. Thank you for sharing your ache with us and, as a result, helping me identify and take hold of mine. You're such a blessing. I can't wait for the next book! -Brin

Betty, Buckle, Cobbler, Crumble, Crisp, Grunt, Or Slump

Call it what you wish: a betty, buckle, cobbler, crumble, crisp, grunt, or slump. Whatever. No matter what you call it or how you make it, these sugary/fruity bakes are the purest embodiment of summer. Yum. July... and all your berries and fruits... we love you so.

The weekend was a blur. A happy, busy, buckle-cutting blur. Part of my early Saturday was spent in the kitchen with my incredible friend Jolene, owner and proprietress of Holly Hill - my most favorite corner of the earth. She made the divine dessert you see here. The pictures hardly do it justice. It was divine. When I gasped and raved about this beautiful thing's taste and texture, she simply shrugged. She shrugged. Whereas I'd be standing atop a table, wildly pointing and jumping up and down and shouting, "People. I. MADE. This. Beautiful. Thing. FROM. SCRATCH," she simply shrugs it off. She cooks likes this all the time, you see. She even handpicked the blueberries that topped the fresh peaches that went into this homemade cobbler. Or crisp. Betty. Whatever. Jolene's amazing. If you ever want to get away, come here and sit on her porch and order a plate of this. You won't want to go home. Not ever.

She has a blog, you know: the cobbler queen. (That's your new nickname, Jolene.) You should stop by and see her as you have the time. She has great plans for her blog, and I'm sure if they're anything like her home, her food, and her garden, we'll all be enthralled. The sit-at-her-feet-and-scribble-down-everything-she-utters type of enthralled.

Hmm. Okay. I'm starting to feel guilty about bombarding you with all these pictures and carrying-ons when you can't even taste a forkful of this sweet, fruity heaven on a plate. I feel badly. It's a shame - a real crying shame.

But more for me. Jolene, thanks. Maybe one day we can all gang up on you and get the recipe for your cobbler. Or Betty. Or buckle, crumble, crisp, grunt, or slump... whatever....

(UPDATE: The recipe is in! Try this beauty for yourself by visiting Jolene's recipe - and her great blog - here.)

Monday Moment: Identity Story #2

I can't remember her laugh. Or the color of her eyes. But sometimes, as I'm falling asleep, I can see her face.

I see her as if in a dream. She walks and sings and stretches out her hand to grab hold of mine... only I can't touch or hear her. It's as if she's on one side of a hazy, rose-tinted window and I'm on the other. As her face materializes from the depths of my shadowy dreams, I realize: I miss her. The longing is like a dull ache you wake with - you're not sure where it came from or when, exactly, it appeared.

My cousin says I'm like her. Like my mother. He says I'm fearless and unflappable just like she was. I couldn't say. My time with her and my father was brief. After they died, when I was still a child, I came to live here with Cousin. He doesn't talk much about my mother and father... about their deaths. Instead he tells me stories of our people; stories of how our forefathers braved war and famine and despots in the name of becoming a great people who serve the one true God. I love these recounts of faith and bravery. It's because of these stories that I forgive him for not telling me more of my parents.

Well, that and the fact that Cousin understands living a life that hasn't gone as planned. Whereas life watched me grow up without parents, life watched Cousin climb the political ladder here. He's not from this place, you know. He was exiled from Jerusalem. He doesn't speak of it much. In fact, he told me never to talk about our roots... about where we come from. It's probably just as well.

****************

Our lives here are complex. Privileged compared to most, but complex. After leaving my cousin's house I married well, partly due to Cousin's influence and partly due to the ex-wife's vanity. My husband is a powerful man and Cousin works for him within the same walls where I make my home. Despite our proximity, we rarely talk. It wouldn't do, Cousin says, for people - including my husband - to know we're related. We live, therefore, separated by expectations and fears. (Cousin doesn't know, but I see him from time to time, pacing the courtyard outside my building and asking about me. When I know he's there I try to send word: I'm fine. All is fine.)

*****************

And it has been. It was. Only the same fearlessness that characterized my mother has taken hold of Cousin. For the second time this week I've heard that he's angered prominent people for refusing to bow and scrape to his superior. It's the latest gossip. What will become of that man? people ask in hushed, incredulous tones. I wonder too. And worry. This situation doesn't bode well for him. For him, for me, and for many, many others like us.

I'll spare you the details. Suffice to say Cousin sparked a wicked fury in a formidable foe. Our adversary is close to my husband and therefore I know this man is cunning. Cruel. And based on Cousin's rebellion, this man's devised a plot to bring devastation on Cousin. He's on his way here... to my house... to lobby my husband's support for his diabolical plan. I would intervene, only my past has been carefully hidden all these years. My roots are buried as deeply as my dear parents. To reveal my past - to disclose my relation to Cousin now - would be too risky.

I wonder what my mother would advise if she were here. I close my eyes and try to see her face... remember her voice. What I wouldn't give to have her with me now.

******************
The situation has worsened. The imbecile has brought others into his revenge. The date has been set, at which time Cousin and all his people will be ruined. Killed, even. The sentence would include me, too, if anyone knew of my background. Knew who my parents were. My cousin has sent word. Do something, he said. I responded immediately: you know the risk. The time isn't favorable.

I don't know what to do. I can't sleep.

******************
I received this message from cousin just now: Do not think you alone will escape. For if you remain silent at this time, relief and deliverance will arise from another place, but all of us will perish. And who knows that you have come into your position for such a time as this?

******************
Every life has a purpose. Of this I'm sure. Although mine's seemed to be the result of accidents and tragedy and happenstance, perhaps it's not. Perhaps life has lead me here - to this exact place - for this exact moment. I think of my mother and her early death. I try to imagine what she would have done, given this opportunity to come to the aid of her people. I think and then send Cousin word: gather together and fast for me. I will do what needs to be done. If I perish, I perish.

*****************
It's been three days. I slept once and when I did, I saw her face again. She looked at me through the haze with those eyes... her brown eyes. I held my breath. Moments fell between us as we held the other's gaze. Slowly, she nodded.

A breath, and I awoke. I have a plan. It's time.

*****************
Who am I? Have you guessed? My mother... my fearless, unflappable mother, named me Hadassah, Persian for "star". But you can call me Esther. Queen Esther. Read about my plan... and the rest of my story... in Esther 5.

*****************
(Did you know that Esther is one of two books in the Bible that never refers to God? I'm fascinated by orphan Esther's story, and by the fact that although God is never mentioned, His hand is evident throughout her incredible life. This summer, I challenge you: dive into the Scriptures. Live the lives of these heroes of our Christian faith. And catch the first Identity Story here. -Brin)

Monday Moment is a little devotional to help kick-start your week. See you again next Monday!

Rain's a-Comin'

More rain's a-comin', which means:

clean sheets that smell of rain,
a pan of hot cornbread,
a long novel on the library couch,
nature's thundering soundtrack, on repeat -
and a parade of umbrellas up and down the street.

Hope you enjoy your weekend, wherever it finds you. -Brin