timing

and honesty.

Both have been themes in my life.  From the time that I was 15 and had the line "the truth will set you free" lining the bottom of my monitor - (To which I jokingly added once, "from your boyfriend, whether you like it or not."  Dang, I was a cynical child), to the phase when I blared Enya's "Only Time" with a long sigh - I've felt bound by both.

Honesty, because it is, I believe, our one hope for communication and clarity in this world.

Timing, because so much of what I want has been taken from me and and put into the unknown future.  As I wait.  And hope and trust.  And sometimes go nuts.

These two have tortured me, yet been my standbys.  As long as everything is out in the open, then it's off your chest and your shoulders right?  You're in it together with the person you've been honest with.  No seed gets the warmth and benefit of the glorious sunshine and the moody rain until it's poked its head above the ground.  It is strength and vulnerability at the same time.

But I'm coming to realize that that philosophy has a hitch.  Timing is everything to the receptivity of honesty.  The insertion of truth into someone's life can change it, shatter it, enrich it, expand it - any number of possibilities based on one honest utterance, one spoken truth.  Truth can be a burden with demands that reshape our perception of ourselves and the world.  Honesty cannot be doled out lightly.

I still believe in the power and necessity of honesty.  But time would have me believe that timing itself has a role in tempering what "true things" are brought to the light.

I would rather have the straight story than none at all.  I would rather hurt than feel nothing at all.  But is it always fair and just to bring such a rule of life to others?  The pride monster, with its ugly vain head, can very easily stick out its neck with the logo "truth dispenser" dangling from it and burn the world with its fire. . . with very little benefit to any, except to maybe the monster who got all the hot air off his chest.

Yet . . .

there is still something in me that stubbornly clings to the thought:  the truth will set you free.  Free to love with God's eyes, whether it makes sense to the world or not.  Free to forgive with God's heart, whether it's called for or not.  Free to challenge others to see the world as radically Christ-centric as you see it, even if you yourself fail along the way.

My mouth could use some duct-tape occasionally.  My honesty filter could use a few tweaks.  But I cannot be afraid to show who I am.  It may challenge, it may repulse, it may definitely have been the wrong time. . . but at least it was honest.

Is that enough?

housekeeping

Hello, blog.  It's been awhile.

The posts I posted and deleted 4 minutes after don't count.  Sorry about that.

I post tonight in a most domestic mood.  I just spent 4 hours making dinner from my new Greek cookbook.  Proof that domesticity can = insanity can = getting slightly happy off red wine.

The dish I made should not be served to infants.  I was drawn in by the ingredients - anything that has chicken, red wine and tomato paste, onions, a cinnamon stick and allspice has to be wonderful, no?  Yes.  But how much yes?  Well, yes it was wonderful to the tune of 5 tablespoons of olive oil and 1 entire cup of red wine.

Not for the weak-veined.  Or the lightweight.  But there's more.

I made more olive-slobbered stuff.  They call them chicken rissoles in the trusty book, but I know them as Falafel from my favorite lebanese (note the placement of the "b" and "s" in that word) restaurant.  Making them required soaking chickpeas in water overnight.  Something this involved has not been attempted by my self since I started making the Drunk Chicken described above.  For this ditty, you cook the chick peas.  Then you mash 'em.  (Then I added too much water which made them too fluffy . . . slap and note to self).

Then you cook two onions (which amounts to a table-pile of eye misery) with - get this - sage and parsley.  Mmmmm.  Sage is God's gift to mankind and me. Then you add a boatload of cumin and an egg and self-rising flour and the leg of newt . . .wait, wrong recipe . . .and then plop little balls of 'em into normal flour and drown them in yep, more bubbly-hot olive oil.

I need to buy more olive oil now.

In Italy, it took about a month to go through a bottle.

In the last 6 months, I have gone through half of one bottle of the stuff.

In one night, I used up at least a cup.  Maybe more.  Probably more.  Everything is oil. Dang it tastes good.

Oh, and the Drunk Chicken?  You put it over oodles of pasta pretending to be rice, but it's really pasta/orzo.  It thankfully sops up the liquidy sauce.  Because you know what I'm having for lunch tomorrow since I didn't have enough chicken to soak up what I made?  Drunk Soup with orzo.

This domestic kick is brought to you thanks to moving into a new, huge room with a big huge new bed that makes me want to actually stay home.  The new, huge chair is on its way on Saturday morning.  Life is good.  It still doesn't make any sense.  But when has it ever?