someone to watch over me

I remember when I was single, I once got a flat on the highway. I sobbed and I sobbed like the world was ending. Or I would get an unexpected bill and flip out and have heart palpitations and feel like "OHMYGOSHMYLIFESUCKS!!! I might as well DIE right now!!!!" Everything was such a BIG, HORRIFIC, GIANT DEAL.

Once when Chris and I were dating, he drove me to the Philly airport after I had flown up for a visit. We arrived and found out that all the flights were delayed for hours and hours because of some sort of catastrophic computer glitch. I automatically started hyperventilating because, "I HAVE TO WORK TOMORROW!! THIS AIRPORT IS HUGE!!!!!! ALL THESE PEEEEEEOOOOPPPPPLLLLEEEE!!!!!" And Chris very matter-of-factly grabbed his cell phone, called the airline and informed them that they would be rescheduling my flight for tomorrow, but change the airport to Harrisburg instead of Philly thankyouverymuch. (He didn't ASK. He INFORMED. My 20 year old self didn't even know this was a thing.) And then he called my boss (HE CALLED MY BOSS, PEOPLE!) and calmly explained the situation and informed her that I wouldn't be into work the next day. (He didn't ASK. He INFORMED. My 20 year old self didn't know this was a thing.)

I think this was the first time that I knew that I really really loved Chris Strayer. Call me repressed, but it feels pretty stinking good to have someone take care of me. 10 years into this thing, and he's been there when the bills flood our mailbox, and when the ceiling opens up at 1 am and floods our bedroom. He's been there when my mom had cancer, and when we stood peering over the metal sides of our daughter's hospital bed, terrified at what the future would bring. And it wasn't quite so scary, because there was someone else to buffer life before it slammed into me.

Isn't this why the Bible says that marriage is an illustration of Christ and the Church? You're never alone. There is always someone with you to navigate it. Crap still happens, but it's first filtered through the hand of a loving God. And then filtered through the hand of a loving husband, who deals with the brunt of it as he covers his wife with his body, protecting her. We have these shade-cloths over the girls' little pool outside. They are triangular strips of fabric meant to give relief from the sun, but not completely block it. Because of the cloths, the sun is no longer hot and scorching and dangerous to the girls. It is warm and comfortable and fun. Chris is like our family's shade cloth-- he protects us from the worst of the elements, absorbing them onto his own back. He is our covering.

We have been through a lot of crap, Chris and I. Some of it has been my fault, some of it has been his. In fact, sometimes he's been a downright douche bag. But he's been HERE. He's been fielding the calls, and putting out fires before I even knew they had ignited. He faithfully goes out and battles the big world everyday, so that his girls can nestle into our safe little world at home.

Sometimes love looks like roses and champagne and romantic trips. But sometimes? Sometimes love looks an awful lot like someone calling the airline and rescheduling your flight for you. Don't miss it just because it doesn't look the way you expected it to.

An Open Letter to the Woman who Filmed her Abortion on Youtube

Dear Emily,

You don't know me, but after your story popped up several times in my largely-Conservative-Christian Facebook feed, I feel compelled to add another voice of dissension to the mounting outcry.

I am sickened and saddened by what you have done. I grieve not only for your sweet baby, but for the myriad of babies who will die because you posted this on Youtube. You've created an avenue for scared young women to google the abortion procedure, see that you've made it look less painful than a dentist appointment, and choose death for their child instead of considering the other options. I'm glad it wasn't painful for you, Emily. But the same cannot be said for the average 16 week old baby, for whom it has been documented that the vaccuums and curettes and forceps ARE painful, and a much bigger deal than the root canal or mole removal that you make this out to be. You have said that this is a "positive" abortion story, that you feel super great about it. Awesome. But you're only half of the equation, Emily. You're not the only one who matters, you just happen to be the only one who has a voice. You also don't have the benefit of retrospect. You have not had to walk through the consequences of your decision long term; it's unfair and prejudicial for you to say that your abortion was a positive experience, when you don't know how you will feel about it in five years, or ten years, or when you're 90.

But here's the thing, Emily. You and me, we are cut of the same cloth. You see, I murdered my children this morning. All three of them, with little thought of consequence. They were irritating me and disobeying me and crippling me with all their needs and whimpers and stories and "watch me, Mommy!"'s. And just like your abortion doctor wielded his curette, I blindly slashed at my children with the sharpened sword of my words. And I mercilessly slaughtered them all.

"You have heard that it was said to the people long ago, 'Do not murder, and anyone who murders will be subject to judgement.' But I tell you that anyone who is angry with his brother will be subject to judgement." (Matthew 5:21-22)

Here's the thing, Emily. I can accuse you of murder, and be right. But you can also accuse me of murder, and you would also be right. Anger, murder-- to-may-to, to-mah-to, according to Jesus. We Christians are supremely good at compartmentalizing sin. But the truth is, we are all on level playing ground. We ALL have sinned, we ALL have fallen short of the glory of God. None of us is good. NOT EVEN ONE.

But that's not what we would have you believe, as we flood your inbox with hate mail and calls for repentance. We will call you a "slutty cunt", as you described in a recent interview. Because oh my word, Emily, if there's something that we Christians are good at, it is boycotts and judgements and throwing rocks. We will get on facebook and link to articles of "filthy baby-killers" like you, but we won't volunteer at the local teen pregnancy shelter. We will express how heartbroken we are about children stolen in Nigeria, but our heartbreak doesn't extend to any concrete actions to prevent future social injustices. We will copy and paste "if you're not ashamed of Jesus, repost!" status updates, but we are too ashamed to evangelize our neighbors. We see the hungry and homeless, and we slam the door in their faces, while smiling and encouraging them to keep warm and well-fed. With great humility, I soberly and whole-heartedly include myself in this group of well-intentioned Pharisees. Heck, I could be their leader.

You murdered your baby, Emily. And now we will turn around and murder you, all in the name of Jesus.

We have missed it.

It sounds almost too glib to post... but Jesus loves you, Emily. He really, desperately loves you. You could have ten more abortions, and Jesus would love you still. There is nothing that you can do that would make Him love you less. He is your creator, and He chose to give you life, in all your frailty and humanity. I am heartbroken by the followers of Christ that would have you believe anything less.

We have different view points on this. But I want you to know that your baby has worth. And Emily, you have worth. You are not defined by the worst of your actions. (This is a huge relief to me; if I was defined by the worst of my actions, I would have been burning in hell long ago.) I fervently hope that you come to realize the sanctity of life, that you come to realize how precious these little ones are to Jesus. He loves your baby, Emily. And though you only saw the "potential for life", I am confident that your baby IS alive, and is being held in the arms of Jesus.

Love,
Melody

Today I effed up

Today I effed up.

The day started out benignly enough, with coffee and my ritual early morning facebook perusal. I fed the kids and folded some laundry while listening to snippets of the Today show in the background (Angelina Jolie is getting a double masectomy?! What?!). I even had a bra on before 8 am. Today was going to be a good day.

But somewhere between my bowl of breakfast quinoa and 10 am, things derailed. Maybe it was the dawdling five year old who just wouldn't finish her fact sheet. Maybe it was the nixie one-year-old, who screamed bloody murder at the market because I wouldn't let her get out of the stroller and walk, while sampling a bite out of each apple in the end-cap display.

But people, I lost my crap.

I yelled at my kids. And not just talking-loudly-yelling. Like mean, scary-lady yelling.

I ignored my daughter's cries when she had legitimately hurt herself, just because I was tired of whining.

I was cranky with my husband, who-- bless his heart-- was sick and worked all day long.

I fed my kids frozen pizza for dinner, and other than the raisins they had with breakfast, I am pretty sure they didn't have any fruits or vegetables all day.

There's still a load of partially washed/partially-crapped-upon diapers in the washing machine that I have yet to deal with.

There are three basketfuls of clean and folded laundry sitting on the treadmill, waiting to be put away. This also means that the treadmill is not being used.

They have been there for a week.

At least.

I stood in front of the open freezer today, spoon in hand, and scooped the "sweet spot" (the part of the ice cream that has an extra swirl of cookie crumbs or other chocolate-y goodness) directly into my mouth while my kids fought and fought and fought in the the other room.

Then asked for snacks.

Then told me they were bored.

Then fought some more.

Then asked for more snacks.

Today I felt dreadfully ill-equipped to walk in the role of Mama/wife/lover of Jesus.

I was unkind to the ones I love the most.

Today I effed up.

But I serve a Savior who doesn't define me by my worst behavior. Actually, who doesn't define me by my best behavior, either.

My best days, my best deeds, my best moments as a mother-- when my kids eat kale at all three meals and read for entertainment and use their imaginations and not their fists with their siblings-- even those are filthy rags. I can't purchase a pardon with good parenting or a positive attitude. I can't absolve myself with a clean house or well-behaved children.

I need Jesus. I desperately, critically need Jesus.

I effed up today, but I will rejoice in this day that reminds me of my dependence on my God. I will boast in my weaknesses, my failures, my shortcomings-- and crave the strength of the Master. I will beg for His help to love these little ones, to turn my heart toward my home with joy, and to serve my family cheerfully.

Today I effed up, but the morning breaks with new mercies.

Kids are gross.

Or at least mine are. I am going to describe three different scenarios in which my point is proven. You vote for which one actually happened. Because they certainly couldn't have ALL happened in my house. Within the span of 24 hours. Ahem.

A) Ruby sometimes wears disposable diapers overnight. Since she sometimes... um... moves her bowels (eek, am I my Grandma? Did I just say that?) first thing in the morning, I had changed her when she woke up and DOUBLE-BAGGED the offending dirty diaper before putting in the trash. So, remember that time she went in the trash, tore the TWO bags open, un-rolled the diaper, and proceeded to smear herself and her clothes with... um... excrement?! And then brought it to me and said, "That's gross, Mom, right? Right, mom?" Uh, yeah, Ruby. For sure.

B) Chris and I went to Sharp Shopper last night, and Ruby and Cana came along, where they wandered the aisles dumping boxes of spaghetti on the ground and trying to smuggle bags of candy in their back pockets. At one point, I notice Ruby is eating something. "Ruby, what are you eating?" My one year old had stealthily snatched someone's discarded Already Been Chewed bubble gum that had been stashed underneath a grocery shelf. And was going to town on it. I think I just threw up in my mouth a little.

C) I gave the little girls a bath yesterday morning, which is somewhat atypical since they usually have baths right before bed. Because of the aforementioned early morning moving of the bowels, I put a cloth swim diaper on Ruby, justincase. Cana looks over. "Mama, do I need a swim diaper?" I reply, "No, Cana-- you don't poop in the bath, silly girl!" "Well, yeah," she responded. "But I pee in it all the time."

I mean, I'd always had my suspicions, but I didn't need a full confession.

Oy.

Faithless heart

One of my favorite albums of all time is Amy Grant's "Lead Me On". I know, I know. Tease all you want. It's totally old-school, with an above average dose of circa 1988 synthesizer. But it is brutally honest.

Some lyrics from the song "Faithless Heart":

"At times the woman deep inside me wanders far from home
And in my mind I live a life that chills me to the bone
A heart running for arms out of reach
But who is the stranger my longing seeks? I don't know.
But it scares me through and through,
Cause I've a man at home, who needs me to be true.
Oh faithless heart, be far away from me
Playing games inside my head that nobody else can see
Oh faithless heart, you tempt me to the core,
But you can't have ahold of me, so don't come around anymore."

Now before you think that this is some kind of a public confession regarding unfaithfulness in my marriage, it's not that. That's not even on my radar.

But here is my public confession:

I struggle every.single.day with the ins and outs, the ho and hum of the life of a stay-at-home-mama. I am all too familiar with that buzz of restlessness, that sigh of dissatisfaction. I want to be sensitive here: I am mindful of the women who desperately long to hold a baby in their empty arms, I am mindful of the mamas whose babies are with Jesus. I am mindful of the single mamas who would love nothing more than to stay home with her children. I conceived three healthy children, carried them mostly to term, and they are bright, robust, amazing children. I have unspeakably more than I deserve. I know this.

But to make myself out to be a Pinterest-y perfect mom who has alphabetized CDs with chronological pictures of each of her children since birth, stored in a weather-proof Sterilite tub in her dust-free attic? The mom who cheerfully makes living room forts and builds snowmen in subzero temperatures? That's not me, folks. Believe what you will based on the highlight reel of my Facebook page, but mommy-hood is a serious struggle for me. Joy is often elusive, lost while I am bogged down in the daily grind of meal preparation, bill paying, and the ineffable pain of stepping on a lego.

We have had sickness in our family for more than a month. I am weary of snotty noses and puke. My kids fight all the time. Over everything. Over nothing. My extended family is far away, and I feel like I am "on" all the time. My baby--who by all accounts is pretty much the sweetest thing ever-- is also a royal terror. She doesn't sleep through the night (not even close), and I-- the firmly attached mama who staunchly believes in baby-led weaning-- am growing resentful of her near-constant demands of "I want more boo-boo! I want nurse!!" Approximately 92483948 times a day. My children might actually have a tape-worm, because all I hear all day long (besides "I want boo-boo!") is "I'm HUUUUNNNNNGGGRRRYYYYY!!!!!!!!" 7 seconds after they finished lunch. Oh wait, there is another thing I hear all day long: (Hit, punch, smack!) "MOMMMMMY, Cana hit me!!!!!" "Mom, Evie took my toy!!" And rounding out the top 40, "Mommy, can you wipe me?!?"

My children are my life. I love them more than I can express.

But I (daily?) fantasize about leaving.

There, I said it.

Go ahead and judge me all you want, but there it is.

Sometimes I want to leave.

Let me first make this disclaimer: I never would. I never could.

But dammit, I just want to put a tampon in without 3 kids asking me what I am doing. I want to drink a cup of coffee without having to microwave it six times because I was interrupted to wipe asses or referee fights. I want to sleep all night long, and get up in the morning when I want to, not when little birdy mouths are opening and closing, chirping for nourishment. I want to be appreciated and recognized for the sacrifices I make, instead of constantly being asked to make more.

The greatest blessings of my life-- the ones for whom I have longed with all my being... in the darkest corners of my heart, I sometimes wish them away. I selfishly long for my own time, my own space, my own stuff (that isn't broken, or colored on, or otherwise marred with sticky fingers).

It is into this climate of stress and selfishness that Satan whispers his sweet lies. "Did God really say...?" "If God loved you..." "You know, this is really your husband's fault. If he didn't work so much..." "I know that you are trying to eat healthfully, but that's just a small cookie and it would make you feel so much better..." "What's this about a 'budget'? Just go ahead and buy that purse on Etsy. You deserve it. It will make you happy." "You know, if you followed your heart..."

And oh, it's so easy to listen. It's so easy to justify and to agree and to believe-- "You're right, I DO deserve that!" "Yes, it's not a big deal!" "I SHOULD follow my heart!"

But into this divided, broken being, Jesus reminds me:

"The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately sick; who can understand it?"
(Jeremiah 17v9)

Using my heart as a litmus test for the direction of my actions is despairingly foolish. It will lie to me every time. My heart is desperately sick, and will deceive me at each turn. I don't need its falsehoods and exaggerations.

I need truth.

The Lord my God goes with me.
He goes before me.
He is able to sympathize with my weaknesses, because He has been tempted in every way.
He is mighty to save.
When my heart is overwhelmed, He will lead me to the rock that is higher than I am.
He has not left me without a helper.
I can approach the throne of grace with confidence that I will find mercy.
He knows what I need.
He will strengthen me and help me.
I can come to Him and have rest.
There are new mercies every morning.
All these things that I need will be added to me.
He loves me with an everlasting love.

This is an intense season for me, fraught with difficulties both real and perceived. I have been counseled so many times to enjoy these times, to delight in them. There are moments of that, but can I be honest? I am mostly just trying to get through them.

But emotions aside, today I am taking a stand for truth. Because you see, the promise is only as valuable as the one who makes it. I know that Satan is a liar, and his promises are worthless. I know that he does not want to see me prosper. I know that he does not love me. I know that Jesus loves me more than I can conceive. I know that Jesus has good plans for me, plans to prosper and not to harm me. I know that He has much to teach me in this season, and I want to sit at His feet and listen.

So I will obediently walk on, though sometimes it feels more like trudging. I will lace up snow boots and build a snowman and I will clothespin sheets into the most epic fort ever. I will fold endless piles of laundry, and thank Jesus that we have clothes to wear. I will nurse my baby for the 40th time today, and thank my Heavenly Father for the miracle of her life. I will reread a board book for the 60th time, and thank God for the gift of language. With God's grace, I will choose a gentle answer instead of a harsh reply. I will choose a smile instead of a furrowed brow. I will pray for my children when I want to curse them. I will choose truth instead of a lie. I will choose love. I will choose hope. I will choose joy.

Faithless heart, be far away from me. You can't have ahold of me, so don't come around anymore.

I don't hate my body

I was just chatting with some dear friends about our body issues. One quipped, "Why can't chubby thighs be adorable on adults? I could just EAT my baby's thighs."

It's true. We're born covered with sweet little rolls. We delight in our children's double chins and dimpled elbows, and-- if I am completely candid-- laugh over their quad-ginas. (Don't know what that is? Use some imagination; chubby baby legs + little bitty girl parts all smooshed together. Awesome.)

And then somewhere around puberty, it starts all going downhill. We get boobs too early, and that's embarrassing. We get boobs too late, and that's even more embarrassing. All of a sudden, we deal with stinky armpits and periods and acne and frizzy hair-- and it's just all wrong. And unfortunately, for many women (most women?), we never really grow out of that awkward-comparing-ourselves-to-other-ladies-stage. We want to raise confident daughters who see their bodies as a beautiful gift from their Creator, but how? How can we tell them that God created them good, when all we see in our own bodies is cellulite, stretch marks, and crow's feet?

I am right there with these self-loathing women. Or, I should say, I was. But two formative things happened in the last couple of years that changed my perspective dramatically.

The first was Ruby's birth. Now, let me first say-- the births of all of my children were amazing experiences. There is nothing like it. But Ruby's was different. It was magical. For Evie and Cana, my births were in the hospital, flat on my back, while a team of nurses and an obstetrician screamed at me to "hold your breath and PUSH!!" I was hooked up to monitors that told me whether my contractions were "sufficient", and someone else told me when my body was ready to have my baby. Because of complications with my pregnancy, I had to have Ruby in a hospital, too. But it was a completely different experience for me. I had chosen a group of like-minded women to assist me, midwives who intrinsically believed in the power of my body, of the rightness of natural birth. No one told me when I was ready to have my baby, no one told me when to push. It was quiet and dark, and for the first time in my life, my body was right. Sure, it was chubby and distended with stretch marks, but it was right. It was strong and capable. A year and a half later, I still haven't lost the euphoria and empowerment of Ruby's birth.

The second thing that changed my perspective was this past November, when my awesome friend Stacey and I ran the Outer Banks Half Marathon. It wasn't what it could have been for me, as a previous injury had sidelined much of my training and preparation. But it was 13.1 sweaty, hard miles of heady "I am woman, hear me roar" power. We finished, sore and completely depleted-- but completely on top of the world. For a woman who, six years ago literally couldn't run A mile (much less many), I felt unstoppable.

Now, don't get me wrong. There are things about my body that I'd kill to change. I am in the process of losing the pounds that have been progressively packed on with each pregnancy. If someone offered me a boob job to shore up the shriveled little sand bags hanging from my chest, I would take it in a heart beat. Microdermabrasion to remove that chicken pock scar from when I was 5? Yes, please.

But the point is-- those things no longer define me. I can rejoice in my body, for while I don't love the extra pounds, I love the fact that my body was a safe haven for each of my babies; they were protected and tenderly grown inside my belly. I can't hate my stretch marks when they foretold the most precious of blessings. My boobs may hang precariously close to my navel, but they have nourished each of my girls; saggy-ness is a small price to pay for the immeasurable joy of being the sole-sustainer for my children's first year of life. My body is not perfect-- but it is the body God designed for me, to complete the tasks that He has given ME to complete. It is strong and it is capable. Next year, I plan to run the 1/2 marathon with a little less chub-rub in the thigh area... but if not, I will simply rejoice that my legs are able to run at all.

Friend-- you are wonderfully and fearfully made. God has plans for you, that only you can complete. He knit you together inside of your mother's womb (and I thought I was crafty!) and His works are wonderful.

When you are tempted to despair at your snug jeans, or at the gray hair that cropped up overnight-- remember that the Savior of the world rejoices over you with singing. He has called you by name, and you are His.

I'd call that beautiful.

Cooking with Aunt Sue

This past weekend, we attended the Memorial Service for my Aunt Susanne. Although I didn't see her as much as I would have liked as an adult, I have sweet memories of her as a quiet, permanent fixture in my childhood. I remember snuggling with her in the old hammock at Nana's house at Two Tulip. On one occasion, in which I felt very grown-up indeed, she took me on a trip to New York City. Having lived there for a large portion of her life, the smells and sounds and busyness were probably just like breathing to her. But to a ten-year-old, (very) sheltered little girl, it was a head-buzzing adventure that left me wide-eyed for two weeks afterward.

The details of her Memorial Service were thoughtfully and personally planned, just how I would like my eventual send-off to be. Her niece and nephew sang an old family song, her relatives and friends remembered her quiet gentleness that often belied an amazingly sharp mind. Her grandchildren crafted dozens and dozens of peace cranes, reflecting on how Grammy Sue had an earnest and long-standing hope for peace on earth. A larger crane, on which we all penned a single word in remembrance of Aunt Sue, was set sail on the river beside the church... a river that Sue had explored with her grandchildren, whose rhythmic cadence could be heard as she rested in the backyard hammock in the months that she was sick. Sue's crane slowly and gently circled for a few minutes before disembarking. Her son Max was beside me, and remarked something like, "How just like my mom. Gentle and un-rushed even in the end."

After the service, we descended on Max and Denise's house. It's worth mentioning that the way that Denise served her mother-in-law in her illness was a thing of beauty. She slept for months with a baby monitor beside her bed, and snuck over to Sue's adjoining apartment if there was any sign of trouble in the night. Max and Denise graciously opened Aunt Sue's home, and invited guests to pick a few books from her vast library. Admittedly, most of the literature was beyond my college-dropout intellect, but it was stunning to see the vast array of topics that interested Sue... everything from politics to Buddha to oil drilling to Jesus. It was calming to walk through her little domain, and the great loves of her life were obvious as I did so: books...and her family. Paintings by her grandchildren and candid photos of them laughing in the woods papered the walls and were wedged in among her stacks of books.

I was delighted to find Moosewood Cookbook among the stacks, a recipe collection that I had long coveted but could never justify buying. I am not sure if it was one of her favorites, or if it was a gift given just before she got ill... maybe she had hopeful culinary aspirations as she leafed through it, only to become so sick that she depended on charity casseroles and cans of Campbell's soup. There were no tell-tale grease spatterings or finger smudges that are so prevalent in my own cookbooks. But as I cooked my first recipe from the book last night, an (amazing!) Swiss and Mushroom Quiche, I liked to imagine Aunt Sue in her little kitchen.

I could see her chopping the onions, pausing and removing her glasses for a moment as she wiped her tearing eyes. She would lean back to the fridge, so close she probably didn't have to leave her spot at the stove, and grab the butter, and plop a bit into the pan. It would sizzle and foam. She would stand at the counter and grate the cheese, possibly with a small grandchild at her side, begging for a sample. She would cut the butter into the flour with two forks crisscrossing each other, and add a little more water so it would stick together. As she rolled it out on the floured counter, maybe she would upset her glass of water and it would run down the side of the sink and onto her skirt. Possibly she cursed under her breath softly, before catching herself and quickly glancing over to see if her small grandson, who was busy creating animals out of colored duct tape at the table, had noticed. He hadn't (or didn't care), so she would mop up the spill with the corner of her sleeve and refill her glass. After sliding the glass pie plate into the oven, perhaps she would sit with Stephen and read a book. Or, as she was by all accounts a "play-slave", maybe they would mold something out of clay or create a fort on the living room floor.

Of course I don't know all these things. As I mentioned, I didn't often see Aunt Sue after I became an adult. Was she a cook? I don't know. Possibly her busy metropolitan life had left her more apt to phone in a take-out order or stop by the local delicatessen on her way home from work. But I had fun imagining. And as my hands rolled out the dough on the counter, I felt a kinship with her... really, with all the women in my family who have gone before me. An age old-ritual... flour, butter, a little water... we women have been doing it for centuries-- the rote, mechanical, mundane chores-- all with the end purpose of nourishing our families and creating a home. We are a calvary of mothers, of aunts, of Nanas, of sisters, of daughters (and daughters-in-law)... with flour smudged on our cheeks and a sink full of dishes. And though Aunt Sue has set sail down the river... across the Jordan, really... we carry on the rhythm of her days. Cooking, reading, learning, loving, playing.

My Moosewood Cookbook sits wedged among a stack of others on the counter in my kitchen. And I have a feeling that every time I reach for it (which will be often), I will pause and think of Aunt Sue, with her quiet and gentle presence, and invite her memory to come and cook with me.