Life is Like a Bowl of Zwieback

Until 2 years ago I thought that zwieback (I pronounced it zoo-E-back)was the hard dry toast you purchase at the grocery story in baby blue packages with a smiling little cherub on the cover. I remember giving it to my babies when they were teething, and acting very unlike smiling little cherubs. It was the consistency of a two by four so that the little angels happily could chew on it for hours, never breaking off a single chunk large enough to choke on, before it turned to mush.

In the intervening years I went through a divorce and spent years alone. When my second husband and I married a couple of years ago, rescuing each other from loneliness, celibacy, and single parenthood, I learned some important things. The rock hard stuff in the store is not real zwieback, and it is pronounced swee-baac.

Real zwieback is a tradition dating back so many generations that no one remembers when it started. Fresh baked zwieback is the lightest, softest, sweetest dinner roll ever.

Some brilliant cook invented Zwieback long before I was born and bread machines were invented. My mother-in-law, Marlene, is famous for making the best zwieback on three continents. She is suffering from Alzheimer's, so a few months ago she and my father-in-law invited me to her house to make zwieback with her so that she could pass on treasured generational zwieback secrets. I knew I was in trouble the minute she began warming the utensils we were to use. Making zwieback like hers is a science, requiring precision.  I am a terrible scientist.

This Easter I am making zwieback alone for the first time. Slightly intimidated by Marlene's reputation, I glanced at the recipe, and googled "scald milk". The Cooking-for-Modern-Clueless-Idiots website said that scalding milk began back when milk came from cows instead of from grocery stores. Heating the milk to near boiling killed dangerous bacteria and the enzymes that kept dough from thickening. The website said that scalding is unnecessary now in the days of pasteurization.  Scalding already pasteurized milk is probably a step we take just because it has always been done this way. It is like the story my mother tells. A woman learned from her mother that she should trim the ends off a roast before putting it in the oven. After years of doing this, she asked why this step was necessary. Mother didn't know, so she asked her grandmother. The sage old woman answered. "I always did that because the roast wouldn't fit in my pan!" I scalded the milk anyway, just in case.

I finished the delicate zwieback-made-with-scalded-milk dough mixing it gently in a warm bowl. Getting the right consistency required using more than 16 cups of flour even though the recipe calls for only 4 - 8 cups. It was written down by a person determined to make sure that no one attempting to follow it could possibly succeed.

I gently tucked the finished dough into a pre-warmed bowl, covered it with a fresh towel, and left it to rise in peace and quiet. It grew large, light, and baby soft. The recipe said to let the dough rise to twice its original size then "punch it down".  I obeyed. Laying aside all the earlier gentleness I used the cooking skills I acquired in kickboxing class throwing undercuts and right hooks at my beloved dough. After knocking all the air out of it, I walked away. The ball of dough recovered from its shock, and gradually struggled back up to its former fluffy glory, only to be punched down again. Three times. I felt for the poor dough. I related to it. It couldn't see my perspective or know that the times of being uncovered and punched down are as crucial for preparing it for its delicious destiny as the times of warmth and comfort.

As the scent of baking zwieback fills my kitchen, I realize that God is like an old-style cook. Sometimes He puts us in warm sunny windows to grow in quiet comfort. Sometimes he lets life knock all the air out of us, then seems to walk away. He does it repeatedly, and He does it because he loves us. There is a delicious destiny ahead for us.

That's it. Gotta go take soft golden brown zwieback from the oven.

Beth

This post can also be seen on my other blog, thosewhosee.blogspot.com.

Kindling Torches vs. Holding Hands

Let him who walks in darkness and has no light trust in the name of the Lord and rely on his God. Isaiah 50:10

As I write these words I can still hear the voice of my mentor years ago. She patiently listened to me complain for hours about the fact that I had no idea what to do about my messy life.

"That is so good!" She said, her eyes shining with happiness. "You are right where God wants you."

I was, and often still am, the person who walks in darkness and has no light. Anger, disrespect, or conflict erupts between me and my stepkids and I have no idea what to do.

The wise counsel in Isaiah 50:10 is followed by a contrasting scenario and a stern warning.

Behold, all you who kindle a fire, who equip yourselves with burning torches! Walk by the light of your fire, and by the torches that you have kindled! This you have from my hand; you shall lie down in torment. Isaiah 50:11

Isn't that what we do? We find ourselves in a dark place, unable to see the way out. Our natural instinct is to immediately equip ourselves with a burning torch and grope our way out of the problem. This is not God's way. Instead we ought to refuse the urge to kindle a torch by grabbing onto a quick solution, and instead choose to rely on God in the dark. 

I still find myself kindling torches, and stumbling around in the dark.
I want to get better at reaching for God's big hand to guide me through instead.

The Good News About Disappointment

A dark cloud of despondency lingered over our house for a day or two this week. Most of the members of my family were feeling a little blue. To be honest, some of us were feeling more deep indigo blue than lightly sky blue. I am not completely sure if the mood was an after effect of eating too many rich and sugary foods and exercising too little, or if it came from something deeper. Probably it was a combination of things, the ways the holidays touch old hurts caused by the destruction of two families, and the ways those holidays reveal that our blending family is not yet one whole instead of pieces of two in one household. 

On blue days I am tempted to sink in a mire of self pity and "if-onlys". I reason that the presence of disappointments and longings in my soul means that I must find a solution. Fix things. I must find that one piece to the puzzle that would make my life complete. This is a lie, and I have to recognize the evil voice that whispers it in my ear.

The truth is, every human being carries disappointments and unmet longings. I think God lets this happen for a purpose. He knows that if we were able to find deep and lasting satisfaction from our possessions, our pursuits, or our relationships, we would not be driven to the only thing that ultimately matters. Our disappointments actually give us the most precious gift.

John Eldredge says it this way: "Everyone has a cross to bear. Everyone. It serves to remind us every day that we cannot make life work the way we want. We can't arrive. Not completely. Not yet. If we'll let it, the disappointment can be God's way of continually drawing us back to himself. I know that I face a choice. I can feel it down inside, and I watch it take place in my heart. I can let my disappointments define my life. Or I can let them take me back to God, to find my life in him in ways I have not yet learned. The rest remains a mystery. But this is enough to know."