Thicket

I grew up in a Tudor-style home on a half-acre wonderland. The house sat on a hill, and the rainbow-shaped driveway launched sledders with delight. Purple clematis covered the wall by the garage door. Sunny forsythia brightly marked one corner of the lot. Thick tree trunks held up Dad’s Mexican hammocks and a homemade swing with the longest rope ever. A patio off the walkout basement hugged a lilac bush and a brick wall. The brick wall was perfect for smashing rocks into dust; dust was then relocated inside acorn caps for our store of magic potions. There was flat lawn for playing ball, and incline for slipping and sliding. Mom manually watered every inch of green by dragging the hose to and fro; a yellow margarine tub measured the sprinkler’s inches of moisture. Grow boxes built from railroad ties hosted an annual exhibit of tomatoes and banana peppers. Creepy crawlies hid in cord after cord of stacked firewood. One tree with slick white bark was my eagle’s nest and could be climbed to the tippy top, allowing me to see when Dad’s car was turning right onto our street after work. Crouching in the redbud afforded glimpses of neighbor Paul’s colorful koi. Pollyanna was the tree so big she was always base for hide and seek. When men from church came with chainsaws to cut her down we counted the rings on her raw remainder. She was ancient.

Yes, the yard at 405 Woodridge Drive was a manicured paradise except for one section: the thicket.

The thicket was the armpit of our yard; the untamed and uncultivated back corner reserved for lawn clippings and green waste. It housed pokey weeds, tangly vines, and a damp, organic smell fitting for nature's morgue. The stump that stood in the middle of the thicket could only be reached on a dare. Retrieving balls and frisbees from the thicket was like playing Russian roulette against imagined land mines: every step into that squishy mound of dead grass could hit a coiled copperhead or wild-eyed critter with rabies hungry for a chunk of my leg. The thicket was the worst.

This is why any time I study or hear about Abraham and Isaac—you know, the story of Abraham being asked to sacrifice his beloved son after all those years of waiting—I am drawn to a small phrase at the end. The knife was raised, Abraham withheld nothing from God, and the angel called it off in the nick of time. Proven and relieved, Abraham looked and beheld “a ram caught in the thicket by his horns” (Genesis 22:13). The ram was offered as a sacrifice instead; the ram pointed to Jesus Christ and the sacrifice He would make for all mankind centuries later.

I know the ram’s horns were probably caught in the middle eastern version of scrub oaks, but when I read the word thicket, I picture Missouri, and the scary plot of my childhood world. I picture a ram caught there, and it still works…because Christ is in that thicket, too.

One minute life is grand—you’re in the yard playing croquet, chasing butterflies, and painting a box turtle’s shell with a pot of nail polish. One misstep later you’re in the thicket and all that thickets entail: fear, remorse, hopelessness. The worst thing about the thicket is how close you are to all the happiness you knew; you can see where you were and how good it was. How did a couple of clumsy steps change everything? How did I end up in the thicket? Let me back onto the emerald lawn beneath the glow of strung Edison bulbs! Let me inhale lilac again! Push me so high on the swing my tummy flips!

As one who skipped through yard this year and came out dripping with milk and honey—family reunited, two trips to Paris, my 25th wedding anniversary, more wallpaper pasted in the house, and so much hiking I required new shoes—I have also spent unexpected and all-time lows in the thicket. All I can say is that the ram IS in the thicket, and what has meant the most to me this year is knowing He is isn't there because He is stuck, He is there because I am.

There is no friend more loyal than the Savior. He will not leave us alone, be it in Eden or the thicket.

*For stoic and poetic Heater, who just rode camels after finishing chemo. RRR!

The boys checked a book out of the local library called Swirl by Swirl: Spirals in Nature by Joyce Sidman. After reading it one time I ordered it hardcover on Amazon. Filled with hedgehogs, ferns, ocean waves and more, one line reads, “A spiral is a strong shape. Its outer curves protect what’s inside. It knows how to defend itself.” On the defending page there are two rams head butting, and the index at the end of the story explains, “The spiral horns of a male merino sheep absorb the impact of the tremendous pounding blows they receive when fighting other males.” I realized Christ is the ram that has forever defended us by absorbing our pain (and everything else) in his spiraled horns (His Atonement) to protect what is inside of him (godly and infinite love for us). Spirals can go on forever. “Love without end.”

Greg graduated from Rampart High School; he was a Rampart Ram. Sadly, his letter jacket only has a letter R on it—no sheep’s head with magnificent spiraled horns. He is very rammy in the way he tries to fortify me.

Epithet

Since February, I have been refinishing a dining table I bought from the classifieds. I’ve made a real mess of the garage and invested more materials, time, and effort than I planned on. I’ve also used two containers of something called “odorless mineral spirits”. I find it marginally irritating the tonic is not odorless. If I were in the business of selling mineral spirits and could only use one word to describe my product, I’d at least choose a word that was true.

This last time I opened the “odorless” mineral spirits to wipe away yet another round of espresso-colored goo from my dream farmhouse table’s teak planks, I snapped. Odorless lie!

Then I immediately thought of Jesus, and so many of his one-word names began to flood my crabby mind. Deliverer. Counsellor. Rock. Advocate. Mediator. Shepherd. Redeemer. Healer. Exemplar. Light. Friend. And even though I was alone, and wearing a whitestrip under an n95, I smiled. Within moments, I felt perfectly happy inside knowing all of the Savior’s names are true; none of them are lies. He is everything He says He is.

Whatever you need in your life right now, Jesus Christ has a name for it, and you can have faith in that name.

Back Up

Dear Miquelin,

I had to record this for myself (I'm trying to not forget biggie learning experiences) but I also like blogging about people for their birthdays, so Happy 40th! Here is a refresher of how you changed my world with orzo, multiple washcloths, and elbow grease:

New Year’s Eve, 2019. I popped some poppers, made some resolutions in my spankin’ fresh 2020 notebook, and planned for a spectacular year.

Days later: pain.

More days later: crazy pain and an MRI.

Five weeks later: neurosurgeon met and microdiscectomy scheduled six weeks out.

After doing absolutely nada in the living or resolution department for 2020, I was depressed. I was either in knife-stabbing pain or the drowsy fog of Lortab, my boys watched a lot of screens, and I woke up every day wondering how I’d get to the next. I just had to make it to March 25.

Lucky break: someone cancelled and my surgery was rescheduled for March 16.

I had fourteen days left to eek it out when you heard from a mutual friend what was going on. I believe there are two key things to point out about you right here. One, you had a microdiscectomy a few years ago and knew exactly what I felt like. Two, you’re one of those odd people that doesn’t believe in written recipes yet throws tasty food together with ease. I happen to have a loose recipe for the lunch you made me when I first moved here:

orzo pasta + pan-fried chicken sprinkled with lemon pepper + roasted asparagus, peppers, mushrooms, and garlic + generous lemon squeezes + parmesan + pine nuts

The first time you made it for me we cleansed our garlicky palettes with leftover Sunday brownies. You had me at “day-old brownie”; I considered purchasing the two-piece best friends necklace from Claire’s.

Anyway, you heard of my spinal distress and literally called me that very minute and left a message offering to bring me lunch. Embarrassed I’d evolved into a 90-year old woman in less than two months, but also starving, I texted you back. You responded, “See you in 5 minutes.”

I was so excited to see a friendly face…and then I started looking around at my neglected house. Everything from the waist-up was clean, but I had not been able to bend or twist for months and my petting zoo floors were beyond gross. Embarassed ex-perfectionist, check. I had the thought, “I don’t need lunch. I need someone to clean my nasty floors.”

*DING DONG*

I hobbled to the door, opened it, forced a weak smile. You watched me take a few steps to the kitchen as you hauled your oversized, soft-sided cooler to the counter.

“Oh, Meliss. This is not good. I can tell how badly you are hurting. Go rest. Where are your pans?”

I complied, but with inner friction. Asking for help is personally impossible for me, receiving help is marginally less awful. I was a room away but start smelling lemon pepper. She’s making the orzo. Holy eureka I'm happy.

The veggies had to roast 15 minutes; you asked me where my cleaning supplies were. This was the ultimate crossroad of My Worst Nightmare and Dream Come True. I revealed the secret hiding place of the cleaning supplies. You cleaned my tidy half bath, the nearly unused guest bath, and the boys’ blue toothpaste/urine drip bathroom before the veggies were done, all the while I was inhaling deep breaths and letting the scent of roasted garlic mask my shame.

We ate. It felt like dining al fresco by the seaside somewhere in Europe—it was the best food I’d eaten in months (wheat thins aren’t a complete dinner?). I was so grateful three of my four bathrooms were sparkling. As we wrapped up, you stood and started loading your cooler. Olive oil, salt, cutting board. Sheesh, I have those things. You didn’t need to haul olive oil to my house.

Then the words I will never forget:

“Okay. Are you going to let me clean YOUR bathroom, or are you going to be stubborn?”

I was not stubborn, but I totally wretched inside. I knew my bathroom was the dirtiest; the little toilet room’s floor was actually fuzzy. I stayed in the kitchen for a few minutes as to not lurk but eventually walked in and will never forget the image of my friend on her hands and knees scrubbing my disgusting floor clean. You tried to play it down, too, telling me how you had way grosser cleaning jobs in college (like cleaning the toilet of a mechanic shop) and way dirtier experiences as a nurse. I wanted to believe you.

After you left, I realized how much you taught me about acting godlike.

It is godlike to look at others in their weakest—and therefore most vulnerable—state and treat them with dignity.

It is godlike to clean up a mess someone has been hiding in a way that doesn’t humiliate them.

It is godlike to carefully, oh so carefully, embrace another without popping their frail emotional stitches.

It is godlike to know exactly how another’s hurt feels, yet tiptoe around their open wounds until they are ready to address—or dress—them.

It is godlike to feed someone before you teach someone (John 21:12-13).

Of course, my surgery was cancelled at 10 pm on March 15 when the pandemic broke loose. Miraculously, my back healed without surgery and I am inches away from doing cobra pose with straight arms. My spinal life is good! My bathrooms are decent!

You also opened my eyes to how I need to pray better—with more specific and real intent—since every prayer is basically like having lunch with Heavenly Father. I can either politely chew and say how great things are between bites, or I can ask Him to have the Savior clean my horrid, fuzzy bathrooms since the Savior already knows what bad discs feel like (and He’s already cleaned way worse, for real).

Lots of love,

Melissa

"Miquelin" is pronounced like "Jacquelin" but with a "my" instead of "jack"

Photo of my bathroom floor. Nothing cleans hex tiles like compassion.

Reinforce

In episode one of The World’s Most Extraordinary Homes (Netflix) there is Rural House, a contemporary, half-buried house in Spain made entirely from weathered steel. Eleven steel boxes, welded together with unexpected vision, look successful. Steel walls and steel ceilings stand firmly with unapologetic patinas of gray and rusted orange. The architect, who designed it for a Michelin star chef and her family, said he chose steel because “it is a material that shows the passage of time—it is full of life”.

As that line is narrated, cameras zoom in on a panel of textured lines, drips, and splotches—not a smooth sea of silver—and reveal the up close and personal of weathering.

Greg and I have looked at our wedding picture hanging on the wall these last 24 years and felt congruent to those posed whippersnappers until only recently. I don’t know when it happened. I saw a video of me holding baby RE 20 years ago and hardly recognized myself. This is why I appreciated the architect’s complimentary spin on the otherwise tactless truth that old steel can look…old. “Full of life” is the new old. Phew.

Once I was sleek, reflective, and factory fresh. Yet, somehow:

My last baby’s diapers were changed with arthritic hands. My eyebrows are fading and my ponytail fits in an orthodontic rubber band. I have a kneeling pad for weeding and the pitfall of travel is sleeping in a bed other than my own. My bones feel oncoming storms, I spend more money on sunscreen than makeup, and I crochet in traffic (as a passenger, of course). However, my wisdom, capacity, and gratitude stocks are up. I’m increasingly sentimental and decreasingly materialistic; give me a good meal, a sunset hike with arch support, and let me run into old friends at the grocery store now and then.

This is steel aging. This is me evolving into the newest version of myself. This is the development of a beautiful, unique patina.

Alas, I know I’m not the only one on FaceTime struggling with collagen loss and turkey neck here in the deep trench of middle age. I am bombarded with messages that I’m losing my luster and deserve a mommy makeover to reward myself for all I’ve gone through. Let me get this straight: I’m supposed to rock the cradle, save the planet, run the world, and defy gravity? Please. I don’t deserve syringes or incisions; I deserve to be celebrated for my worth.

Hank Smith lamented, “Media has destroyed the idea of beauty. We’ve been deluded into thinking that being beautiful is only about how one looks. It is so much more than that. For our grandparents and great-grandparents, beauty was about health, kindness, and vitality. We’ve watched it slowly become about body parts, crudeness, and lust. Like our food, beauty has become cheap, unhealthy, and it has a bitter aftertaste. Let’s return to the beauty of the past. Let’s celebrate and reward loyalty, health, and energy.”

Artist Natalie Hunsaker revealed that in her personal search to find “what beauty really means to God” she discovered beauty, as described in the scriptures, is sometimes interchangeable with the word glory. Glory is “an outward and visible manifestation of God’s presence”. Beauty is a countenance; it is immortal. Whatever you look like, the best you can look is to glow from goodness.

One last thing. Steel is a fortified version of iron made from iron and carbon. It is the second most mass-produced commodity next to cement and found everywhere: railroads, oil and gas pipelines, skyscrapers, elevators, subways, bridges, automobiles, ships, knives and forks, razors, and surgical instruments. Take that, every other material on earth! Steel—blue collar, ordinary, and not winning any awards—is basically holding civilization together. Could there be a better metaphor for the utilitarian and overlooked titans we call mothers? No wonder we look "full of life." Our lives are full!

I am good metal, and I deserve a medal for being both shield and shelter—for all I have withstood and all I choose to stand for—while exposed to an insanely corrosive world. 

Photo quote is a lyric from "Oblivion" by Bastille

Image of weathered steel snapped one front yard away. My awesome neighbors have a beautiful "Jackson Hole-esque" fountain that was *just* what I needed. Facts about steel obtained from www.metalsupermarkets.com

"It is not beauty that endears. It is love that makes us see beauty." -Tolstoy

Share a Square

Between the pandemic and the contention in the world, I hope you have a lasagna friend.

A “lasagna friend” is someone you make a deal with, and there is only one rule. Whenever either of you bake a lasagna, you promise to cut a piece from the leftovers and deliver it the next day. It’s a stress-free covenant considering it only applies to when you actually feel like making lasagna. And, when you least expect it, you get an exciting and free mom lunch that spices up your life and keeps you from cracking. Added bonus: lasagna, like curry, is one of those dishes that tastes better tomorrow.

Now, I realize lasagna is right up there with apple pie as far as happy childhood memories and polarizing ingredient debates are concerned. Sausage versus ground beef. Ricotta versus cottage cheese. Olives or no olives.

Matt & Mary’s Italian masterpiece showcases homemade pasta sheets tucked between alternating layers of bechamel and red. A butternut squash and hazelnut showstopper was served at my sister’s wedding dinner. My own vegetarian version hides a roasted eggplant, zucchini, and yellow squash in the sauce for no picky kid to decipher. Every lasagna has worth. Every lasagna matters. Except frozen, of course.

Because I have a lasagna friend—and we shared for years—I have learned the best-tasting lasagna is the one I didn’t cook. Effortless, mess-free-kitchen lasagna is simply delectable, and having a friend drop off a plate of any version covered in plastic wrap is straight up happiness. Leftover garlic bread on the side is next level.

Seeing as the world is populated and we all love carbs, do think twice about seeking out your very own lasagna friend. Lasagna-sharing is definitely caring. Trite as tray dinners may be, their resulting lasagna friendship is one of the reasons I smile when I look back at my 30s. 

I haven’t made the effort to strike up a lasagna contract with anyone in Suncrest despite living here for four years. However, I recently called my old lasagna friend on a whim at 10 pm on a school night and our conversation was akin to gobbling up a reheated square of cheesy love.

Photo of rabbit and cat from a wrinkled gift bag someone gave us years ago that I threw away in the move. Sorry to not give credit to the artist or studio. I added the lasagna, in case you thought "lasagna friendship art" was an already-tapped genre.

Typing "lasagna" this many times reminded me of all the Garfield books I had as a kid. Don't be like Garfield—he never shared his lasagna!