Junk Food Junkie

Recently, my husband and I watched a compelling documentary on plant-based eating. Before the documentary, I considered making some changes in our diet, so, being an all-or-nothing girl, I decided to jump in with both feet.

I arrived at the local grocery with a manilla folder containing five plant-based meals, all with a long list of ingredients located in mysterious locations throughout the store, such as fresh ginger (hint: it’s not in the ginger ale aisle!), flaxseed, soy milk, leeks and so on.

Fully committed to bags of foreign ingredients, I decided to start our glorious adventure with veggie burgers. I had pots and pans, a food processor, and a ninja blender all in use as I sauteed leeks and lemon juice and turned walnuts to dust with the ninja, all the while slowly boiling the liquid out of my brown lentils. The smell was horrific, but my attitude was stellar.

Long story short—the burgers were possibly the worst meal I have ever served to my husband in 35 years of marriage. We did our best to eat them, but we agreed to toss the leftovers.  

We enjoyed a Culver’s butter burger, fries, and caramel custard the next day. 

As I licked away the last of my custard from my spoon, I remembered a song from a record my mom had played when I was a kid called Junk Food Junkie (by Larry Groce). He first sang it in 1975. He talks about how he’s known by all of his friends as being healthy, “In the daytime, I’m Mr. Natural, just as healthy as I can be—but at night I’m a junk food junkie, good Lord have mercy on me!” His worst fear is: “I'm afraid someday they’ll find me, all stretched out on my bed—with a handful of Pringles potato chips and a ding-dong by my head.”

If I am honest, I have felt the same fear about myself from time to time. Not concerning food, but involving the church. It is easy to put on the church face, say the right things, and appear to be a spiritual hero. But then, Monday always arrives with its share of unfair circumstances, unexpected tornadoes, and people who don’t understand things the way they should. And suddenly, a thought, a sideways glance, a word that would not be welcome in the church, a judgment that does not exemplify the character of Christ, and a sinking spirit from the realization of the reality of one’s humanity become the truth of who I am. 

I become the me that I’m not proud of, the me who stares at her reflection in the mirror in an attempt to understand who that person truly is at her core. 

I believe that each of us deeply, and often secretly, longs to be true to the person we know God created us to become. Even in the moments—or perhaps, especially when we are aware of our depravity. If we are never willing to look inside, the authenticity that comes only through the lens of truth will never find its way out. And quite honestly, right now, the world needs to see the authenticity of a life striving after the heart of God like never before. And part of that authenticity might be allowing others to see us when we aren’t pretending to have it all figured out. 

Romans 12:2 reminds us, “Do not conform to the pattern of this world but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God’s will is—his good, pleasing and perfect will.”

Maybe praying for God to renew our minds so we can become more like Him might be a good starting point. His Spirit in us gives us hope and changes us from the inside out. We cannot muster enough self-discipline in our strength to emulate the glory of Christ within, but as He renews our minds, we are more clearly able to live each day in His perfect will. Kind of a slow process of becoming a pure, authentic child of God even outside of Sunday morning.

Last night, after four days of recovering from the veggie burger event, I was back at it with vegan vegetable curry chowder. Much to my surprise, and even more so to my husband’s surprise—the meal was delicious.

I don’t have a clue what tonight’s dinner menu holds. It could be cauliflower macaroni, or it could be a frozen pepperoni pizza. 

Good Lord, have mercy on me!

Stay the Course…

Sheila

Zumba

(I wrote this blog 11 years ago, but just stumbled upon it. Our children are all adults now, which makes this blog more special and something that I know all parents can relate to in one way or another. When we are busy raising our family we are not always able to recognize that the small moments are the big moments.) 

Perhaps you can relate to the story I am about to share. 

There are things I told myself many years ago I would never do-- and then I had children. Funny how a child, your flesh and blood, can have interests that test the depth of your love, pushing you to do the very things you told yourself you would never do. 

Enter Zumba. A class at our local fitness center that our family just joined. My sixteen-year-old daughter, Danielle, wanted to try the dance workout; and for whatever reason, invited me. 

So, against my better judgment, I went. 

The description of Zumba was my first red flag, “high energy and motivating music with unique moves and combinations that allow participants to dance away their worries.” Anytime the words “unique” and “dance” are used in the same sentence, I become full of worry. 

My clever idea of standing in the back of the room didn’t work out for me since there were mirrors on every side. I watched my instructor, Rhea, do things with her hips that I didn’t know were possible. My daughter gave me a huge smile each time we had to turn, and she was able to see my “moves.” I was smiling too, but for different reasons. 

The class that my daughter assured me was twenty minutes in length ended precisely an hour after it began. I mumbled something to the instructor on the way out, and she mentioned how well we did for our first time. “How did she know it was our first time?” I wondered to myself with a slight shrug.

Although I had hoped that my daughter would not love the class, she did. I blinked my eyes and a week passed. 

“Tonight’s Zumba night,” Danielle reminded me this morning. 

“Yep!” I tried to sound excited. 

I think Rhea was shocked to see that we were back. So was I. And the class was more than double the size of the prior week. 

However, somewhere in the middle of Zumba hour, something happened to me. I kept looking over at my daughter, watching her enjoy herself as she effortlessly performed all the fancy footwork and hip gyrations. Danielle smiled at me--and I realized that I was having fun. 

At one point, Rhea complimented me because my hips were moving (instead of all the other parts of me that weren’t supposed to be moving!). 

I laughed. 

Who knows, if this keeps up, I may soon be known as the most improved Queen of Zumba. 

Could it be possible that I’m excited for next Tuesday night? 

Stay the Course... 

Sheila

The Gift

Almost 10 years ago a dear friend of mine was about to run her first half marathon. I had run a handful of half marathons myself but was no longer able to run long distances so instead I decided to be her cheerleader that day. I noticed that she was not wearing a hat, so I took the hat off of my own head that I had worn for many races and insisted that she wear the hat to help with sun, wind, rain, etc. 

A lot has happened in both of our lives since that day, yet the bond of friendship remains strong. 

Several months ago, my friend received a cancer diagnosis that brought the life she and her family knew to a screeching halt.

Yesterday, my husband and I visited my friend and her husband for the first time since her world had turned upside down. Coincidentally, as I was looking through my hats for one to wear for our visit, I pulled out the hat that she had worn all those years ago for her half marathon. I put it on my head, but it no longer felt like my hat. 

So I took the hat with us on our visit to give to my friend. 

The woman who greeted me was not the same woman I had remembered. She stood before me with a new strength, radiance, and beauty. Her new identity has painfully and slowly unfolded through a journey into the hot flames of a raging fire. Forged within the fire, she has transformed in every way through a deeper personal encounter with her Maker. She has embraced her Father, Savior, and Friend. And He has held her tight in His loving arms of grace, mercy, and compassion. 

I don’t pretend to understand the depth of what she and her family have experienced. Nor do I pretend to understand the significance, if any, that the gift of the hat might have meant to her. 

I had held onto the hat because, at one time, it had been a big part of my identity. It represented something that I loved for so many different reasons: running. And it represented a place where I had once felt a sense of belonging. A place where you could be both strong and vulnerable and know you are accepted— two qualities inevitably revealed in a race of any duration. 

A little while into our visit, she put the hat on her head. It may have been my imagination, but I am almost sure I saw something shift in her composure. I had seen the same grit in the eyes of my friend the day she ran her first half marathon. Her eyes focused, and her mind was ready for whatever she may face throughout the race. She had never run such a distance and was trusting God for strength and mercy to finish the race. 

Just as when she ran before, God has surrounded her today with others on this marathon we call life—some who are stronger and some who are weaker. Those who encourage her and those whom she can encourage along the path. The body of Christ functioning in her true purpose. 

This morning, I’m a mess as I reflect on the symbolism of the significance of the Gift that God has given to each one of us, should we choose to accept the Gift. 

Just as I can only scarcely explain the significance of the hat which now resides on my friend's head, the importance of the gift of salvation through Christ meets me with no adequate words of description. 

The significance of the Gift of Salvation means eternity to those who accept and believe. 

And this faith, which we can scarcely understand, let alone describe, anchors us deeply in the love of the One who has given us the Gift.

"For by grace you have been saved through faith, and that not of yourselves; it is the gift of God." Ephesians 2:8 NKJV

Stay the Course… Sheila

Life, Death & Garden Gloves

A few weeks ago I took an unplanned trip from my home in Michigan to my parent’s home in Wisconsin.

I didn’t tell my parent’s that I was coming to see them. I knew they were both sick, and my dad, who had been struggling with Parkinson’s disease for many years, had taken several falls over the last several weeks.

My plan was simple: show up, get them both back to good health, then hit the road back to Michigan.

The Word of God reminds us about something super important in the book of James: “Now listen, you who say, “Today or tomorrow we will go to this or that city, spend a year there, carry on business and make money.” Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes.” (James 4:13-14)

My middle daughter, Danielle, who happens to be a nurse, visited her best buddy in Minneapolis and offered to extend her trip to go with me to her grandparents to see if she could help.

I had no idea at the time how much help Danielle would provide. 

We arrived at my parent's house at noon on Monday, just as my mom received the news from her doctor that she was positive for COVID. She was hacking up a lung and had been sick for almost a week. The next day Danielle and I were able to take my dad to the doctor, where he also tested positive for COVID. We realized that his lack of appetite for the last several weeks was due to COVID and not Parkinson’s. 

Danielle & I helping with my parents    

At first, I was relieved. I thought if we could find anything at all that appealed to Dad to eat or drink, his strength would return, and he would be good. By this point, he was so weak that it was difficult helping him around the house. And he was so restless from the pain that it was difficult for him to stay in one place for very long.

By Thursday, when I arrived at my parents to see if Dad was any stronger, my heart sank. I took one look at him in his recliner and knew he would not get well—not this time. 

Friday morning we had a meeting with hospice at my parents to get Dad some help before the weekend. His falls were adding up, and my mom was too weak to help him even with my younger brother’s assistance. Before heading to my parents, I stopped at Menard’s and purchased a pair of garden gloves. I figured after our hospice meeting; I would work in my parent’s yard. 

Denial.

I have always thought of springtime as a season of life, not death. I left after the hospice meeting and returned later that afternoon with the pharmacy’s medication; Dad had taken a nosedive. 

My heart skipped a few beats. I knew that Dad knew. My hands shook as I attempted to open the medicine I had just picked up. Pain medication that I didn’t think we would need for quite some time. 

I felt totally helpless and completely unprepared. The resilient man who had always figured a way out of an impossible situation knew. 

The siblings that lived far away were all on their way. All six kids would be together to help usher the man who had brought us into the world, out of the world.

I didn’t get back to my hotel until very late that night. I glanced at the passenger seat and saw my new pair of garden gloves, untouched. What a sudden turn the day had taken. How foolish was I to have thought I knew how the day would come together.

“What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes.”

Early Monday morning, March 29th, Dad took his final breath. 

The funeral director warned us that visitations were not well-attended due to COVID. However, for three hours, people waited in line to pay their respects to a quiet, humble man who never wanted to be the center of attention. His walk with God, his weekly Bible studies, the many people he prayed with who gave their lives to the Lord, the dozens of people he mentored over the years. In life, he was faithful and obedient. Death revealed his legacy and impact. 

Us 6 kids plus Mom in order of birth from left to right    

Last summer, I had a conversation with my dad regarding my garden. He loved gardening and was happy to see me loving it too. I shared with him that each morning I got excited when I looked at my garden and saw all the growth that had happened overnight. I wondered out loud if I would ever lose the excitement of working in my garden. Dad assured me that I wouldn’t, “The reason you love it is because we came from the dirt, and we will return to the dirt one day—it’s a part of who we are.” 

We all gathered around Dad’s casket at the cemetery to bury him on Good Friday. Knowing that Dad had fought the good fight and had finished his race was bittersweet for his family who was feeling the pain of his absence. If only the veil could have been ripped open a little for us to witness the beauty of seeing Dad in heaven, eating his fill at a banquet held in his honor, surrounded by everyone his life had touched in his 80 short years of life.

See You Soon, Dad.

“What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes.” 

Stay the course…

Sheila