Sanctification. It was just a vocabulary word to me for a long time. But this year, through a series of experiences, I've come to understand it better. This particular image came from a series of emails with a friend. Maybe it's just the way I'm wired...to understand anything better when it's connected to fluffy, gluten-full bread...but maybe it's how you're wired to, so I think maybe God laid it on my heart to share this.
My Grandma Anna was known for being the best cook any of us had ever known. Even her old, German, midwestern friends who were great cooks themselves, would say, "Well, my rolls are nothing like Anna's, or This is 'Anna's' recipe." She made egg noodles, yeast rolls, German bierock and peppernut cookies all from scratch. There was nothing in the world like them.
As she got older, my sister knew Grandma wouldn't be around forever and asked her for her recipes. Grandma laughed, "I don't have recipes! It's just a palm full of this and a pinch of that until it looks and feels right." My sister insisted on a recipe so watched her make them. Grandma attempted to use measuring spoons and cups while Darla watched and wrote each step down carefully.
Now I make Grandma's recipes. I take out the fading index card, and read, and re-read precisely how much to measure. I level cups of flour and try to find the same brand of shortening she used. I do some decent re-creation of the cinnamon rolls and peppernut...but we all agree they're not exactly like Grandma's.
The difference is Grandma didn't have to squint her eyes and find the exact amount of teaspoons of salt, and baking powder (like the Pharisees trying to figure out precisely in calculatable terms how many feet from their property they were allowed to go in order to honor the sabbath). It was just part of her. It flowed out of her as naturally as breathing. She knew the process so well it didn't stress her out and she could seamlessly apply it to what she had available to work with.
That's not to say she just "followed her gut" and threw together whatever she felt like. As a young girl she did have to learn the proper way to do this and practice it regularly. But, it was always part of a loving relationship. I imagine her standing on a wooden chair in the kitchen next to her German mother, who'd pour flour into the palm of her hand to add, or talk and laugh with her as they kneaded the sticky dough.
I want to know God well. I want to meditate on the words he's given us through the Bible. To sit at his feet, and talk to him every day. And of course I want to do what he's doing and go where he's going. But, I don't want it to be like standing in the kitchen, reading a recipe for Christianity in a detached, methodical way. I want his loving ways to flow naturally out of me with a rhythm of perfect love, in the way that my grandma greeted us at the end of a long journey with a kitchen full of rolls and noodles that she couldn't even remember how she made! I want to walk with others through this, as we learn with flour in our hair, elbow deep in sticky batter until the world around us can't help but notice the heavenly aroma of hIs love.
Comments
Post a Comment