The heat necessary
to bake the ingredients of our lives
into something worthwhile
out of all of its well-beaten batter
comes from the friction
created by the moments
flying by us
and pushing past us.

 

We ought to seek to embrace
their slippery substance
more forcefully
to take advantage
of the friction more desperately,
so that we become edifying earlier
rather than living most of our lives,
if not all,
as half-baked messes.

 

Given an adequate awareness
and sense of desperation for life,
we are supremely capable
of having well-baked,
warm, and nutritious offerings
harvested from the ovens of our hearts
not just once in our lives,
as if only some grand opus
were all that mattered,
but several times a day;
here a little, there a little,
but always good
and comforting
and nourishing.

 

These thoughts were inspired by a conversation in an orange-vinyl-covered booth in a diner over a table covered with eggs, pancakes, gyros, french toast, sausage, coffee, and little pitchers of syrup surrounded by foil-wrapped rectangles of real butter with my friends Seth and Max, who happen to be wonderfully tasty treats of inspiration, of whose substance the world is scarcely worthy.

 

These thoughts were written in an email message to my lovely, soon-to-be-seventeen-year-old daughter, Hannah, who happens to be someone I aspire to be like, someday, of whose substance the world shall surely never be worthy, in which I apologized for the pitiful and grievous mistake of squandering moments which were offering opportunities to hear the overflow of her heart’s music.

 

I could write a thousand words, or two, more and hardly exhaust my longing to relate all that stirs here, but I think I’ll go home instead.
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4 thoughts on “baking in the heat of the moment

  1. As for me…I’m tired of the beating and the baking and the heat. Simply put, I don’t want it no matter how much I need it. I don’t want to “embrace adversity” and lean into the pain…heck no!!! I want to run from it and hide. Like forever. It is all too much. The heartache. The disappointment. The crushing weight of humanity. Mine and everybody else’s. It is swallowing me up.

    1. Dear Davida – I understand, and I’ve said the same thing many times, but I don’t believe you, and I don’t believe you believe you. Maybe you can buy it for a day, and beg off the baking, or a week or a month, or maybe even a few years, God forbid, but I believe that you believe you want what you need, and you know that all that is worthwhile is through and beyond the heartache of today. As my favorite author, Mr. Buechner, wrote in Godric: “What’s lost is nothing to what’s found, and all the death that ever was, set next to life, would scarcely fill a cup.” All of the crushing pain of being swallowed up, is nothing and unworthy to be compared to the glory that will be revealed. Run with patience, Davida, knowing that you’re loved, and everything’s going to be alright, looking unto Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Scream at him. Throw things at him. Throw a tantrum on his face. Then let him hug you. Run from it, to him, and hide in him. You know what I’m talking about. Then grab hold of life and with all the passion and burning anger you can muster, declare that you will squeeze every drop of every tear of sorrow it contains for the sake of every drop of the joy that comes in the morning.

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