Soup and Bread

Last night I made a soup that I haven't made in over 3 years.

The last time I made this particular soup recipe was on Friday, December 4, 2015.

I know this not because I have some incredibly organized system for recording every meal I have ever made, but because I made that soup for a special lunch, with some special friends, that turned out to be even more special than we knew in the moment we were living it.

We had planned the lunch because for the first time in over 10+ years our little Dinner Group, which we had organized when our kids were still in preschool and some were not yet even born, was not going to have its annual Santa Party.

It was a tradition we all enjoyed and loved but that particular year life was getting in the way. The kids had gotten older and had wildly varied college Christmas break schedules. There were private health issues creating concern and complication. The kids still at home had winter sports tournaments and performances. For the first time in well over a decade we all reluctantly agreed to forego the party.

This doesn't mean it's the end. We can do it next year! We will figure it out!

And a million other assurances flew back and forth on that email thread.

But I really do think, looking back, we all did kind of know it was the end.

As the Brad Paisley song says, "There's a last time for everything."

(Because there is a country music song for every occasion.)

Not wanting to let the Christmas season pass without any opportunity for connection, we decided to meet for lunch, just as gals, early in December- before everything got TOO crazy.

Again, life got in the way. In the end it turned out that only 4 of the 6 of us could meet. Tracy, myself, and two of our old, dear friends.

It always kind of surprises me when I realize I have "old friends" in Seattle. Since I didn't grow up there, there were so many years I felt like everything and everyone was new.  But I think it's fair to say that when you have been friends for 20 years, you now qualify as "old friends."

And, of course, Tracy and I were the very oldest and dearest of friends.

As we sat around the table someone suddenly noticed and remarked, "Well, this is kind of perfect. Here we are, the original four who decided to start the Dinner Group."

We started reminiscing about that day, many years before, when we were all together watching our kids play and Tracy floated this idea (of course it was Tracy's idea) of gathering together with our spouses, every couple of months, just to eat a meal and talk. That simple idea launched both many fun, lively dinner gatherings, and an annual Christmas party that our grown kids still talk about. From preschoolers to college graduates, we watched each other's kid's grow and talked about everything under the sun.

I don't remember anyone saying it this way, but I think the four of us sitting there felt like that lunch together validated something.

It was a marker of some sort in which we said silently to one another, Thank you.

Thank you for giving me connection and community and support during those busy, sleepless, uncertain years of raising little ones.

Thank you for making me laugh more times than I can count.

Thank you for bringing me food when I was sad.

Thank you for babysitting my kids.

Thank you for commiserating about sleep schedules, school choices, picky eaters, diet and exercise, discipline, homework battles, health concerns, family dynamics, fashion trends, and a million other life issues both mundane and significant.

(And, on a personal level, I hope my heart remembered to offer a special thank you to Tracy, because I'm pretty sure she came up with this idea in large part for my benefit. She was always working her magic to help me put down roots in a city that was not my own.)

The four of us ate a cozy meal of soup and bread on a cold, December day, celebrating what had been and perhaps quietly acknowledging the future would not look quite the same, even if we didn't yet know how or why or in what way.

One week later Tracy passed away.

That was the last meal she and I shared together. That was the last meal we as four old friends shared together. I guess you could say it was the last meal of our little Dinner Group.

And for over three years I have not been able to bring myself to make that soup again.

But last night I did.

It was just for my little family of three. It was cozy and warm and Annie declared it to be, "Sooooo good."

I made it giving thanks for good memories and good friends. I made it feeling grateful that even as life sometimes brings unexpected change and loss, I have known what it is to be held and lifted up by community and friends. I made it as a promise to myself to seek, nurture, and celebrate the important relationships in my life. I made it with hope that this year is going to bring a deeper sense of community and home. I made it to remember.

It made me happy to make that soup.

I think I will officially rename that soup in my own mind: Friendship Soup.

Easy.

Not at all fussy.

Simple ingredients.

Consistent.

Comfort with a capital C.

All it takes is a little time to get the flavors just right.

Just like old friends.

Thanks to all of mine. 😘

P.S.

Okay, here's the recipe. It's a total 1970's dump in the crockpot type recipe with the modern addition of quinoa. 😄 I have found it works better to prepare the quinoa separately and then add it to the soup. When it cooks with the soup it just keeps soaking up all the liquid and it gets really, really thick. If it is prepared on its own, even if you still then add it at the beginning and let it cook for 4 hours, it doesn't seem to do that. For SUPER convenience, I used the frozen Trader Joes quinoa packets. I cooked two in the microwave and then added them to the crockpot. Everything else, I did as written. Couldn't be easier.

https://mixandmatchmama.com/2015/10/chicken-quinoa-soup/

Dancing in the rain

I have been fortunate to have a few friends in my life that go way, way, way back with me.

I have one friend who I have known since we were born. Well, since she was born...I arrived a month ahead of her. I have another friend who I have known since we were about three years old. And another friend who I have known since I was five or so.

It is without a doubt a blessing to have people in your life who have traveled that long and far with you.

It is also a curse since they remember every hairstyle, every boyfriend, every fashion incident, and no matter how much you think you've got it together, you always know there are a handful of people in the world who know beyond a shadow of a doubt that underneath it all you are really a great big weirdo.

I love that.

In beginning my quest for TRUST, I have been trying to conjure up times in my life where I remember feeling completely and utterly at peace. Times when I felt so completely safe that I wasn't giving a second thought as to whether what I was doing was right, or wrong, or acceptable, or enough. Times when the world's gifts and my intentions all aligned and together we glimpsed...paradise.

As unlikely as it might seem, one fuzzy memory that keeps popping up for me involves these two cherubs right here.

My buddy Christie and me.

Don't those two little nuggets look just chock full of sugar and spice?

Mother of Pearl...don't let them fool you. 

One day, when we were about exactly the age of this picture here....(so, babies, basically) we had a sleepover at my friend Christie's house. I have no recollection as to why since it seems to me we were kind of young for sleepovers, but our moms did a lot of swapping of childcare and babysitting, so who knows what lead to such an exciting adventure for two little friends.

You would think the sleepover would have been adventure enough.

But, no, in the wee hours of the morning, long before anyone else in the house was stirring, Christie and I woke up and made our way to the family room. Looking out the big glass doors, we noticed it had rained in the night. In fact, it had rained a lot in the night.

As we peered outside we could see large puddles covering the ground and water pouring from gutters. 

It was like the world had become a magical land of waterfalls and wading pools perfectly sized for two pint sized fairies.

So, what else were we to do but to go exploring?

We. Left. The. House.

I'm sure we started out in Christie's own front yard but at some point we ventured down the street to where it took a slight dip and a large amount of water had accumulated. It probably wasn't all that much water really, but to us it felt like a swimming pool.

A swimming pool that was in the middle of the street. 

In our pajamas we waded in that oversized puddle, splashed in it, stomped and danced. 

I don't remember feeling cold. I don't remember feeling afraid. I don't remember feeling at all that we were doing something naughty or dangerous. 

We felt glorious.

Eventually, it probably did start to get cold so we made our way back to her house but we couldn't let the opportunity to shower in a waterfall pass us by, so we finished up by standing underneath the downspout "washing" our hair and making sure that not one square inch of our little bodies remained dry.

It was at this point we were finally discovered.

You can imagine that Christie's mother was not nearly so enchanted by our Wonderful World of Water. Or the fact that two tiny girls were wandering around in the street at dawn.

I clearly remember seeing her mouth moving and arms waving as she rushed us inside and thinking, "What's wrong?!"

I know Christie thought the same thing because she and I have remembered and retold and regaled each other with this memory over and over for the past 40+ years. 

As mothers now, we find it equal parts horrifying and hilarious, but in general the hilarity wins out.

But in all the times I have recalled this story, I've never thought about it in terms of TRUST before.

Without question though, that's what we felt.

We trusted the world was safe.

We trusted each other.

We trusted our intuition and our instincts.

We trusted ourselves.

We trusted that when we were ready to go back home, it would be there.

And maybe, there was a small part of us deep down that knew we might get in a little bit of trouble for this...but we also had complete trust that we would be loved anyway.

It's never a surprise to me that Jesus says if we really want to enter the Kingdom of Heaven we have to become like children.

Dancing in the rain doesn't hurt either. 

No day but today

This morning, Facebook took it upon itself to remind me of a blog post I wrote two years ago today. It was a post about Advent, and Mary, and choosing to be still when the world swirls in chaos.

In other words, still oddly appropriate for today. The more things change, the more they stay the same- as they say.

More than that though, two other smaller details, unrelated to the words of the blog post itself, jumped out at me.

First, my sweet friend Annie had left a comment on the post. Annie was also someone who loved to write and always expressed herself beautifully. Two years later, Annie is no longer physically with us in this world.

Second, looking at the date of the post, I realized I wrote those words one week before my world would be upended in ways I could have never imagined. Talk about chaos and disruption and confusion and grief.

Two years later and two of my favorite people in the world, two people who were the best of friends to one another and so many others, are gone. With us, but not with us.

Sigh.

I know....I know...A bit gloomy for this first Sunday of Advent.

I'm known for my love of Christmas music, the happy endings of Hallmark Christmas movies, my abiding love for Santa, and more often than not a childlike glee of Christmas that rivals Buddy the Elf.

That's all true.

But, like so, so many others (and everyone eventually), I've known some sad Christmas seasons. In fact, there is still a lot of heaviness to this one.

That's when I am grateful for Advent and the real Christmas story. Because while it's a joyful story, it isn't really a happy one.

It's pretty dark. It's a little scary. It contains more than a few confusing elements. And in the end what it asks most of you is simply faith.

Or not so simply.

There are many ways to live out one's faith. For me, continuing to love Christmas in the face of sadness is one of mine. It is my way of saying to death, You cannot have this. You are not powerful enough to make me lose this, too. 

Tracy and Annie were full of light. Literally bursting with it. To choose light is to choose them. If they are to be found, and felt, it will never be in darkness.

Which is why even when darkness descends, which it does from time to time, I always know I can't stay there long. I might rest there for a moment. It can feel like a relief sometimes to just let the despair rise and take cover in the blackness. But it won't take long and their spark will start to flicker from somewhere, telling me it's time to come back.

Come back into the light.

Live.

I saw Rent this past week, which was one of Tracy's favorite Broadway musicals. I hadn't seen it in years so seeing it now, on the other side of this loss, was a wildly different experience.

When I had said I wanted to go to the show, it felt like maybe it was a strange choice to see during the Christmas season. Having just seen Holiday Inn the week prior, it was an odd juxtaposition.

Really though, it was pretty much the perfect contrast.

Holiday Inn- the happy, giddy, bubbly side of Christmas. Rent- the dark, melancholy side of Christmas. Yet in both stories there is the reminder that what we have is each other. We are here to love each other, celebrate with each other, help each other, and hope that there is a happy ending somewhere down the line.

I believe there will be.

I believe in the Light.

How do you measure the life of a woman or a man?
How about love?

Lucky

This week I lost someone close to me.

And while she was in fact someone close to me, even more so she was someone very, very close to many other people close to me. So, even as I feel my own loss, my own shock over her absence in this world, I feel even more devastated for the people standing at the epicenter.

Her very young son. Her husband. Her best friends. Her family.

Along with the sorrow, there is concern, and worry, and then even more layers of sorrow.

I've been reminded again this week how slow I can be in processing loss. It just doesn't penetrate to my heart and soul as quickly as it seems to for some people. I am not that person who can burst into tears immediately upon hearing bad news, and I kind of wish I were. I hold it in my gut. It feels like anxiety and stress before it feels like sadness. On the outside I can be very calm. I don't have many words to say, or I have too many words to say and it's all a rambling stream of nothing. But I hold it together. I'm that person who often appears very "strong" in a crisis.

Inside, my heart hurts and my stomach is in knots.

I feel nervous. Jittery. Anxious.

I fear what comes next.

Because what comes next...at some point...when my brain has done its work filtering through the confusion and dismay over the reality of that which is done and unchangeable...I feel sad. Really, really sad.

I hate feeling sad.

Honestly, I'm kind of tired of feeling sad.

And I say that knowing full well that I am among the luckiest people in the world living a wonderful life full of so much happy.

I know that, and I'm grateful. Truly, truly grateful.

But sad is sad.

You can't wish it away and you can't even 'gratitude journal' it away. No matter the enormity of the blessings in your life, when grief comes knocking there is no hedge of protection wide enough to shield you. You just have to feel it.

Or, you don't, and then you get all the problems that come with that but I'll leave that to the professionals to explain why that's a bad idea. (And it is a bad idea so if you are dealing with repressed grief, maybe go talk to someone?)

So....this is really not a good blog post given my whole Word of the Year and all that. But when I picked the word "happy" it wasn't because I believed that would magically mean I would get 365 days of easy breezy sunshine days full of cookies and margaritas (Yes, I think that sounds like a perfect combination. What?) It was more about setting an intention to keep looking for happiness, and recognizing happiness, even in the midst of life's inevitable rough patches.

I also chose the word "happy" (or did it choose me???) because I had started to recognize in myself a tendency to hold happiness at arm's length. Not because I don't enjoy feeling happy but because sometimes it can feel like too much happiness only puts you at more risk for eventually feeling sad.

In the last 48 hours I've felt that inclination creeping in again. The desire to throw up some walls and see if maybe I can't just build a fortress of protection against future pain. Sure, it makes for a rather boring, lonely life but maybe it's worth it in the long run??

I know. It's not.

And the bright light who left us this week never would have done that. She lived utterly without walls and knew so much love and happiness because of it.

She was like a field of clover.

Beautiful. Wide open. Full of life. And you felt lucky to be around her.

"Blessed are they who have the gift of making friends, for it is one of God's best gifts. It involves many things, but above all, the power of going out of one's self, and appreciating whatever is noble and loving in another." Thomas Hughes 

Jumpin' In

Let me just start by saying, this is not a sad post.

At least it's not intended to be.

I feel like I need to start with that disclaimer since I will be mentioning loss, and sorrow, and grief, and falling into pits and stuff.

But I swear, it's not sad.

It's more of an explanation. And maybe a bit of an encouragement. If nothing else, it's something to read on Sunday afternoon instead of doing laundry and I can promise it is at least as good as that. Maybe.

You see, this week will be the 13th birthday of our two little ones who never came home.

Thirteen years is both long and short. Say, if you were talking about how long it has been since you had a really good homemade chocolate chip cookie, thirteen years would be a loooong time. (A criminally long amount of time, if you ask me.) But if you were talking about how long you'd like to spend with someone you love, we'd all agree that thirteen years is but a blink.

In terms of loss, thirteen years might seem on the outer edge of how long it is socially acceptable to speak of such things. I mean, at least out loud. Or in writing. Ahem.

And in truth, I do get that. I don't enjoy dwelling on despair or feeling as though I'm dragging anyone into a well of sad feelings they really didn't ask for. And it's a conundrum because while I might have melancholy feelings, and wistful feelings, and, yes, sometimes even weepy moments every now and then, I'm really okay. I choose to remember because I'm not really sure how I couldn't and because that's how we continue to love those whom we have lost.

We remember them.

But I could do all of that without putting it into words and making my story public. I could opt to remember privately. There is nothing wrong with that and many, many days that is what I choose to do. In fact, that might suit me better given my reclusive tendencies.

However, there is a reason that over the years I became more and more open about my experience with infertility and loss, and I can tell you why in two stories.

(If Tracy were reading this over my shoulder, and she might be, she would break in at this point and say, "Tom, I can name that song in two notes." Because she just would.)

The first involves my cousin Tracy and her legendary ability to make a friend of anyone. Waaaaay back when we were both in our 20's and early years of marriage, she became pregnant and had a baby. At the same time, I tried to become pregnant and couldn't. She was having trouble with some aches and pains related to pregnancy so she started seeing a massage therapist. I, on the other hand, was seeing a fertility doctor because of that whole not getting pregnant thing.

As was Tracy's way, she became quite friendly with her massage therapist, learning all about her life. The therapist had twin toddlers who were the happy end result of a difficult run with infertility. This lead Tracy to tepidly open up to her about my struggles and her concerns with how to offer any support. The therapist asked her lots of questions about my doctor and my treatment, none of which Tracy had good answers to since she didn't really have all of those minute details. But her massage therapist friend would not be so easily dissuaded. See, she'd been there and she'd be damned if she was going to let someone else flail around on their own.

Finally, she said to Tracy, "Do you think I could just call her?"

A total stranger to me, connected only through another friendly acquaintance, refused to stay in her own happy bubble world of a successful pregnancy and birth and motherhood because she knew there were people on the other side. She not only wanted to help, she had to help.

She did call me. We talked for an hour that one time. She gave me information I had never gotten from any doctor. She gave me encouragement to make changes I didn't know I needed to make. More than anything, she gave me hope and she made me brave. I never spoke to her again other than through Tracy who would report back to her my own happy success. But because of her, I changed doctors and was pregnant two months later. I'm not exaggerating when I say I believe she changed my life.

(And by extension, of course, Tracy also changed my life with her fantastically friendly ways. But the list of ways in which Tracy changed my life is long and deep and will require a lifetime of blog posts to capture.)

The second story is not my own and not at all original. It's a modern day parable of sorts and I'm sure you've heard it before. But it bears repeating because it speaks to my larger point of being vulnerable enough to share our stories, to the extent that we are able, for the good of those who might be standing on the outside.

A man was walking along one day when he suddenly tumbled headlong into a pit. He hadn't seen it coming. It was dark. It was lonely. And he had no idea how to get out.

He started calling up from the pit, yelling for help.

First a doctor walked by. He peered down into the pit, tossed in a prescription, and kept walking.

Then, a priest walked by. He looked down at the poor man, offered him a prayer, and then he too kept walking.

Finally, a friend happens by and hears the man's cries for help. He thinks for a moment and then without hesitation jumps into the pit with him.

The man looks at him astonished and says, "What are you doing?! Now we are both stuck down here in the pit!"

His friend answers, "I know. But I've been here before and I know the way out."

And I would add that sometimes we may not even be able to show someone the way out of the pit. But a friend jumps in and says, "This is awful. I'm so sorry. But I'll stay here with you until you can find your way out."

So, that's really it. That's the answer.

I keep telling my story and being honest about who I am and where I've been, because you never know who might be in a pit needing someone to jump in with them.

I'm grateful to every single person, whether they be close friends, family, or momentary acquaintances, who ever jumped in with me.

And because I'm always ready for a little Christmas, I'll leave you with this thought:

Happy Sunday, friends!