Jam Time

I made Strawberry Jam the other day. 

It was a disaster. 

The mixture boiled over and is, I found out, slightly flammable.

I had gone upstairs to put on real clothes instead of my pjs and literally as I was putting my left arm thru the sleeve of my romper, the smoke alarm goes off. 

I sprint downstairs and start handling the situation.

Turn off the heat.  Move the pot.  OUCH.  Still splattering.  Get heat proof BBQ-ing glove and move the pot off that burner.  Turn on the vent over the stove to start sucking up that air.  Frantically pat out the small embers now attached to the bottom of my expensive copper bottomed pot that are made up entirely of congealed strawberry jam.  Stir the pot to distribute some of the heat and try to save the rest of the batch from scorching.  Reassure children standing and staring with hands over their ears that everything is fine.  They believe me and immediately go back to watching DuckTales.  Except the oldest.  To say he is not a fan of sudden LOUD noises is an understatement.  Open sliding back door so smoke can start escaping.  Close screen door so cat can’t escape and get eaten by hawks.  Or coyotes.  NOW I can take a chair over to the screaming smoke detector and push the button to shut it up. 

It shuts up. 

I reassure the oldest child again.  Pour jam mixture into a different pot so I can attempt to clean the bottom so it won’t catch fire again OR ruin my expensive copper bottomed pot.  Forget just how quickly things boil in my little blue pot and nearly have another boil over.  Catch it, gently stir it, and transfer the mixture BACK into the expensive copper bottomed pot.  Angle copper bottomed pot so that the scorched jam still stuck to that copper bottom won’t be over the flames. 

Stare at the mess in my kitchen.  Notice it was on the floor and I spread it while running around taking care of business.  Wonder if the cat or dog will be kind and lick up the big spots (They weren’t).  Tell the kids they’re going to be late to the activity at church.  Accept that the mess will have to wait till we get back.  

Adjust the heat so that the leftover mixture is boiling again.  Just not quite so rapidly.  Stand in the kitchen watching the pot boil, refusing to go upstairs again till the jam is in the jars. 

Button up my romper.   

I spent the afternoon cleaning my kitchen.  I was scraping jam off of the stovetop with a palette knife.  Unbelievable.  It was like I had been slimed.

And yet, amazingly enough, did not ruin my day. I was able to hold on to my joy.  At least at the beginning.

I went to go buy soaps and forgot my coupon.  No soaps for me. 

I went to go pick up my kids (after they were almost 20 minutes late) from their church activity.  Assign the wrong child to the mom that lives near us.  Forget the name of another child that I’m in Small Group with.  Forget to get the number of another mom and hold up the turning out lane while I toss my phone through her car window and practically bark for her to give me her info. 

Then I get to make my kids lunch when we get home.  Peanut Butter and JAM sandwiches.  Do my children applaud the jam in their sandwiches?  The same jam that is covering our stove?  Nope. 

“Thanks mom.”  That’s all. 

Finally finish cleaning the kitchen!

…time to make dinner. 

And then, at the end of the day, I get to look outside of my stove and remember the rest of the world. 

The first thing that I always get slapped with at the end of tiring days is just how disappointing I am physically.  So I’m trying to battle that demon of self hate and “fatness”.  Trying to tell my brain to shut up and stop the thoughts about appearance.

I have an appointment the next day for what could potentially be a painful test. (It wasn’t.  Thank you, Lord!)  But it’s taking me back to the three years where all I had were painful tests.

We’ve been discussing having a party for the twins for their 6th birthday.  If it’s safe?  How many people?  (‘Cause it’s twins means more friends.  Just one of them doesn’t get to choose the select few).  Is it irresponsible?  Will anybody come?   Because, you know, we’re still in the middle of a global pandemic.  It IS still going on.  In fact, its numbers are going up. 

And a black man was murdered by the police.  Again.  While begging for his life.  Again.    

…

I called my mom.  And I cried. 

I wasn’t tired.  That doesn’t come close.  Being tired is just the body.  Weariness is the body and the soul.  Emotional exhaustion that drags your chest down till you want to just lie on the floor.

 I was weary.  So weary.  Weary of the anguish I felt.  Weary of the anguish and exhaustion my family was feeling.  Weary of the anguish my friends were feeling.  Weary of the pain and injustice experienced by complete strangers.  Weary of the anguish my God is feeling.   

If there was ever a season for growing weary.  It’s now.

But we’re not supposed to be weary.  As Christians, we’re supposed to keep going.  Galatians 6:9.  “And let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap a harvest, if we do not give up.”

There is a whole sermon on why it is important to not let weariness over take you.  I could write for three more pages.  Easily.

But what’s been stuck in my head has been, “but I am weary, Lord”.  I just want to escape.  To take a break.  I even started researching cheap cabin rentals within a 5 hour drive just so my family could escape.

Is that wrong?  Is it flying in the face of Scripture to want to a break?  An escape? 

I don’t believe that wanting a break is bad.  Or going against the Lord’s work.  How many times in the Bible do we read about Jesus going off on his own or with just a few friends?  It was to pray but it was also an escape to solitude.  So he could focus on the Father.  And realign. 

I don’t believe that is what we are being cautioned against.  We’re being warned off of becoming apathetic.  Do not grow weary of doing good.  Take a break, absolutely.  But don’t shut down.  But don’t shut your eyes.  Don’t avoid just because it’s easier.  Don’t say, “Well…” and throw up your hands.  Don’t let the rest of the jam burn just because you’re discouraged about the disaster.  Don’t shut off because the process is daunting.     

THAT is growing weary.  That is giving up on the field we have been given.  That is not caring anymore.  About anyone or anything. 

I wasn’t weary yet.  I had my feet in the water but hadn’t waded all the way in.  How do I know this?  Because I have dived all the way into weariness and I know what it feels like.  But that’s a story for another day. 

How do you pull your feet out of that swamp?  Good question.  I normally start with tears.  That tends to loosen the muck up. 

And then, just like the disaster of my kitchen.  You look at the problem, assess it, and start moving.

You prioritize.  And you pray.  I took each issue and broke it down, finding a truth in it.  A truth that went past the despair.   

I remember that no one in my family has gotten sick yet.  So we will keep wearing our masks.  We’ll keep keeping our distance (albeit in a slightly modified fashion).  And I’ll keep sanitizing everyone and everything.  I remember that the diligence of New York is paying off.  Their numbers are going down and staying down and their lives are starting to return to normal.  Ours will too. 

I remember that even if it’s just us and our neighbors, the twins will still be happy and have a good birthday.  They’ll still get special treatment (like no chores that day!).  They’ll still get presents.  And they’ll still get to pick their cakes.  (And man, are they asking for hard ones this year.)

I remember that ONE test is not a return to the past.  Pain is pain but it doesn’t stay forever.  It will abate.  And I’ll listen to the Father, look at my three miracles, and hear that remembering the pain doesn’t mean I have to relive it.

And I look at my brothers and sisters that have been living with the pain of injustice for centuries, not able to fathom how they’ve carried this burden, and follow their example.  I turn to the Lord.  I pray.  And I pray.  I pray for endurance and peace for my friends.  And ask for joy and a sign. 

I remember my friends and the work they are doing.  I remember Rae and the truth she is bringing to the people of her city.  I remember Anissa and the conviction she is igniting.  I remember Julia and the beauty she is bringing to light.  Daisha and Greg and the joy and fun and friendship they have brought.  Desmond and the cycle he broke in his family and the faith he claimed.  Angela and Chris and Aisha and Kevin and Steven.  I remember Layron and the justice he is seeking and FINDING and am reminded of a quote he posted.  They are their ancestors dream.  And I pray protection and continued favor over them. 

I’m reminded that I’ve seen people’s hearts change.  It will never bring back those brothers (and sisters) that have been so senselessly lost.  But there are new voices joining in the call for justice and reform and mercy. 

And my children are three of them.  My children will become three men that will not self segregate and not turn a blind eye and not be silent.  If they falter in this, their parents and their God will be right there to remind them. 

…and if that doesn’t work?  If I’m still sinking into the mire of weariness, I’ll lay my head on a pillow on my couch and pray.  Repeatedly laying myself and my mind and my heart at the foot of the cross.  Asking for help to not pick it back up. 

Then I’ll remember that it’s worth it.  All of it.  The fight against germs.  The fight against injustice and bigotry.  The fight against self hate.  The fight against joylessness.  The fight against isolation.

Keep up the fight.  Reach out to each other, support each other, pray for and with each other.  God is good and this season will pass.  IT WILL.   There will be a season of reaping and I’ll be in the fields when it happens.  I pray you are too. 

*And by the way?  The jam is great.  I’ve got 8 jars in my pantry.  The harvest is indeed good.