I didn’t just wake up in February 2011 and say, “Hmmm, why don’t I go vegan today.”

It started over thirty years ago.

Both my husband and I were raised in bustling Southern kitchens, where home-cooked meal was a noun. 

We actually panted for those special occasions when Mom and Dad would go on a date and we could heat up the pot pies, or better, the enchilada TV dinners!!!

Our table groaned under the weight of chicken-fried steak, buttery or cheesy potato and veggie dishes, and homemade apple, pecan, peach…

…you name it…pies.

Both our moms would’ve won blue ribbons at the local fairs…if we wouldn’t have gobbled up all their entries!!

For me, the late 60s/early 70s and then college changed everything.     

I entered the hippie phase. Countercultural eating, stuff like oaty granola and Oriental stir-fries, complemented my peace symbol necklace and tie-dye clothes. Like, you know, anything my PARENTS didn’t eat was cool.

NOT groovy, Southern food. Na, na, hey, hey, kiss it good-bye!!!!

Next came the young marrieds stage. I pored through cookbooks, wanting Alan, my handsome groom, to have the best. Even back then, the best included fresh produce.

In 1978, God…and a slot in the Arizona State EdD program…sent my husband and me tootling West in a U-Haul. Somewhere in the next few years, meat faded as a staple from the Lacy diet, though it was unintentional, and I’m not sure why, really, it happened. Perhaps the cost? Perhaps an encounter of the awful kind with bad beef? 

Whatever the reason, we potlucked with other graduate students and prepared international cuisine. It was fun, exciting, and, yes, cheap!

I didn’t know it way back then, but our flirtation with vegan had begun.

Indian cuisine, with succulent samosas and fragrant rice and bean dishes, opened the passageway for a girl who hadn’t yet left the states. Lovely Greek spanokopita, and dolmas, jumped off our plates and melted in our mouth!

Food, even then, carried me away! 

Then Hawaii, where we went for a belated honeymoon, wooed us with poi and macadamia pancakes and a million and one smoothies made with coconut milk and pineapple chunks!

Though I didn’t know it, and really didn’t care, God had used the peoples of the world, the times of the day, to send us on a food journey that really begins in ancient Bible times.

You’ll have to wait to read about THAT in another post.

Your assignment, should you choose to accept it:

Ponder your food journey. Has it been a Rocky Road or Silky Tofu? Totally “Made in the U.S.A.” or a dab or this y uno poco de eso?

Dabble with the cuisine of another land, veering way off “the norm” with your three squares. 

Ever had southern Indian food? Northern Indian food? Hey, with Google, it’s EASY!

Report back soon, okay?

My mouth is watering!!!

For nearly a year, the Lacy household has been entrenched in Domestic Veganomics. I’ve flirted with this lifestyle for years, but it took a book called The China Study and perhaps a “coincidental” and “timely” illness to convince my husband.

I’m so passionate about going vegan that cooking classes, here at the Lacy house, could be upcoming! We’re talking Saturday morning excursions into the world of cooking local, with no animal products, and doing it cheap! A trip to one of Blo-No’s top hotspots, Common Ground might top off the menu!!!

First I crank up the stereo. Then I slice and chop and saute and mix…and create a week’s worth of dishes in a several-hour weekend slot. Veganomics doesn’t have to be complicated or more expensive than what you’re doing now.

I do believe Veganomics is God-honoring when its’ done with a desire to honor the temple of the Holy Spirit and when the issue of food preference doesn’t trump consideration of others.

Are you intrigued by Veganomics? Has this radical switch from the American diet ever piqued your curiosity and appetite? For the next few posts, I’m demystifying Veganomics, one garbanzo bean at a time. 

Oops! Gotta go! The beans are soaking wet and need to be drained  

Snow blankets the winter scape out my study window. Not even crows show their greasy wings among the bare-limbed trees, which are exposed to the howling north wind. Weak. Naked. Alone. 

The hush spreads to my heart, my mind, which usually races with thoughts of new projects, worries about old ones.

“Be still, my soul, the Lord is on your side.”

“Be still and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10).

According to the Christian Courier website,  ”the word translated “be still” comes from the Hebrew term raphah,” found often and with diverse conotations in the Old Testament, including “to let drop” or be slack, ”or in some instances, to be disheartened or weak. When used of a person…it often has a negative connotation.”

Though it’s countercultural to the angle of 360 degrees, God loves those who are weak. God longs to uplift those who know that their works, their schemes, are worthless…without the Master’s plan.

During these winter months, dear ones, have you made time to be still and wait upon the Lord?  As snow drifts and icy roads send you scuttling to your comforter, perhaps a blazing fire, DARE to be still. To wait. Call on the Lord, and He will answer!

On Monday, I’d returned from a jog with Laura the dog. Still wearing my shorts and tank top, decided to make granola. I left a concoction of oats and nuts and dates baking in the oven downstairs and returned to edits.

The scrumptious aroma of cinnamon and toasting grain swirled its way up the steps and into my study…accompanied by an acrid gas odor.

As I padded down to the kitchen, the gas smell overpowered everything…including my stomach. I gripped my middle, spun, and zoomed back to my study. Should I call 911? The gas company?

Calm prevailed, and shaky fingers walked through the phone book. ”Nicor…Nicor,” I whispered, then spotted three listings. After finding the upstairs phone lying under dog Laura, I dialed.

“This number has been disconnected. Please…”

With a click, I disconnected and next got a fax line. A recording.

I sniffed, making sure I hadn’t imagined things. Though Laura the dog had resumed her afternoon snooze, apparently unaffected, the gas odor certainly hadn’t dissipated. Had possibly intensified.

Or was that my hysterical bent?

I gripped the phone. Dialed 911.

“Clear the premises. Wait on your porch.” After verification of my location and confirmation that I was the home’s sole occupant, the dispatcher rat-a-tatted orders. I’d hardly stepped into the chilly day when sirens blared and motors zoomed. A firefighter, wearing the usual bulky garb, stepped from a fire truck and ambled my way. We said hello. I explained what had happened.

With a nod, he said, “Move that-away.” He pointed toward the street. “I’ve seen these things go south in a hurry.”

As another fire truck swung onto our street, my pulse hammered at my throat. I’d left Laura! “My–my dog’s upstairs. In the study. I closed the door, but–”

“She’ll be fine. If we need to, we’ll bring her out.”

Nearly four hours later, a gas company employee had plugged two open valves, soldered one leaky pipe, yet none of the experts believed they’d found the primary source of the odor. Thank the Lord, our furnace now passed inspection and we could fire up the heat.

Not the stove, which needed to be inspected ASAP.

In a flash, Monday went from a casual bake day to what-if-everything-blows. And the situation caught me wearing sweaty and stinky in soggy jogging clothes, thin anklets, and houseshoes.

Dear ones, are you prepared for that flash, when everything changes?

“No one knows about that day or hour, not even the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father…Two men will be in the field; one will be taken and the other left. Two women will be grinding with a hand mill; one will be taken and the other left” (Matthew 24:36, 40, 41)

The Bible speaks of small changes; cataclysmic changes. We all will greet them. But will we all be prepared?

Lord, arm us with Thy Word, Thy truths, a faith that will carry us through all that You have in store for us.

Have stress and insecurity reduced your life to a to-do list? A rigid adherence to “thou shalt nots”?

In his autobiography, All is Grace, Brennan Manning quotes a soulmate, Dominique Voillaume:

“All that is not the love of God has no meaning for me. I can truthfully say that I have no interest in anything but the love of God which is in Christ Jesus. If God wants it to, my life will be useful through my word and witness. If He wants it to, my life will bear fruit through my prayers and sacrifices. But the usefulness of my life is His concern, not mine. It would be indecent of me to worry about that.”

In Dominique’s “life philosophy,” Do grace and love gain too much free rein?

CAN you give too free of a rein to grace and love?

Winter months provide nesting time to ponder the mysteries of God. Of grace. Of love.

What do you think, dear friends? Can it really be this simple? This complex?

Oh, the incomparable riches of Christ!!!

Do you:

a) place each day in God’s hands, praying for the grace to guide you down the straight and narrow path?

b) sit, pen in hand, before a crisp sheet of paper, headed 2012, and boldly list anticipated  breakthroughs, scissored bad habits? 

c) both of the above?

d) none of the above?

Dear ones, this is not a test, though it sure looks and sounds like one. This is a brain game intended to evoke prayers and praise and a laying before the throne of your shattered pieces, your secret dreams. 

May this New Year find you seeking the Lord with all your heart.

With all your soul.

With all your mind.

For you, I am praying peace.

Love.

A deeper understanding of His amazing grace.

May 2012 be THE year that you stepped closer, closer, to the Maker, Creator, Redeemer, and Friend.

“But what God did about us was this. The Second Person in God, the Son, became human Himself was born into the world as an actual man – a real man of a particular height, with hair of a particular colour, speaking a particular language, weighing so many stone. The Eternal Being, who knows everything and who created the whole universe, became not only a man but (before that) a baby, and before that a foetus inside a Woman’s body. If you want to get the hang of it, think how you would like to become a slug or a crab” (C.S. Lewis).

This Christmas, may God grant a renewed appreciation of His unfathomable gift.

Merry Christmas, dear ones!

Patti

Has Christmas commercialism zapped your heart, body, and soul? Can I whisper a secret that’ll cost you nothing, take roughly five minutes of your day, and center your life in an amazing way?

Every morning, sing a Holy Christmas carol or hymn to the Way, the Truth, the Life. If you have a hymnal, let your fingers do the walking to the advent section. Then bellow out your praises to the Triune God! If no hymnal graces your shelves, pull songs from memory…or Google sacred Christmas music.  

We’re talking a new tradition, a Divine intervention, a free yet priceless surrender of self to Him Who reigns on high. 

Oh, come. Let us adore Him.

It is the reason for the season.

The reason for your life.

The reason.

God has blessed me with writer friends who long to change the world one word, one nickel, one prayer at a time. Gina Holmes, award-winning novelist, alerted me to this life-changing post. Grab your Kleenix box and your Bible and read on. Then spread the Word!

 “We have much to be judged on when he comes, slums and battlefields and insane asylums, but these are the symptoms of our illness and the result of our failures in love.” – Madeleine L’Engle

When my brother traveled to the Sudan he had an encounter that changed his life—and as it ends up, mine too.

He stood in Darfur at an orphanage filled with children left over from the genocide. There were over 800 children, and during the night wild dogs were dragging them off and killing them.

My brother already felt shell-shocked from the travesties he’d witnessed in Uganda.

The day was hot. The sun beat down upon him. His camera had nearly been ruined from all the dust. He’d barely slept. His gear was heavy. Yet his conscience was seared by the numbness he felt, so he turned and confessed to a Sudanese pastor.

“We shall pray right now that your heart will be opened,” he was told.

Not long after that prayer three young children approached Joshua and started to follow him. After a bit, his father nature kicked in and he stopped and sang Father Abraham. It didn’t take long before the four of them were dancing and going through the motions.

When they finished, he asked the children to tell him how they came to be there.

The oldest, a girl, answered. “The soldiers came and shot my mother and father, so I came here.”

The two other children nodded in agreement. “Me, too.”

He was grief struck, but it was what transpired next that tore my heart. “Do you have a Mommy?” The little girl asked my brother.

“Yes,” he answered.

“And a Daddy?”

Again, his answer was yes.

“Oh,” she said, her voice hinting at a strange intermingling of numbness and grief.

Her question stirs me still. For I believe it came from her soul and revealed the thoughts of her heart. She didn’t want to know what his country was like, what kind of food he ate, or what he did for a living. She had her own bullet holes leftover from the genocide. Her world consisted of this single question: Who still had parents and who didn’t?

In her questions I heard her worry and fear. Imagine being trapped in a war-torn country, a land of famine, drought and disease. Imagine trying to survive it as an orphan with death threatening you every hour. No matter how much she’s endured, at the end of the day, she’s still  just a little girl. And all she really wants is her Mom and Dad.

I imagined my daughter living as an orphan in the Sudan. If I were shot and dying, it would be my hope that my brothers and sisters would care for her. But what if her aunts and uncles were killed too? What was it then, that her parents hoped?

As members of the body of Christ these children are not alone. They have aunts and uncles. Multitudes and multitudes and multitudes of them. Talk about staggering! These kids are our nieces and nephews! Mine. Yours.

So who, I wondered, within the church has the responsibility to step in?

I didn’t like the answer that came. Earlier that week I was shocked to learn that globally I was one of the richest people in the world—even though as an American, I’m pretty poor.

Like it or not  I was the rich aunt. I had knowledge of the situation. That made me accountable.

I wasn’t comfortable with the knowledge then, and I’m not comfortable with the knowledge now. But I am determined to do something. Anything.

That day Joshua had in his possession a picture book that someone had asked him to give to someone in the Sudan. It was a children’s book with a story about how we have a Heavenly Father who always loves and cares for us. Joshua read the book and gave it to them.

An American woman took it upon herself to raise the money to build shelter. Every person who donated, even a dollar, helped to create a place where the little girl now sleeps safe from wild dogs.

When Joshua told me he’s going to start a branch of Watermelon Ministries called Media Change, a non-profit encouraging Americans to give up a portion of the money spent on entertainment to serve those fighting world hunger and thirst, I wanted to support it.

For seven years he’s helped non-profits raise money that serves the “least of these.” He’s seen the impact a small investment can have. This is a brand new initiative. He’s not quite ready to launch, but you can sign up and be kept updated at www.mediachange.org. His first goal is garner the support of 10,000 people who are willing to give $10 a month. I’m number #3.

This is only a blog post, but who knows what one blog post can do?

What if the task of helping others isn’t as overwhelming as we make it?

This Christmas, will you give a little to change a lot? The heart you revive just may include your own.

Do you charge, waving your credit card, into the holiday mall crowds? Make to-do lists that cover everything from trimming the tree to writing personal Christmas cards to your hundred and fifty closest friends?

On December 26, do you slump tearfully on your den floor, avoiding shards of shattered ornaments? Shattered dreams?

 Does the cyclone of an American Christmas season leave you bloated as your Visa and shattered as fragile glass Christmas tree balls? What prompts the frenzy at your place? How can you get out of the yuletide rut?