Remember Whose You Are

She calls out to me as I dash out of the house. It is a blessing, benediction, warning, prayer, and goodbye. It is intentional, and it goes far beyond the fact that I am her child, that I belong to this family and we have certain requirements for behavior. It holds a far deeper meaning that touches on my conduct, purpose, and identity. It takes root deep in my mind and heart.

My mother's words echo at almost every departure: "Remember Whose you are."

It is more than who I am. It is the deepest core of my identity.
I belong to God.
I am God's child.
I am beloved by God.
I was bought with a price.
(more here)

Because of his love, God sent Jesus, his only begotten son, to die for me, to give eternal life.
Therefore, I matter.
I have a purpose.
How I live matters.
What I think matters.

My life has been exchanged for the life of Christ. I am a standard bearer for the name of my Saviour. Through his strength, I can reflect the love and light of the One who is my Life.
How I treat others.
What I contribute to the world.
The attitudes I cultivate.
How I steward my talents and resources.

Every good thing I am and have is a gift from the Father of Lights who is a good, good father. One who gives good gifts to his children. I am his.

Remember.

I have been crucified with Christ and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me. The life I now live in the body, I live by faith (by trust) in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me. Galatians 2:20

Photo: Mom and I, 1959, from personal collection

Happy Birthday, Momma

My mother was born 102 years ago on this date. She birthed and raised eight children. She worked hard to keep me occupied as I was the last (only) at home both as a preschooler and as a high schooler. She'd let me "help" make cinnamon buns, get me to use my imagination in play about throw rugs becoming houses, encourage me to read, help me memorize songs, take me on the bus downtown to Kresgee's (?) or Woolworths on the Square to shop and even maybe have lunch as a special treat.

I recall the nights she would sit at the dining room table writing letters to family or to missionaries. She always included a pamphlet or clipping with a story or scripture - I received the same ones on more than one occasion after I left home.

One year when I was still in elementary school, she held a position in the PTA. She spent long hours stressing over a presentation to them - even practiced it on me - about life balance - like spokes in a wheel needing to be in proportion.

Her answer to most problems was to serve more food.

She was a well educated, intelligent woman who had set aside her own dreams of ministry as a missionary to Africa and instead, served humbly and sacrificially as a mother of her own tribe. After we were grown, she spent her remaining years as Sunday School teacher or caregiver to whatever little ones who were brought to church.

I spent three weeks caring for her as she was dying of cancer. She taught me what "dying with dignity" truly means, in the midst of the most undignified circumstances. One night, she clearly spoke the last lucid words I heard from her as she sat in the recliner, drifting in and out. In the quiet, she threw up her hands to the ceiling like throwing leaves in the air, tossing her cares up to heaven, and exclaimed, "Just give it all to Jesus!" Best advice given or received.

Two days later, on Mother's Day, 1996, she was gone.

Thus ended the life she also lived with dignity. Humbly serving, training, cooking, smiling, cover-her-mouth-shaking-laughing at the antics of her family with her hysterical silent "Momma Shake," wiping tears from her eyes. What fun she must be having now with Jesus and the little ones in heaven.

Christmas Traditions: New Year's Cookies (Portzelky)

This was my mother's tradition. Here's a link to a similar recipe from Mennonite Girls Can Cook. I like this version, and the four pictures on the page show you the stages and the various ways the Portzelky can look. The name is from Low German origins, but Mom only ever called them "New Year's Cookies." It's basically a homemade donut taste or a deep fried raisin fritter. To. Die. For.

Every New Year's eve, if we were not on the road singing, my momma would make these, then once they'd cooled a bit, she'd gently shake them in a bag to coat them with one part each of granulated sugar and icing sugar. Once in a while, she would make a glaze for them, like a donut glaze, but usually she'd shake to coat them so the family could partake of them one batch at a time - we weren't that good at waiting for the entire pan to be full. She would make so many that she'd use her big blue and white speckled enamelware turkey roaster to store them in, usually lined with wax paper or paper towel to absorb some of the oil.

Mom preferred to use Crisco Shortening, as less was absorbed by the dough as it cooked and she could filter it afterwards and re-use it. She would melt and heat the Crisco over the gas burner in her large stock pan and fry about a dozen at a time, turning them halfway through. Getting the heat setting just right was critical. Too high and the outside would be too dark while the inside remained gooey. Not hot enough, and you'd end up with the fritters absorbing too much grease. Mom usually had the right touch for the temperature!

I don't make these. I've never attempted. Now that I limit my consumption of wheat, I wouldn't likely even eat them, should I attempt to make them. However, since they were such a sweet, delicious memory from my childhood, I still think of them every single New Year's Eve without fail, and of my mother with great fondness.

Photo 1 Credit: allrecipes.com

Photo 2 Credit: foter.com

The Nose Knows

Walking out of church Saturday night, an acquaintance tossed a bag at us with something soft inside. Turns out it was a half dozen gooey caramel-cinnamon buns. This gentleman gives them away from time to time, sometimes to friends, sometimes to strangers, as a random act of kindness. Bless him! It sure put a smile on our faces! This is only the second time I've risked digestive disturbance by eating cinnamon rolls - something which contains wheat. Since I’m only “wheat sensitive” and not severely allergic or celiac, the reward is worth the risk.

“Why even risk it?” you may ask. Well, let me explain. It has to do with my nose.

Nothing makes me recall sweet memories of my dear departed mother more quickly and with greater fondness than the smell of fresh baked cinnamon buns. They were her specialty, be it sticky caramel upside down rolls or soft, plump regular cinnamon-raisin rolls with caramel cream frosting. Really, a risk worth taking.

Scientists and psychologists have discovered that of the five senses, memories are most closely linked to smell. In this Psychology Today article, the author cites behavioral studies showing how some smells can trigger vivid emotional memories and induce the feeling of being brought back in time.

The smell of cinnamon rolls catapults me into my childhood in Mom’s kitchen where she’d roll out the dough on the wooden butcher-block top of the portable dishwasher. She’d be bustling about, flour on her nose, her apron. Only occasionally would she let me help with any of the tasks: prep the oven, melt and spread the butter, scatter a good amount of soft brown sugar, evenly toss on handfuls of well-soaked/rinsed/drained raisins, sprinkle a generous (“But not too much!”) portion of ground cinnamon over the whole, carefully roll it up and pinch the edges together snugly, then evenly slice the individual rolls with a sharp knife and place them in orderly rows and columns, barely touching, on a baking sheet.

To this day, the scent of cinnamon buns, or cinnamon in anything, will send me down that path and I remember my mom with fondness. “Unfortunately,” author Jordan Lewis says, “smells can also be potent triggers of negative emotions, particularly in individuals with posttraumatic stress disorder (PTSD).”

If you find yourself “triggered” with an emotion, good or bad, stop to think about what your nose is taking in at that particular point in time. While my experience with cinnamon is sweet, someone else might have the opposite response. While parmesan cheese makes some people drool with anticipation, my husband thinks it smells like a baby bib soiled with burp up. Another example Lewis gives is about the smell of diesel. It was a trigger for one soldier’s buried memory of a trauma.

In addition to being the sense most closely linked to memory, smell is also highly emotive.  The perfume industry is built around this connection, with perfumers developing fragrances that seek to convey a vast array of emotions and feelings; from desire to power, vitality to relaxation. It is also important in your attraction to another person, sometimes leading you to choose your spouse.

While smell brings positive benefits, its absence can have the opposite effect. Fifth Sense, a charity for people affected by smell and taste disorders, addresses the psychological impact of smell loss. “Truly,” they say, “you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.” Losing one’s sense of smell can result in the loss of an important sentimental pathway to memories, a connection to the world around you, causing feelings of isolation and experiencing a ‘blunting’ of the emotions. “The loss of smell can affect one’s ability to form and maintain close personal relationships and can lead to depression.”

Other of our five senses can also trigger good and bad memories, but the one that most directly links to our memory center is the sense of smell. So, “be careful little nose, what you smell!” If a smell triggers a negative emotion – which is out of proportion to the present day incident – it may be triggering a suppressed memory of a trauma. Don’t hesitate to seek professional help, if needed, to make “sense” of it all.

What smells evoke memories for you?