Blue Apron Meal

A couple of months ago, I started seeing ads for Blue Apron. While curious, I promptly ignored them. Then a friend's mom tried it and posted pictures. Okay, a little more interested. Then the friend joined and posted pics of her meal. Okay, a little more interested; the meals looked delicious! So I looked them up online and did some research. Basically, I signed up for the 2 person plan so I get 3 meals a week with 2 serving sizes (hello, leftovers!). For a really reasonable price, I have all I need for 6 nutritious meals a week. Since several people have asked me about it, a blogpost seemed the easiest way of sharing about my first experience. 

I originally picked Tuesdays as my delivery day. I'm guaranteed the shipment by 8 pm (mine came earlier, in time for dinner). It comes in a refrigerated box, so no one has to meet it. I also get some say in my meals (which is important, since I have several food allergies.)

Here's how the box came:

Here's some pictures of what the box looked like. Notice recipe cards on top of a refrigeration pack. 

There's a recipe card for each meal and also a tip card. Each card tells about the meal, lists ingredients, and has the steps with pictures on the back. 

The veggies and other non-meat things. 

Here's the meats:

Here's everything I need for all 3 meals: 

The meats are antibiotic and hormone free, which I dig. Plus I believe the website says they use as many local ingredients as they could. 

Ingredients for tonight's meal:

Two other meals:

Each meal has a packet of small things. Here's the packet and the contents for tonight's meal: 

(No idea what golden mountain sauce is). 

Here's the final products (plenty big for two meals):

Here's the finished product compared to the picture: 

Overall, it was really good! I over-salted, but I can't blame them for that. It took me longer than the predicted time, but I haven't cooked in a while and new recipes take a while to learn. Definitely a good investment! 

For more information, go to:  https://www.blueapron.com/pages/learn-more 

Helping Those Who Mourn

If you've followed this blog long, brace yourself:  I'm about to break my own rule.  (And if you've followed this blog long, thank you and I'm sorry I'm not more consistent).  What rule is that?  I'm breaking my rule about prescriptions for grief.

Before I do, here's some links for relevant things I've written before:
11 Things No One Tells You About Grief
10 Lessons From Losing a Loved One
Why Are We Afraid of Grief?

Tonight, I was talking to friends about grief.  One of them remarked how sometimes it's difficult to say anything because we don't want to say the wrong thing.  If you've never experienced grief, it can be really overwhelming to try to provide some measure of comfort!  I've also seen people hurt by well-meaning people saying unhelpful things.  So, after 12 years, I finally feel it's time to give some guidelines for helping those who grief.

Before I begin, one MAJOR caveat:  these are guidelines meant to help you navigate grief, they are not meant as rules or a playbook.  Take your cue from the person you're with and use wisdom and discernment.

Without further ado, and in order of how I think of them, the list.

1.  Realize it is not about you.  Being with the other person is about trying to relieve his/her/their suffering, not about making you feel better.  Take your cue from the other person.  If he/she is okay, let her/him be okay; if she/he is a mess, let her/him be a mess.  Don't break him/her just so you can fix her/him.

2.  Listen at least twice, probably 4-5 times, as much as you speak.  Ask good questions.  Try to avoid asking how they're doing, unless you know them well or can do it in a way they haven't heard 300 times already that day.  Ask them if there's something specific you can do to help.  Ask if they want to talk about their loved one.  I heard a Jewish woman recently say that her community says, "I stand with you in your pain and suffering as a member of God's chosen race."  I like that.  I like saying, "I'm here.  I'm with you.  I'll go to the depths of your pain with you as much as I can and I'll celebrate with you on the mountains.  I don't have to fix you, I'll just be here."

3.  Take care of them and the things they need.  This one gets a huge caveat that some people don't like being taken care of; for those people, respect that and don't take care of them.  At the same time, 12 years later, sometimes that is still the hardest thing.  It's hard that I have to call a friend who knows about computers rather than just calling my dad.  It's hard having to think about things and do them for myself when he might have done them for me.  If there's a practical need you can meet, do it- or at least offer it.  Don't be afraid to interfere or inconvenience, but be sensitive to what the other person needs.

4.  Don't linger, but don't wait for an invitation.  Know the person and your relationship.  Read the signals.  If you are close friends, don't wait for an invitation to be in the grieving person's life.  At the same time, if you go over and the person needs to be alone, accept it and go home.  We still love you when we grieve, but sometimes it is just too much to have to be in the same space as someone else because our grief takes up all the extra room.

5.  This is a big one, especially for Christians.  Do NOT recite platitudes.  I know when you don't know what to say, you fall back on other things you've heard that seem like a good idea.  78% of the time, it hurt to hear people say things akin to, "Well, he's in a better place."  I'm not at all saying to not speak truth- I'm just saying to be aware of how that truth comes across.  When I heard those words, I felt like the other person was shutting the door for me to share my grief and telling me that I was a bad Christian because I missed my dad.  When Jesus heard that Lazarus died, he wept.  Even knowing (I assume) that he would raise Lazarus from the dead, Jesus wept.  Do not rob someone of the healing and cleansing that comes from weeping.

6.  Do NOT under ANY circumstance say something similar to, "I know how you feel."  You don't.  I have a close friend whose dad died when she was a young adult.  I don't know how she feels.  I am not her and she is not me.  While I understand some of the principles of grief, I do not understand how she experiences grief.  So I ask her.  I ask her what would be helpful.  I say, "I found myself feeling/thinking/doing ______.  Does that resonate with you at all?"  I look for common ground, but I would never say I understand, because I don't and I never could.  Admit it.  I find it much more helpful to hear, "I can't imagine."  I don't expect you to understand, I really don't.  It's offensive and insulting when you try to pretend you do.

7.  Stay calm.  This person is not himself/herself currently.  They've experienced a loss that is intensely personal and extremely isolating.  They may not be as joyful as usual.  They may not smile as often.  It may take them weeks, months, or years to return to how they were- or they may never do it all.  Help them as much as you can, but have grace for their processes.  Don't freak out because two months later your normally joyful friend still cries at the drop of the hat.  Now, if you are seriously concerned and think your friend is actually clinically depressed or experiencing things beyond normal grief, then talk to someone.  And talk to the friend.  But always remember that grief manifests in the weirdest of ways.

8.  Embrace the mess.  Your friend likely feels very alone and isolated.  They are experiencing things you will never understand and they may never be able to put words to.  If you are close friends, join them in the mess.  Cry with them as they cry.  Hold the punching bag while they're angry.  Feed them chocolate and ice cream when they need it.  Sit in silence when they really just need to have another human present who's willing to not say a single word.  Remember:  it is about loving them, not absolving you.  If you are not a close friend, then support those who are.  Help them help the person who is mourning; don't manufacture a relationship so you feel useful.  If a friend is spending all of his/her time with the grieving one, then clean the helper's house for him/her.  Take THEM a meal.  Secondary grief and trauma is real- support the supporter so he/she can support the grieving.

9.  Realize this isn't going away quickly.  Sure, the initial waves of grief will subside.  The person will likely quit crying so often.  A friend once said, "Grief is like tree rings; you often come back to the same spot, but the rings get further apart."  Mark your calendar (including a reminder) for the important dates, especially the anniversary of the loved one's death or things like wedding anniversaries.  If nothing else, on that day send them a text saying you're thinking about them.  It is such a gift when friends take the time to remember and do even something small to say, "I haven't forgotten."  The cards, flowers, meals, and everything else quickly disappear- much more quickly than grief does.  It's easy for one who is grieving to feel forgotten or like everyone else has moved on.  Let him/her know that you remember and you stand with him/her in his/her grief and ask how you can help.  That is a priceless gift.

We who grieve know that you're trying to help.  We appreciate it more than we can express.  At the same time, 12 years of grief and seeing my friends' grief has taught me some lessons and shown me that we need a better way to help others grieve.  We need a better understanding of how to help.  I hope these 9 things give you a place to start.  I'd also suggest you find someone you know who has walked through grief and ask him/her about the process.  Ask him/her what was helpful and what wasn't.  Ask what they wish had been different.  Ask how they need you to support them in the future. Because the deal is that you're amazing.  You're an amazing friend for trying.  You're an amazing friend for caring.  You're super amazing for making it through this long post.  Don't be afraid.  Keep being the amazing person you have been, just keep in mind that things are currently not normal.  

Twelve Years

I'm giving you fair warning:  it's about to get very real and vulnerable around here.  I hate writing blog posts when things aren't already tied up into beautiful bows for the three of you who read this blog.  :-)  While I'm generally a pretty open person, there are some parts of my heart that I just don't like sharing.  Tonight, though, I was talking with some friends and one of them said it was helpful to hear someone articulate what he/she was feeling in the midst of grief to help understand what was happening.  So, this is me being honest and telling you the best I can about how I feel.

Tomorrow is the 12th anniversary of my dad's death.  Having done this 11 times before, I have certain expectations about tomorrow.  I made the mistake of assuming that I had a grasp on how I would probably feel and what it would probably look like.  Then, like it always does, grief surprised me.

I never expected the 12th anniversary to be immeasurably more difficult than years 1-11.  But it is.

It started early this year.  On Monday I almost lost it at work trying to think of a place my dad would like to eat in Norman.  Grief never starts that early for me.  On Tuesday, I was trying to remember what color my dad's eyes were and I couldn't.  I also did the math:  as of Monday, I'll have spent 39.5% of my life without my dad.  And that's hard.   Today, it felt like a semi had crashed into me while I sat in church.  I thought, "I can't say I miss him.  That isn't it.  My heart just aches."

As I get older, I mourn for the things I've lost and the things I miss about him.  At the same time, my heart breaks even more for the future I don't have with him.  12 Christmases, 12 of every holiday, 2 graduations, 2 cities, countless friends, several jobs, and all sorts of dreams he has missed out on.  When I get married, I don't get a daddy/daughter dance or the chance to have my dad grill my husband and then give his blessing for our marriage.  My kids will only know their granddad through what I, and others, tell them.  Those pieces missing from my future hurt.

At some point I realized what makes this year so exceptionally difficult.  This year I realized my memories are getting fuzzier.  This year I'm more attuned to the details I'm forgetting.  People tell me stories of events I should remember and I either can't remember or have but the faintest memory.  I'm forgetting what he smelled like.  I can't remember what it was like for him to hug me.  Of course I remember so many things.  I remember his embarrassingly loud laugh in the movies.  I remember the silly grin he got on his face as he tickled me mercilessly.  I remember how he wanted to get a yellow truck, but there was a certain yellow it had to be and I never could understand that yellow.

I feel guilty for what I don't remember.  I know it isn't true, but it feels like maybe I didn't love him enough or spend enough time with him.  I also feel guilty for how normal life feels without him.  I feel guilty for how normal it feels for him to be absent on Christmas.  I feel guilty for forgetting his birthday.  I feel guilty when I realize I've gone for several days or weeks without thinking of him (which hasn't happened recently).

But then God reminds of what my dad was like.  He reminds me of what my dad would say to me if he was around.  My dad would tell me to quit feeling guilty and that he was proud of my family and me for living and embracing life.  He'd tell me it's okay that some of the memories are fuzzy because my mind is filled with new memories.  He'd tell me that I remember the important things and my ability to remember his eye color (which was brown or hazel, depending on the picture) had nothing to do with how much I loved him.  He'd agree it was too short of a time, but remind me that even 100 years wouldn't have been enough.  Above all else, he'd remind me that this is a very temporary, though very real, pain.  He'd tell me how amazing Heaven is and to be comforted by the thought of being with him again.  He'd tell me to lean on the Great Comforter and surround myself with people I love.

So, I choose to do that.  Don't get me wrong:  grief sucks and it is unfair.  However, I chose hope over despair.  I choose peace over anxiety.  I choose joy in the midst of pain.  While I feel grief and pain deeply, I choose to remember the hope of future glory.  I choose trust instead of blaming.  I choose to remind myself and believe in God's goodness and kindness instead of hurling accusations towards him.  Above all else, I choose rest- resting in the truth of who God is and that He works all things together for my good and for His glory.

Hey, look, some neat little bows did come out of this!  :-)

Perspective

A different blog post will talk about all the changes I've experienced recently and what God is teaching me through that.  The only part of that story you currently need to know is that the last several months have involved change:  lots of change.  It's all really good change, but sometimes change is hard.

Years ago, I remember a friend often talking about how she just needed "perspective".  Yeah, okay, what on earth does that MEAN?  She mentioned needing GOD'S perspective on her life instead of her own.  I've thought about that some over the last few years, but I haven't exactly dwelled on it.  Then, at the beginning of this summer, a friend/mentor encouraged me to start looking at why I had some reactions I did (example:  why does it annoy me when this person does this).  I realized that if I took long enough to do that, the problem was some sort of issue in me- not in the other person.  Something in me was reacting to something in them.

I was talking with another friend/mentor and she started talking about choice.  This just days on the heels of another friend talking about focusing our eyes on God and some other things.  My friend/mentor was talking about how in every situation we have a choice on how we respond and move forward.

Something clicked all of the sudden in August.  I was preparing to transition out of a Lifegroup (small group at my church) that I loved and where really good things had happened.  To be honest, for a couple of weeks I felt sorry for myself and was angry that I had to leave.  All the while, I knew that ultimately I trusted God and that He had a plan and a purpose, even if I didn't understand it or like it at the time.  Suddenly, it clicked what that friend had said years ago:  I needed God's perspective.  I needed Him to reframe situations around me.  Instead of grumbling and complaining about the fact I had to leave one group for a bit, I started getting excited about the opportunity of getting to fellowship with another group of people and learn from them.  I find that when I start panicking or feeling down, that asking God to reframe the situation through the lens of hope and security often immediately helps me go back to that place of rest, hope, and peace.  I have to FIGHT to remind myself that I see only dimly and a small piece of the story.  In the midst of the big picture, that pain is microscopic.  But fighting is neither easy nor haphazard.  It requires me to get out of my head and CHOOSE to believe truth and good things.  It requires me to quit feeling sorry for myself and remember that it's for HIM and HIS glory, anyway.

But the fight is worth it.  It's worth it because He gave everything for me.  It's worth it because all of us want to be a part of something greater and bigger than ourselves.  It's worth it because He's never let me down.  Not.  one.  single.  time.  He's always showed up- maybe not when or how I wanted Him to- but He has ALWAYS showed up.  He's ALWAYS brought peace, comfort, rest, and hope.  So when it feels like I'm about to be swallowed up by the whale of my problems, I remember that HE will always show up- even inside the belly of a whale- and I always end better than when I started.  

August 11, 2002

Phone calls in the middle of the night are rarely a good thing. The odds of it being a good thing go down exponentially when you have a loved one in the Cardiac ICU. I remember waking up to my mom's cell phone going off. We missed it. The number was local. So he's fine, right?

Then the house phone rang. All of our stomachs dropped. I remember hearing my mom say, "should we come?"  It was about 2 am. My mom said my dad had gone into cardiac arrest and we had to go to the hospital (an hour's drive away). I packed a bag, knowing we would be there a while. I'd heard that if you're loved ones died, you could feel it. I felt nothing. 

My mom called my grandma to tell her we were on our way. Realizing it might be a hard drive, my mom called a family friend. Funny enough, he used to be a FedEx driver. We arrived at the hospital and were met at a side door and taken up to his floor. They took us into a small room. I think they call it a family consultation room. Nothing good happens there. They calmly explained that my dad's heart went into tachycardia (beating too fast, so fast that it can't actually pump anything) and they couldn't get him back. 

Shock. No. This wasn't happening. I never felt him leave. I hadn't seem him the last several days. Then, seconds later, calm. I heard a peaceful voice say, "'I know the plans I have for you,' declares The Lord, 'plans to prosper you and not to harm you, to give you a hope and a future.'" Well, that's weird. 

For this post, I'll spare you the details of the next couple of hours, though I remember them vividly. We left the hospital and I emailed some people. I needed them to know. I slept for a few hours. Then, I went where I always knew I'd go if a tragedy occurred on a Sunday or Wednesday: I went to church. I needed to get out of my house that was so filled with sadness. I needed to be with friends. I needed comfort. So I went where I knew all of these things would be. 

Let me divert for a second. I've heard the quote, "Religion is the opiate of the masses." In that moment, I didn't want religion. I leaned heavily on my relationship with Jesus and assurance I'd one day see my dad again. Those truths were a balm to my soul and a comfort- just like when I was a kid and had a bad dream I wanted my mom or how I call a friend when I've had a crappy day. I was still completely aware of the reality that my life was forever different; I was also acutely aware that this pain was temporary and I'd see my dad again. 

I remember people's faces as I walked in the church. I remember my teacher hugging me as closest friends watched me dissolve into tears. I remember how those friends stood around me so I didn't have to endure all the well-meaning "I'm so sorry" statements (FYI, my family called one family in town. By the time I made it to church, almost everyone had heard). I'll never forget how incredibly loved I felt that day. I'll never forget the feeling of "where else could I possibly go"?

So, today, I'll do the same. In fact, I'll be at two services. I'll go to lunch with friends and celebrate. But today, I choose joy. I choose peace, the peace that surpasses all understanding. I choose to honor my day's life instead of giving into grief. 

11 Things no one tells you about grief

Well, if you are friends with me on Facebook, you probably saw that Sunday is the 11th anniversary of my dad's death.  August 11th is my singularly least favorite day of the year (yes, even including Father's Day).  So, you may be able to expect some posts this week- probably about grief.  Then again, I promised in my profile that I may not be the most consistent blogger ever.

Today I was thinking about all of the things no one tells you when you experience a loss or are grieving for any reason.  There are LOTS of things that LOTS of people will tell you.  (You can read more of my thoughts about that here.  That being said, there are lots of things no one ever told me and I wish maybe someone had.  So, without further ado, 11 things no one tells you about grief/loss:

1.  Whatever you're feeling (unless it involves serious thought about ending anyone's life) is okay and it's normal.  Insanely mad for zero obvious reasons?  Okay.  Abnormally worried someone else might die?  Okay.  The trick is to acknowledge the emotion and work through it so that it doesn't rule your life.

2.  There will likely come a day in several weeks, months, or years, when you realize you didn't think about your loved one for an entire day.  It's okay that you didn't- you haven't forgotten him/her.  It's okay that you feel guilty about it.  Most of our loved ones would want us to move forward and not be consumed by grief.  I think the best way we honor those who have gone before us is to live life to the fullest and carry on their legacies.

3.  At some point, some well-meaning person will say something insanely idiotic.  Even better, it might be someone of your same faith who distorts your shared theology.  As you inwardly visualize yourself turning into a lion and mauling them to death (okay, maybe that's only me), have grace for them- they really are trying to be comforting.

4.  Most people expect to miss the person and things about them.  What may hit you like a semi is the lost future you have with that person.  I've mourned much more over the friends my dad will never meet this side of Heaven and the events he'll never make it to.  It took me years before I could watch the father/bride dance at a wedding and not inwardly weep or have to get away.

5.  Nothing will ever be the same, but that doesn't mean everything will suck forever.  Sometimes I am keenly aware that a holiday or event is missing someone important.  Other times, I enjoy the new traditions I've made since my dad passed away.

6.  Everyone handles grief differently.  Not only is that okay, it's a beautiful thing.  Make room for the differences and celebrate them.  Communicate what you need.

7.  At some point, the immediate outpouring of friends and obvious support will start to wane.  Give grace to others.  They're still there and they want to help, it's just less obvious how to help after the initial shock.  Communicate your needs and let people in.  Also, give yourself some grace if you get mad that others have moved on with their lives while you simply can't.  It's okay you haven't and it's okay they seemingly have.

8.  At some point, someone will come to you for your expertise on grief.  Yes, you are now an expert.  Remind them that everyone is different, but give them some pointers.

9.  Have grace.  Have grace for yourself on days when getting out of bed is a victory.  Have grace for the days where you just need to pretend you're fine.  Have grace for others when they let you down.  Have grace for those who don't understand.  Have grace for the well-meaning people who drive you insane.  Have grace for the person who interrupts your dinner, when you finally went an hour without being consumed by grief, and tells you they're so sorry.  Have grace for the person who makes your grief about them, who needs you to console them for the loss of YOUR loved one.

10.  Do what you need to do.  If you need to cry, cry.  If you need to be angry, be angry.  If you need to become a vegetarian, become a vegetarian (yes, I know someone who did it).  If you need to yell at God, yell (I promise, He can handle it).  If you need to pretend, pretend.  Don't worry about fulfilling the expectations others have on you.  At the same time, don't stay where you are forever.  Lean on your family, community, and Jesus and start to try and move forward- not just attempt to put back together what will be forever missing a piece.

11.  Grief doesn't play by the rules.  It comes at you in the sneakiest of times.  For years, I cried sometimes when I saw a yellow pickup truck (my dad's dream car when he died).  I wept watching the movie What a Girl Wants because I so deeply identified with the girl.  At the same time, joy comes in the weirdest places.  I smile when people talk about Panchos, remembering how much my dad loved it. I smile when I realize I've done something (like completing my first semester of grad school) that would make him proud.

I hope this helps.  It's some of the things I would have liked to have known.  Maybe it's better I didn't.  Feel free to comment with your other lessons.

When devastation hits down the street.

Last Monday morning (May 20), I was driving down 4th street in Moore on my way to my doctor's office for a regular check-up.  I remember looking at the 7-11 and thinking about a time I stopped there.  I don't know why I thought about it as it wasn't really a memorable trip.  I drove down 4th street to Penn and then cut up to my doctor's office.  While there, we talked about the recent and impending tornadoes.  As I left, he told me to be safe.

Less than 7 hours later, that 7-11 was no longer there.

Talk about surreal.  We got off work early.  As I pulled into my neighborhood, the sirens went off.  I hurried into my house and into my bathroom.  I realized later I wasn't in any real danger, but there's still something unnerving about being huddled in the bathroom of your not super sturdy looking apartment alone wondering if you're going to have to hang onto your toilet (which you have been needing to clean) for dear life as a tornado rips over your apartment.  My electricity started blinking.  My internet went out.  My phone service started getting spotty.

I don't even know how I found out that Moore had been devastated.  I texted my sister, who lives a couple of miles north of the devastation.  She was huddled in a safe room with a bunch of 5th and 6th graders.  No word on her house.  I texted our friend Courtney, who lives VERY close to the devastation.  She was okay, holding down the fort with several high schoolers.  No idea about her house.

Went to dinner with friends and saw the devastation for the first time.  There are no words.  It's bad enough seeing devastation on tv.  It takes on a whole new meaning, though, when you know where they are filming and realize it is only about 10 miles away.

The last week has been surreal.  I keep telling people I wasn't affected by the tornadoes.  My house is fine.  My friends and family are fine.  Their houses are fine.

But I realized we have all been affected.

I hear therapists at my work calling their clients to see if they are okay and see how much damage happened.  Due to HIPPAA regulations, I can't really tell you their stories... but know that several of them experienced horrific circumstances and came unfathomably close to death.  Some lost everything. I see pictures all over Facebook of friends of friends who lost everything.  I get daily emails about how to help in Moore.  While friends are helping with relief efforts, I'm sitting at work trying to carry on when really I'd rather be in Moore.  Very little separates Moore from Norman.  In fact, until a year ago, I lived in Moore.  No, I haven't been to see the damage.  If I were going near there, I'd be helping instead of gawking.  It's surreal to know that much of what I have become accustomed to seeing is gone.  It's sad to think of the number of people who have lost everything.  This disaster was too close to home to forget just because it isn't the headline on CNN anymore.

So, I'm changing my answer.  Yes, I am affected, though not nearly in the way that those living in Moore have been affected.  My whole perspective on an altogether not amazing week was changed (more on that in another blog, perhaps).  Instead of feeling sorry for myself, I found myself remembering everything could be much worse.  At the end of some pretty bad days this week, I went to sleep in my own house with electricity and safe water, thinking of those who were not.