I woke up this morning...to a call from a Romanian woman who meant business. She is the wife of the officiant for our wedding, a lovely and fierce woman. There was no way I was going to let her know that her unexpected call woke me up on Saturday sometime after 8am but before 9am. When we were finished talking, I was hit with one of those tidal waves of "this is really happening" that has happened in both positives and negatives as excitement fades into nausea and back again. I found myself on the crest of a collosal wave of nausea feeling totally unprepared to do this.

Not the commitment part. I have long since made my mind up about that. I feel totally unprepared to execute a wedding. I easily forget why I should spend that much money or care. People tell me it's a day all about me and my head spins. If it was a day all about me, we could spend the money on flight school or a car or a place to live. I look at where all the money goes and it is all for these people who have been spread out across the time and space of my life. It is food and decorations and atmosphere. It is plane tickets and thank you gifts. My wedding dress was $150. I won't bore you with the cost of everything else, but pretty much everything including the silverware costs more. ...I digress.

Somedays I get angsty because I feel like it is all pretense and competition...as if my wedding is a performance that I must choreograph and costume and then maybe my marriage will get a standing ovation. Other days, it feels like a test. If I can put together a beautiful enough wedding without being mean or stressing anyone out while being considerate of everyone's input, wants, needs, and insecurities inside a certain budget, then I am adult enough. The problem is that I am neither a performer nor a test taker. And I do not want to be.

People keep telling me that the wedding is all about what I want. I hardly believe this as I wanted to elope. But the truth is, I am glad that I did not elope. Or, at least, I am beginning to suspect that I will be glad not to elope. Why? Because I want to celebrate with anyone who is willing to celebrate. I found a friend who is not going to leave me...even if I deserve it which feels like a miracle in and of itself. That miracle is only doubled upon realizing that I am also going to be his friend who does not leave. The only family that we get to choose. And I want people to be there. I want them to remind me of how excited I was on my wedding day. I want them to feel invited to remind me when I need that reminder. There is more than a small amount of hope being planted in these plans. Besides, we have so few reasons to celebrate while we pass through this world under a curse.

How is it even possible that I have purchased another cookbook? I do not know. But it is here at home with me.

Ok. Actually, I do know. It was $5 at a Goodwill and was in perfect condition. And I cannot say 'no' to a cookbook that I can afford and which will definitely be used. In the last year, I have taken to reading cookbooks cover-to-cover, literally reading every page with a scrupulousness I definitely did not apply to college. I must have scoured over 3,000 pages in the last year.

And so, they are all bookmarked with sticky-notes for recipes that I found inspiring and helpful. They all sit waiting eagerly on the shelf. The more informative ones I refer to by their author. I will be talking to Tyler and say something like, "Deborah has a salad dressing that I think you would like" or "Nigel cooks chard in a way that makes it actually look tasty."

In my long unemployment, there is a huge chunk of time that I must fill in the early mornings when prospective employers do not want to talk to the unemployed for a few more hours (if at all), friends are at work, and Tyler is in class. This is a dangerous time because it can easily lead to laziness or food depression or all manner of other evil. This is the time I spend with the likes of Deborah and Nigel. They are good teachers who love food for its own sake, for the textures, colors, flavors, aromas, and a thousand other subtleties whose discernment is born from obsession and lots of practice. I have learned a lot from them and I have benefitted from their passion.

So I have come home with another book by another author. It is the William-Sanoma book on "Entertaining". Tyler wanted it because he loves the details of hosting. I am all messy kitchen, hoping my guests don't mind that I licked the spoon, and just barely on time. Tyler is all folded napkins and garnish. (I am sure that someday we will achieve hospitality in a truly unique way.) This book is as much for him as it is for me.

And so, I feel at the same time compelled to open it and read it through...and to go back to my old friends and pick a new thing that I have meant to try but haven't gotten around to. Either way, food and cookbooks are the only constant in my day to day life these days.

I think there is a part of me that reads cookbooks by authors who do a lot of explanation and teaching with their recipes because it is this giant reminder that life is still happening. I feel so much like I have been put into this holding position until God gets around to giving me clearance to land. I sit up in the sky making circles in my airplane and trying not to watch the fuel gauge because, you know, faith and stuff.

Mondays are paralyzing. Other people wake up on Monday and think, "I have a whole week of my life that has been planned for me to get through until I can do what I want." I wake up on Monday with the weight of feeling that last week did not have any word from God or his prophets and now I have a whole blank week ahead of me in which I hope to be able to muster something that looks like confidence (which I have none of) so I can organize my time, convince somebody that I have skills worth paying money for, and try to spend as little money as possible. And all of this I feel pressure to do well enough to ward off the nagging feeling that I am doing everything wrong. Try as I might, I have swallowed just enough of that American value that says that you are master of your destiny and, if you don't like your circumstances, you have only yourself to blame.

But I remember how I got here. With much prayer and tears and hope and trust. With much trying my absolute best and hardest. All of that climaxed first in getting fired. The prayers I offered Tuesday night at small group for direction and help with my job were still on their way to heaven the Wednesday I got fired. Thursday, I woke up with so much relief. And then the sweatshop. And seeking more direction and stepping out in more faith to leave that and walk into the longest free fall. Being raised a good moderately good pentecostal, I grew up with the idea that you can't live on yesterday's word from God or yesterday's promises. But this is what I have been doing because God has offered no further word.

I am just a woman, infinitely small. Who am I to counsel God? Who am I to tell him to speak?

I know a host of people who would tell me to pray more, to read more Bible, to be better at going to church every week. It is not that I do not do any of those. Rather, those take on different appearances as I get older and find myself in stranger seasons of life. (Except for going to church more often. That has just been the terrible failing of trying to travel, spend time with family, remember when daylight daving is etc.) Food is my spiritual dischipline. Reading cookbooks is my prayer that I can someday be a skilled individual with a meaningful life. Eating and cooking is my demonstration of faith that it is worthwhile to keep myself healthy, that I will wait this out with the expecation that something will change eventually. It is a conversation with God. It is thanksgiving and petition. It is all the faith I can manage.

Today, it does not quite feel like enough.

After getting rejected from a job that I seriously thought was the one, I find that I have two choices. 1. I can get into the kitchen and binge on cooking and baking. 2. I can stop eating until morale improves. Both seem equally tempting today. I wish I had roommates to cook for. I am not taking this very well and I know that. But this was the first company to call me back. I had two interviews and I had even allowed myself to hope enough to buy work clothes arrange my schedule "just in case" I was suddenly employed. Losing this opportunity feels like HAI took this from me also. The grief is renewed today.

My mom thinks I have PTSD from HAI. I just laughed when she told me. Both because it's ridiculous and because it took her way too long to figure it out. It was an abusive job.

I'm scared of being employed again. Who would want to go back to the abuse? I'm scared of not being employed again. I want something meaningful to do with my life.

I find myself always looking for a prophet. I cling overly much to people with that spiritual gift. I keep hoping God will send down some fragment of his plan, some word of encouragement.  But their messages are never for me.