This same time, years previous: the puppy post, let’s talk, a tale, er, tail, roasted carrot and beet salad with avocado, and what my refrigerator told me.

I returned from Kansas City on Sunday evening and am just now beginning to get my bearings. Which is good (!) and necessary (!) especially considering that the fridge is obscenely stuffed with cucumbers and zucchinis, the raspberries are demanding daily pickings, and there is a bucket of apricots sitting smack dab in the middle of the floor.

It doesn’t help that the week away was intense—I went as a delegate for our church—leaving me feeling unmoored and raw. (For those of you unfamiliar with the Mennonite church, we, like many churches, are in the process of figuring out how to deal with the issue of homosexuality.) While the church is, I believe, moving toward inclusion, there are many sincere and caring people who believe this is wrong. I have relationships with people from both sides, and trying to treat each perspective with integrity and compassion was much harder than I expected (silly me). There was (is!) so much pain, hurt, and anger!

And love. There was lots of that, too.

When it comes to big institutional decisions, I am usually on the fringes where it’s—I can now see very clearly—all too easy to pass snap judgments and dole out condemnation on people of other persuasions. This time, I had ringside seats at the table of power and a vote. After the day with the votes, I went back to my hotel and (foolishly) clicked onto Facebook. My feed was roiling with indignation and righteous rage. I immediately felt sickened.

Actually, it wasn’t the rage that surprised me, but the onesidedness of it. I had just come from meetings in which many people from all sides felt unsure and tormented, and for a whole variety of reasons. To see that agony reduced to one-liners was a slap in the face.

Maybe it was a deserved slap? Part of me thinks so, absolutely so. It was certainly to be expected, once I stepped back and thought about it. (One’s brain gets a little foggy under all that florescent lighting and with only chilly, conditioned air with which to oxygenate the brain cells.) Another part of me felt angry. It’s unwieldy to do church business with 800 very different life experiences. Give us a little grace, please.

But what does it all matter, anyway? It’s just words. People will move forward, or away, and life will go on. As one person noted, when people leave the Mennonite church (and, from all the leaving that goes on, this practice would appear to be one of our most beloved traditions), it doesn’t remove them from God—it’s not like we have the monopoly on faith. Viewed from a certain angle, all the turmoil seems kind of ridiculous, like a toddler crying for some tape to fix a broken pretzel. There are more pretzels than you can even imagine. Just eat your snack and go play already. Yet, how we deal with each other in our crisis make all the difference in the world. Really, nothing matters more.

The delegate sessions did not feel good—at times they felt downright terrible—but they were sacred. What a gift to be witness to the struggle. What a gift to experience such self doubt. What a gift to have no answers.

Surrounding these events, I noticed two beautiful things. First, during the last session there was a time of lament for the family and friends of the LGBTQ community. Before they read their laments, they asked everyone who had a loved one who was hurting because of our decision to please stand. More than half the delegates stood, progressives and conservatives both. This issue isn’t going away any time soon, people. Second, a friend, a gay man, posted this on Facebook: We are in this together. I commit myself to all my brothers and sisters as we follow Jesus together. That the church is extended such grace-filled commitment, by the very people we are inflicting pain upon, gives me courage and hope. So much hope.

And now, for those pickles…

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (7.7.14), the summer’s first trip, let’s revolutionize youth group mission trips! please!, creamy cauliflower sauce, French yogurt cake, our 48-hour date, and the big apple.

Last night found me sitting at the kitchen table stabbing holes in watermelon chunks with a fork and then carefully filling the little holes with Captain Morgan’s. It had been a long day. The muggy heat made me want to beat something.

I was mad at my clothes for being on my body.
I was angry with my hair for touching my scalp.
I was furious at the windows for not letting in more air.
And I was outraged at the weather for not being breezy.

Heat does not a rational Jennifer make.

Also, I was ridden with the worst sort of writerly desperation that I will not detail because it’s pathetic and sad and no one likes a whine-fest—

EXCEPT I WILL SAY THIS. A bad stretch of writing and my day is soured, down the drain, fizzled, kaput. So far, I have been incapable of separating my writing angst from the rest of my life. It bleeds into everything, distracts the crap out of me, and drags down the not-writing times when I should be focused on cooking, gardening, or hanging with the fam. Such a brain suck. Knowing that I’ll be battling this mind war for the next months (ha, YEARS! who am I kidding?) is enough to make me weep. Or spike my watermelon. 

I know (or am pretty sure, at least) that bad spells are just that—spells—and I’m as likely to fall into a groove as I am to fall out of it. The key is to keep grooving. Or something.

Blah, blah, whatever. Let’s talk about coffee.

Really, this coffee is not anything new. I’ve already written about my iced coffee recipe. In this hot weather, I live on the stuff. (Lie: I only drink it once, after lunch. I drink hot coffee in the morning.) But then last week I saw a recipe for Cold Coffee Improved Upon. The recipe called for adding sugar (brown!) to the grounds at the start of the cold-brewing process, and I was like, Heck yessss. No more stirring sugar into cold coffee before drinking! (Hot weather makes me lazy.)

The recipe also called for adding some cinnamon. So I did. I’m not a cinnamon-in-coffee gal, but the addition was rather nice: warm with a kick of fancy. I suggest you try it.

Better Iced Coffee 
Adapted from Dinner with Julie.

1 cup finely ground coffee
¼ cup brown sugar
¼ teaspoon ground cinnamon

Put all three ingredients into a quart jar. Fill to the top with cold water. Screw on a lid and shake. Set the jar in the fridge for 24-48 hours. Strain, put the coffee concentrate into a clean quart jar, and refrigerate.

To serve: fill an ice-filled glass half full of coffee and top with milk. Stir and drink, ahhhh.

This same time, years previous: weigh in, please, my ethical scapegoat, cilantro beet salad, orange cranberry scones, spaghetti with fresh herbs and fried eggs, chocolate peanut butter cake, cabbage apple slaw with buttered pecans, and sour cherry crostatas.