A Dozen Cookies

Somewhere young in life I realized I had a problem. A chocolate problem. That early intuition was only confirmed soon thereafter by a little book I read by Robert Kimmel Smith. Chocolate Fever.

From the back cover:

Henry Green is a boy who loves chocolate. He likes it bitter, sweet, dark, light, and daily; for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and snacks; in cakes, candy bars, milk, and every other form you can possibly imagine. Henry probably loves chocolate more than any boy in the history of the world (Besides Bobby Harrison).

As a boy who loved chocoloate more than any boy in the history of the world, I would find my greatest asset to this addiction in my very own mother.

My mom was always a brilliant baker. Her use of butter would make Paula Deen blush. I spent time in the kitchen with her as a kid, one eye on SportsCenter, the other on a fresh batch of cookie dough. And there was something about that whole rhythm that I grew to appreciate. As much as the final result. And, again, as a chocaholic, the end product was a pretty-perfect punctuation. But there was something about the slow pacing of pouring flour, and sugar, and salt. Baking soda and baking powder. Eggs and vanilla.

And, of course, chocolate chips.

Step by step, steady as she goes, taking a whole lotta nothing and making way too much something. I was hooked.

There’s certainly been a slow paced pouring these past 6 weeks. Sick kids. Steady workload. A virus slowing down my spouse. Fussy kids. Having to cancel on a couple first-dates with new friends. More homework. More thyroid problems. More sick and fussy kids.

Somewhere in the middle of the week, children napping, wife gone to the doctor, I knew what needed to be done. I pulled out the flour. sugar. salt. baking soda. baking powder. eggs. vanilla. and, of course, chocolate chips.

And there was something about being able to create my own destiny. A short, simple, satisfaction in the structure. Knowing that no matter what else happened, after that oven hit 360 degrees, and another 12–14 minutes ticked by, something sweet would come my way. Maybe even enough to share.

After we finished singing the song “Oceans” this morning at church, our pastor took the pulpit and said something along the lines of, “When we pray big prayers like we just prayed — and that’s what we’re doing while we’re singing, ya know…we’re praying thru song — God answers. So if we sing:

Spirit lead me where my trust is without borders
Let me walk upon the waters
Wherever You would call me
Take me deeper than my feet could ever wander
And my faith will be made stronger
In the presence of my Savior

…then we must expect that God will create opportunities for those words of ours to come to life. He’ll tighten our trust and shape our strength. But not through osmosis. Not through some sort of hypnotic trance. But by something altogether different. Something carefully created and artfully crafted. Something that has structure and rhytym. Something that gives life.”

Pulling out the mixer, turning on the beaters, giving form to the rough and the void, shaping it into something soft and smooth, laying it down, throwing it into the fiery furnace, and then giving it a good 12–14 minutes to come to life. Or 12–14 days. Or weeks. Or months. Or years. You know, however long it takes.

To grow.