Strength for Today

"Is there anyone in America who does not know and love these cookies? They were, incidentally, created by a Massachusetts housewife in 1929". That is the heading of the portion of the book I am currently reading, while I listen to The Book Thief on audio. At least, that is what I was doing until the words all piled up in my head and I paused to scribble for a bit.

I am missing people.  Many, many people.  Some are on the other side of this life, some across the country, and some are the opposite end of a phone call that hasn't taken place in more than a year.  It could be that the weather sneaked its way into my house and my head with a quarter of an hour's sunshine terminated by violent hail, then torrential rain  ...followed by another blast of sunshine.  Or maybe it is this time of year and all the anniversaries that seem to send out engraved invitations and follow-up reminders to memories of days that are gone.

Rather than milling around in my sadness, I made the decision to pull out the cookbook and the butter and bake some of those chocolate chip cookies that were an element of together times.  It is a double batch, because I don't know how to make them any other way.  As the beater clanked (the bowl won't stay clamped) and the kitchen warmed, my shoulders eased a bit.  And now, with the mounded treats lined in rows on the cooling rack,  I am thinking of the words from a morning hymn, "Pardon for sin and a peace that endureth; Thine own dear presence to cheer and to guide; Strength for today and bright hope for tomorrow -- Blessings all mine, and ten thousand beside."
I have sung of God's faithfulness in happy days -- it was easy when blessings seemed to overflow willy-nilly.  But to sing those words when loss is palpable is proof to me of that dear Presence that enables me to believe they are true.  The recognition, in turn, leads me to worship, because that is most definitely not a faith I could muster up on my own.
Interestingly, I have reached the portion of the audiobook in which thirteen year old Liesel Meminger carries buckets of snow down to the basement hiding place and incites a snowball fight with the emaciated Jew, Max Vandenburg.  Although I am struck by the contrast between our situations, there is a small comparison as well.  That scene captures a moment joyful in its commonness.  There is such relief in doing something so basically human within the context of extraordinary hardship.

Perhaps it is a very little bit like following a recipe created by a homemaker almost one hundred years ago.

Gladden the soul of your servant,  for to you, O Lord, do I lift up my soul.
For you, O Lord, are good and forgiving,
    abounding in steadfast love to all who call upon you.
Give ear, O Lord, to my prayer;
    listen to my plea for grace.
In the day of my trouble I call upon you,
    for you answer me.