Cooking: Nature vs. Nurture

     For as long as I can remember, I have loved to be in the kitchen.  When I was in 1st grade, we lived in an old farmhouse that had an enormous kitchen.  I loved poached eggs, and I would often help my mom make them.  We had this nifty little insert that fit inside a saucepan, over boiling water.  The eggs went in the depressions in the insert.  You put on the lid and minutes later, perfectly poached eggs in the shape of little bowls.  I had watched my mom do it so many times that I was able to convince her to let me do it on my own. I put the insert in the pan.  I cracked the eggs into the openings.  I put on the lid and set the timer.  But when we took the lid off, they looked like they had spikes.  They wouldn't come out of the holder.  They smelled bad, almost burnt.
     "Did you follow all the steps", my mom asked.  I was sure that I had.
She removed the insert.  The bottom pan was dry.  Not one drop of water.  I had forgotten the water!  I destroyed the pan and ruined my breakfast, but it didn't keep me from trying to cook.

     My mom had shorthand for measurements in her recipes; tsp (small t) meant teaspoon, TBSP (capital T) for tablespoon.  I was pretty sure I knew the code.  I had been working side-by-side with my mom.  She taught me how to measure properly, making sure to level the tops of the measuring cups and spoons.
     When I was in 2nd grade, I persuaded her to let me make cookies by myself.  I wanted to make ginger snaps.  I pulled the recipe card and gathered all my ingredients.  I creamed the crisco and sugar until it was fluffy. I added the eggs, then the spices and flour.  My dough was beautiful!  I scooped it out onto the cookie sheets and baked them.
     I took the cookies out.  They smelled so good!  I put them on napkins and took them to my mom and dad.  My dad took a bite.  He said they were a little spicier than usual.  My mom took a bite.  Her face said it all!  I had dome something wrong.  She asked to see the recipe.  We went through each ingredient, with me telling her the measurement.  Then it happened.
     1 tsp ginger was written on the recipe card.  One tablespoon of ginger is what I said.  It looked like a capital T to me.  It was a teaching moment and I didn't give up.

     By the time I was in 4th grade I was making dinner for our family.  Not every night, but I cooked a lot.  I loved being in the kitchen.  The creating, not the cleaning.  But any mess I made was mine to clean up.  It was the rule.  I learned to clean up as I went.  That made it easier.
     My mom was a basic meat & potatoes and casserole cook.  She cooked out of the necessity of feeding her family.  She didn't like it.  She loved to work in the yard.  That was her happy place.  I would often get out of yard work by offering to cook dinner.  It was a win-win.  My dad liked when I cooked because I would try new things.  As long as I had a recipe, I had no limits.
      I have never had fear in cooking.  There have been times when the food didn't come out right.  I just took a breath and tried another time.

     Cooking and baking has become very therapeutic for me.  I describe it as being "mindless".  I'm able to immerse myself in thought while my hands go through the motions of creating. It's where I do some of my best processing, actually.  Kneading dough.  Mixing spices. Building my mis en place.  There's a safety, a security there.
     When I was raising my children, they wanted to be in the kitchen.  I was too much of a control freak to let them do much.  I taught them the basics of measuring and following recipes.  But I did all the cooking, because I liked it. 
     We ate as a family every night, which was how both my husband and I were raised.  I didn't realize how few of our kids' friends had that experience.  Our kids loved to have their friends over for dinner.  It kind of became my love language, feeding people.

     My daughter liked to cook, but she moved out when she was 17.  Most of her cooking refinement occurred when she didn't live with me.  She wanted my recipes but wondered why they didn't taste like when I made them.  I chalked it up to experience since I didn't have a better answer.
     My son and his friends had some serious cooking sessions.  They liked to experiment, to just see what would happen.  They made messes and had mishaps, but it didn't deter them.
     When my son was in high school, he got a job in a bakery.  He, too, found solace in dough.  His bread was perfection!  No holes and beautiful texture.

     After high school, my son went to pastry school.  My heart swelled with pride!  It was as if he was fulfilling my dream.  He brought home delicious desserts every night.  I was amazed at the delicate sugar and gum paste flowers he made with his big man hands.
     Then he attended the Culinary Institute of America.  Again, my heart swelled with pride.  He had found his niche, and it made him so happy.  When he'd come home to visit, my friends were amazed that I cooked for him instead of him showing us what he'd learned.  He wanted mom's cooking.  Sometimes things didn't go quite right, but he never criticized my cooking.  If I asked questions, he would offer advice, but he never bought into it when people tried to get him to talk about my negatively.
     My son is no longer in the food industry which, I'll admit, broke my heart a little bit.  But seeing him happy in his profession as a mason brings me peace.  His friends still love for him to cook for them, and so does his wife.
     My daughter works in a grocery store as a cooking coach.  She teaches people cooking techniques She can follow a recipe like nobody's business and has a great knack for putting flavors together. Feeding people is also her love language outside of work.

     My children have both surpassed me in their cooking ability.  It's a source of joy for me.  But are they good cooks because I taught them?  Am I a good cook because my mother taught me?  Or is it innate?  Did it flower just because we used it?  I believe that pretty much anyone can be taught to follow a recipe, but it will taste completely differently when it's made with heart.

My Path to Youth With A Mission (YWAM)

    I started going to church when I went into foster care.  I remember always feeling at peace there.  I couldn't explain it then, I just knew I loved to go.  That continued throughout my elementary and middle school years.  My friends were at church.  My sense of family came from church.  One time, my mom asked my why I liked going to church.  My answer?  It made me feel good.  To her, that was the wrong answer,  To me, it was the only answer.  You see, somewhere along the way, I met Jesus. He drew me to church.  He kept luring me back.

     When I was in ninth grade, our church split.  I didn't fully understand what happened. I just knew I lost my friends.  I lost many of the feelings I associated with church.  My safety. My comfort.  My peace.  But I still had Him.

     During my high school years we attended a small, non-denominational church.  I made new friends. None enduring like from my childhood, but I was accepted.  If the doors were open, we were there.  I loved going to the youth group and being with my friends, but by my senior year I had drifted away from Him.
     When I graduated I got a job in a grocery store where I was able to work on Sundays.  That was an acceptable, though not thrilling, excuse for my parents. 

     When summer ended, I started college.  I continued working at the grocery store.  God kept speaking, but I was becoming immune to His voice.  I no longer felt the weight of what was happening. I went to church and youth group when I didn't have to work, but I was essentially going through the motions.
     Our pastor was young and very outreach oriented.  He was always trying to keep the youth engaged.  One of those ideas was to invite  a group of young missionaries to visit  our church for a weekend.  Of course, my parents hosted two members of the team.
     It was like torture for me!  They exuded Christ.   I was rude to them.  They were kind to me.  I couldn't wait for it all to be over.
   
     Sunday morning finally rolled around.  I sat in the back rows with the rest of the youth group.  I had already decided nothing was going to stir me.  I sat there, arms firmly folded across my chest.  We talked and passed notes, not paying attention to the service.
     A huge ministry tool of YWAM is skits and drama.  They grabbed attention and shared simple truths.  I remember music and movement.  At one point, they were portraying the crucifixion.  My eyes were drawn to the stage.

     "You did that."  The voice was clear as day. I looked around.  No one else seemed to have heard it.

     "You did that",  He said, as the nails were driven into the actor's hands.

     I began to argue.  I wasn't even there.  How was I responsible?  I was a good person.  What about the person who molested me, or the father who abused me.  Why wasn't it their fault?

     "Even if you were the only one left on the planet, He still would have died for you."

     Those words pierced my heart.  Tears streamed down my cheeks.  I knew He was right.  That's who He is, regardless of who I was.
     I don't remember the wording of the altar call, but I do remember being propelled forward.  I felt as if someone was pushing me from behind.  I felt a hand on my back, but no one was there.

     "Come", He said.   I practically floated down the aisle.  The two girls who stayed at our house, the ones I had treated so poorly, prayed for me.  They hugged me tight!  I felt a closeness to God that I hadn't felt in quite some time.  I decided then and there that I wanted to be a part of this ministry.
     My pastor drove me from Ligonier to Titusville, Pa, to see the base and get more information .  I was hooked!  I needed to be part of it,  However, I  was in my spring term at college and needed to follow through with that commitment.  So I applied for the group starting in September, six months away.
     The school semester ended but I still hadn't received my acceptance into the program.  My pastor called their office.  No one seemed to know what was happening with my application.  I began to feel like they didn't want me.  Like God didn't want me.

      I was still working at the grocery store, but I also added a job in direct sales.  My powers of persuasion weren't great.  Selling wasn't my thing.  I was shy and insecure.  However, that job introduced me to a whole new realm of friends.  Drinking friends.  Buddies, if you will.
     Our sales meetings were on Wednesday nights.  Again, work, so I got out of church.  These "sales meetings" were just a reason to get together and drink ourselves into oblivion.  After which I would drive home.

      I was still praying, journaling, believing in Him.  I just didn't feel the connection with church anymore.  My new crowd was this work crew.  I may have been putting distance between the church and me, but He hadn't given up.
     God began to speak to me, audibly, in my car during the 30-minute drive home from those meetings.  Now, I know a lot of people don't believe God speaks audibly anymore.  And why would he choose to talk to a drunk girl driving on the highway?  I don't want to argue with you.  I'm just telling you my experience.
   
     I clearly remember the first time it happened.  I was rounding the curve near a dam, in the pitch dark, in the middle of the night.

       "Regina."

     I actually looked in the back seat, expecting one of my friends to be hiding back there.  No one.  That sobered me up pretty fast.  This became a weekly occurrence.  I'd get in my car to drive home and I'd hear it.

     "Regina".

     I began turning up my radio really loud, trying to drown out His voice.  It never worked.  He spoke my name so clearly.  So softly.

     I partied that whole summer, making one bad decision after another.  I put myself in situations that could have ended really badly, but He protected me.  Even when I felt like He didn't want me, He was there.
     I finally received my acceptance into YWAM in August, five weeks before the program started.  I was elated!  He did want me!  Then reality set in.  I suddenly felt very dirty.  Unworthy.

     "Come."  It was that familiar voice.  So calming, so reassuring.

     Those next few weeks flew by as I tied up loose ends and prepared to go.  Finally the day came when I was to move in.  My parents drove me the four hours to my new home.  They hadn't seen the base before.  I think they were expecting a more traditional setting.  Instead, there was an office building, another for meals and classes, and four run-down mobile homes.  Later, my mom told me how she cried on the way back home because she felt so bad leaving me there.
   
     I finally felt at home.

He Didn't Destroy Me

     I grew up in the church.  It wasn't part of my life with my biological family, but I loved it from the time I moved in with my foster/adoptive family.  I didn't understand it then, but I felt safe at church.  I just knew there was something different there.

     My parents were committed leaders. My dad was the worship leader and served on the church board for most of my formative years.  My mom was a Sunday school teacher.  She served in the nursery, taught some of the girl's groups and also cleaned the church.  We hosted weekly Bible study groups at our house.  Basically, if the church doors were open, we were there.  If there was a reason to meet up with others from the church, we were in.
     Those we some of the happiest times of my life.  Sure, there were some sad times.  When a beloved youth pastor and his wife moved away, I was devastated.  When the church split and we didn't go there anymore, I lost contact with friends.  But I formed new friendships at the next church, which lessened the blow.
     Church represented continuity for me.  The location, congregation might be different but my feeling of safety remained.  My soul was soothed.  It truly was a refuge for me.  None of my abuse, damage, brokenness mattered there.

     I hit a rough spot with church when I was in high school that lasted through the summer after graduation.  I was still in a relationship with Jesus.  We still talked-- all the time.  But I no longer felt like the church "fit", if you will.
     Fortunately a group from Youth With A Mission (YWAM) visited our church for a weekend.  I'll go into all the details about that in another post.  But I will say that that weekend was life-altering for me.  I finished out my first year of college, then went into full-time ministry with YWAM for the next 3 years.
     During those years I grew to understand why church had been so comforting for me-- I had experienced God.  I totally immersed myself in getting to know God, to really hear him and recognize his voice.  I begin to deal with my pain from the abuse and trauma in my early childhood.  Bit by bit, I was becoming healthy.  Whole.

     When I married my husband, we quickly rooted our little family in the local church.  And, like our parents, jumped in with both feet.  We taught boy's and girl's groups.  We attended Bible studies at other's homes, and hosted our own.
     My husband's job changed often during our early years of marriage, but we always found a church quickly.  It provided comfort and community, as well as allow us to continue to grow in our relationship with God.
     Naturally, when we had kids we wanted them to have the same church experience we did as children.  As toddlers they loved it.

     My husband's job took us out of state for a bit.  When we moved back here to Pennsylvania, finding a church was suddenly difficult.  We had never experienced that before!   He'd like one, I'd like another.  We visited a church where not one person spoke to us, and another on the same day the pastor resigned.  When we finally visited the church that would be our home for the next 10 years, we were ripe for the picking.  However, our experiences on that first visit were vastly different.  He felt like he was finally home.  I felt like my spidey sense had been activated.  I watched from the sidelines, for a year, as my husband became involved and our children made friends.  I watched until they wore me down.  I overrode my gut instincts and jumped right in.

     During the first 7 years, we were honeymooners.  Our lives revolved around the church, to the point that we sacrificed relationships with our own families.  We were given subtle suggestions that all our friends should be from our church.
     We joined teams.  We led groups.  We hosted Bible studies in our home.  I became the pastor's administrative assistant.  We enjoyed a favor that stirred jealousy in people who were working so hard for it.  We became part of the pastor's family.  They helped us through some really tough times in our life, and we opened up to them.  Me, especially.  I told them all about my trauma and abuse.  I showed them the broken pieces of me that I was trying so desperately to hold together.

     All the while, we were being manipulated.  Coaxed to behave a certain way.  Groomed.  They knew all my secrets, so they knew just what buttons to push.

     The pastor was a narcissistic control freak.  He would joke that he could "punish people without them even knowing it".  At some point that became directed at us, especially me.  But in my blind trust, I didn't see it until it was far too late.  Even when he made inappropriate sexual advances towards me, TWICE, I dismissed it as being in my head.  When my daughter was being punished as a way to control me, I dismissed it as she was being overly sensitive.  When my husband started to feel like something was incredibly wrong going on, I still refused to see it.  I had overridden my gut instinct years before; now I didn't trust it anymore.  They had broken me.

     But it would become much worse.

     One of the greatest offenses one could do at that church was to ask "why" about anything.  Blind obedience was demanded.  Anyone who questioned was quickly discounted and driven out.  His tag line was "if this isn't the church for you, we're happy for you to find another one".
     Well, I committed that greatest sin.  I dared to question.  I dared to compare one of my character issues with his.  They decided I needed to go.  They launched an all-out character assassination of me.  They froze us out.  Shunned, if you will.  We lost friends, but it was so much worse for our kids.  They didn't know why any of it was happening, and I didn't know how to explain.
     By the time we left there, I was broken.  I spent the next year in mourning.  I cried every single day.  My body just shut down.  I developed complex PTSD.  I watched my children fall away from the church because of what we'd all been through.

     I clung to God for my very existence.  We found another church, a place that gave us the space to begin to heal.  You see, a man hurt us, not the church.  A man attacked us, not God.  If there is one thing I know about God, it's that He has to be better than any man.

     It's been almost 10 years since we escaped what I now have come to understand was a cult.  It's been a rough road dealing with all that damage.  Unpacking those boxes, all the little compartments I had to stuff those memories into just to survive, is both freeing and terrifying.  I'm definitely not the person I was then, but my relationship with the church has not changed.  Mainly because it's not based on man.
   
     God has not changed. That gives me hope.  That gives me strength.