EGGS! I left out the EGGS!

Photo from Southern Living magazine

Okay, I know I already shocked some of you earlier this week when I confessed that I have one or two vices . . . so, hold on, I'm about to do it again . . . are you ready? I'VE BEEN FEELIN' MEAN AND DOWNRIGHT HATEFUL THIS WEEK!

Okay, there it is. I've said it. I know ya'll probably can't relate one little bit, but I just had to come clean. Yup. I've been feelin' mean and hateful and downright UNSPIRITUAL! (No, you don't need to remind me that the name of this blog is Texas PREACHER Woman. Just add a touch more guilt to the whole mess.)

It all started on Valentine's Day. (Yes, Valentine's Day. Ugh.) The details aren't really important at this point (although, they sure as heck were at that moment), but suffice it to say that St. Michael and I had a . . . er, slight difference of opinion (yeah, that sounds good) on something. Things were said. Things were said back. Nothing really settled, no agreement arrived at. Just stomped-on "feelers" and bruised egos instead of epiphanies and lightbulb moments to show for all of the words thrown around.

Remember the scene in Kevin Costner's Robinhood: Prince of Thieves, where in a moment of frustration over not getting his way, the evil Sheriff of Nottingham snarls, "Cancel Christmas!"? Well, I cancelled church. Okay, I didn't exactly cancel church, but I did decide not to go. Yup. that's right, I sent word for my Bible study to meet with another class, and I stayed home. (I wasn't feeling very Bible-teacherly, and I dont' play church.) So I sulked. And pouted. And then I stewed. That's right, without passing Go, I went straight from being sad and hurt to being mad and curt. (My family knows that ANY time I get quiet, something's wrong -- I must be sad, sick, or just totally ticked off -- 'cause I'm just not quiet by nature.)

The bad thing is that if I were honest with myself, this was not really an all or nothing case. Both St. Michael and I were a little "off," but since he hadn't seemed moved any in my direction, I certainly wasn't going to cross over the center line in any effort to go more than "my fair share," either. At least not mentally. Physically was a different story.

Physically (literally in my flesh), as soon as he left for church (obviously he wasn't feeling as unspiritual as I was), I started moving around the house, taking care of a few things that he thought I'd let lapse. While I was in the kitchen mumbling to myself, "Gee, some Valentine's Day this is . . . ", I remembered that Baby Daughter had said a few days earlier that she sure would like some of my homemade oatmeal muffins sometime soon.

Oatmeal muffins! In my heart-shaped muffins pan! Now that was just the thing I needed to do to salvage some semblance of Valentine-y-ness. Baby Daughter would love that! In fact, I even doubled the recipe so she could have muffins all week long.

Imagine my mood when I opened the oven door the required twenty-five minutes later only to find double the MESS: Molten-lava-like, overly-toasted maple-y-smelling GOO bubbling out of the cute hollowed-out heart shapes and over onto the tops of all three muffin tins, on both racks, and, yes, even onto the bottom of the oven. (Remember, I've already told you I was feeling armed and dangerous.)

Baby Daughter coming down the stairs, through the den, and into the kitchen at just this moment: Mom! What are you burning?

Whiny, pitiful Mom on the verge of tears: I was making you some oatmeal muffins, and something must've gone wrong . . . (Gee, y'think?)

Baby Daughter: Awwww, Mom . . . thank you!

Whiny, pitiful Mom even closer to going over the edge: But, look, they're all ruined.

Fortunately, BD started to laugh and said just the right thing: Well, you know it's the thought that counts.

And then I started to laugh, too. (Okay, I kinda cried and laughed at the same time.)

Later, as Baby Daughter scraped the goo off the muffin tins (she insisted), I got my recipe back out to see where I might possibly have missed a step.

Eggs! I left out the eggs!

I marveled at the difference one simple ingredient made. Who would've thought? And then Brother Paul's words flashed into my brain big as the neon signs in a Texas ice house:

"If I have . . . but have not love,

I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal.

"If I have . . . but have not love,

I am nothing.

"If I have . . . but have not love,

I gain nothing."

Nothing I had done so far that morning had been done with love (except for, ironically, the ruined oatmeal-muffin-wanna-be goo). The cleared kitchen counter, the emptied dishwasher, the sparkling toilet in the master bath (yes, sistas, it did shine indeed) . . . I had done it all with a large dose of spite. (Can you say "Valen-T-I-N-Y"? That was about the size of my heart.)

I wish I could say that the neon words in 1st Corinthians hit me like a flash of lightening, immediately causing me to see the light, but that would be a big ol' fat lie. My brain might have been illuminated but not my heart.

Nope, not one bit.

As I told another sista-friend, it was as if I wanted to be mean and hateful, wanted to hold onto my hurt, wanted to lick my wounds (and snap and snarl at anyone who dared to come close enough to check them).

It is now Saturday morning, and I am better. Things seem back to "normal" at the Casa and with the Saint.

Still, I am humbled. Humbled by the thought that there are people who look to me for leadership, for encouragement, for wisdom . . . they're looking to me -- a woman who is sometimes a couple of eggs short. And I find myself praying that in the midst of my all too apparent weakness, His strength will show itself to be perfect. Then He will receive the glory and honor because this I know: Truly, "apart from [Him, I] can do nothing" (John 15;5).

Your very human Texas Preacher Woman,

Pamm