Finished!

My first book -- Like a Sweet Fragrance -- is finished and will soon be available as an ebook! 

New Growth

To dead-head a rose bush is to cut the withered flowers to stimulate growth and make room for the new beauty to come.

If a gardener is careful and gentle, the new growth survives and the rose bush continues to bloom and flourish; if a gardener is rough and impatient, the new growth quickly disappears along with the discarded, dead-headed flowers, falling to the ground, disintegrating into the mulch, and consequently, the future beauty of the garden fades as well.

I’ve spent the last year revising and editing my first book. Computers make this task easier than it’s ever been before. If I purposefully delete a sentence and then change my mind, the back arrow button immediately returns it to the screen. If I accidentally remove a paragraph, one gentle touch on the back arrow button and the words instantly reappear. In fact, I can delete an entire chapter, representing months of tedious work, and the back arrow button instantly refreshes what was once lost. When I edit and revise on my computer, I can always push the back button and return to where I once was.

But not in the garden.

New growth is the beginning bud of a flower yet to be seen, a scent yet to be savored, yet it can be extinguished before it has time to unfold in one brief snip of a well-meaning gardener’s sheers. When a gardener isn’t concentrating on the task of dead-heading, there is loss. It’s simple, really. Gardeners must pay attention to new growth when dead-heading old blooms.

This past week, while preparing my garden for company, I was not gentle with the new growth; instead, I cut and slashed and eliminated new flowers along with those whose lives were spent. And then I realized what I was doing and stopped.

A gentle reminder from a gracious God who continues to give direction in the midst of my day. I must be careful to avoid harming new growth as I discard what needs to be removed. In my life and certainly in the lives of others around me.

“I am the true vine, and my Father is the gardener.

He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit,

while every branch that does bear fruit he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful”

(John 15:1 NIV).

“But now you must rid yourselves of all such things as these:

anger, rage, malice, slander, and filthy language from your lips.

Do not lie to each other,

since you have taken off your old self with its practices and have put on the new self,

which is being renewed in knowledge in the image of its Creator”

(Col. 3:8-10 NIV). 

Perfumer in Paris

Perfumer in Paris

Perfumery is an ancient, respected art.

While in Paris this past spring, we sensed a hint of how complex that art still is when we attended a workshop taught by Marina, a modern-day perfumer, who shared a glimmer of this ancient profession.

Marina was gracious, offering us water in flowered crystal glasses, and she was smart, explaining the art of perfumery as musical notes and chemical formulas. Once my sweet husband realized that chemistry was behind the work of a perfumer, his interest was piqued.

In musical terms, a fragrance is a harmony of three notes -- top, middle, and base. The top notes evaporate quickly, yet they are powerful because that first fleeting impression is what draws us to a perfume. The middle notes are the heart of the fragrance, dissipating slowly and staying for hours. And the base notes are the final aromatic notes, sometimes lasting for days. Together, they harmonize, creating a scent that attracts and delights, influences and lingers.   

In chemical terms, we learned that scientists can test the odor-laden air around a flower to reproduce its smell. 

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And then we experimented, trying different combinations of oils to see what we liked.

 Then the perfumer measured the exact amounts necessary to create the most pleasing fragrance.

And then she packed our fragrances in a beautiful bag for our return trip to Texas. 

"Then the LORD said to Moses, 'Take the following fine spices:  500 shekels of liquid myrrh, half as much (that is, 250 shekels) of fragrant cinnamon, 250 shekels of fragrant cane, 500 shekels of cassia -- all according to the sanctuary shekel -- and a hin of olive oil. Make these into a sacred annointing oil, a fragrant blend, the work of a perfumer'"

(Exodus 30:22-25 NIV). 

Yes, perfumery is a respected art that has been around for a long, long time! 

Don't Drink the Mud!

The muddy Brazos River between Bellville and Sealy is the color of caffe mocha, but I certainly wouldn’t drink it. 

Yes, when I was a young girl, I made mud-pies, but I always stopped short of actually eating my sludge-like creations. My sister did eat grass once, choking on it and having to be rushed to the emergency room. But mostly we skipped the stage of childhood where kids ate grasshoppers and pill bugs and crickets.

Anyway, about the most disgusting thing I ever ate was the head of a shrimp, and that was an accident and certainly not revolting by Ian’s standards.  He ate beer cans in college.

I love a good cup of black coffee.

Ian does not.

But most mornings, he makes it just for me.

Yep, I’m a lucky lady.

On our recent trip to Turkey, the first thing we ordered at our hotel in Istanbul was a cup of Turkish coffee. We didn’t know much about Turkey, but we did know that Turkish coffee was special, and I, for one, couldn’t wait to see why.

Served in a blue and white demitasse cup, it was a tiny, pretty drink and reminded me of a foamy espresso, almost like a petite caramel macchiato without the caramel and vanilla. Yum. I couldn’t wait.

And so I sipped, slowly, for the coffee was super strong and very rich. And yes, very good.

But the coffee quickly turned thicker, heavier, and more sludge-like near the bottom of the cup. I assumed this was part of the Turkish coffee experience, and I spooned mine out before slurping it down. Or tried to. It left a bitter, grainy taste in my mouth. In my opinion, Turkish coffee was definitely not good to the last drop. Oh well. I had a java jolt for sure.

I warned Ian to add some water to his and stir it some more before he finished the rest.

Later that evening, while enjoying a Turkish feast on a roof-top restaurant overlooking the deep blue waters of the Bosphorus Strait, our Turkish dinner companion quickly set us straight on Turkish coffee.

“You never drink the mud!”

That’s what the bottom sludge is called. Mud. I think we should have figured that one out for ourselves, but oops! No wonder it tasted disgusting. The mud, which is finely-ground unfiltered coffee, settles in the bottom of the cup and is not to be consumed. We, however, assumed otherwise. The mud didn't look like the coffee grounds we knew so well. What else would we do but drink it all? The Baders leave no food behind. 

Our friend also told us that the Turks import their coffee, then prepare it in the method as rich in skill as it is in tradition. That’s what makes it so special. That’s why it’s called Turkish coffee.

Ian listened intently and has mastered the intricate process of Turkish coffee. I just loved listening to our new friend’s stories – her life in Turkey compared to the years she spent in America, her life living on the Asian side of Istanbul compared to the European side, and the traditions passed down in her family.

And while listening to her, I realized that our morning Turkish coffee experience had been lacking only one thing -- the flavor of friendship.

And I also wondered what our waiter thought when he saw us drinking the mud out of our cup. Oh well. God used 300 men who lapped water like dogs to conquer the Midianites. Who knows what he can do with two people who lap mud?

In the meantime, if you go to Turkey, learn from our mistake and don’t drink the mud!

"Shut up!"

I wanted to move to Sirince, finish my book, begin another one, and then spend the rest of my life strolling the cobbled streets in the quaint, hilltop surprise of a village, only a few miles from the ancient ruins of Ephesus.  

As Ian said, “We didn’t know what to expect in Turkey,” so every day was a surprise, and Sirince, in particular, delighted me.

It was a sweet, simple, pretty town.

Red tile roofs topped the white stucco houses stacked on the green hills, and red-and-white umbrellas shaded the local produce stalls that lined the cobblestone streets crisscrossing the town. 

Villagers perched on the steps of their store-front homes, crafting goods to sell to the tourists, who wandered through the bazaar of outdoor cafes and Turkish coffee bars and shops, overflowing with lavender and lace and yellow-flowered garlands and honey and soaps and olive oil.   

And there were endless flavors of local wine – peach and cherry and strawberry and blackberry and melon and kiwi. Apparently, Sirince is known for its fruit wines, and there were souvenir stalls full of them on the main lane through the town.

And wandering up that path is where I heard the two words that I had spent my entire teaching career trying to eradicate:  “Shut up!”  And the young boy selling wine was saying it directly to us!

“Shut up! Shut up! Here, lady! Over here, lady! Shut up, lady! Shut up! Shut up!”

Over and over again!

Our guide laughed and quickly explained that a Turkish word for wine is “sarap,” which is pronounced like our American phrase “shut up!”

Even the local craftsman who created the jewels and adornments for Brad Pitt’s movie Troy didn’t make as big of an impression on me that day as the Turkish boy yelling at the retired American school teacher to “shut up!”

Ian and I spent only a few hours in Sirince before continuing on to Kusadasi and Ephesus, but we left charmed by the colorful village and its villagers.

Sirince certainly earned a place on our list of surprising Turkish delights.