Baked Honey Garlic Chicken

“Can I talk to you for a few minutes?

You're the only one I know that won't judge me.”

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On a beautiful and crisp fall afternoon, I walked alone at the park.  Offering myself peace, grace, and space.  Finally surrendering to the heaviness, I've been fighting this week.  The feeling of

sadness

In this second week of November, most of the leaves had already floated from the branches and collected on the trails in shades of oranges, yellows, and rubies.  Judging by the number of people I passed by, as fall winds down in Iowa, it seems many have taken notice.

Driving around town garage doors are open as kids play basketball in the driveway.  Bikes that have grown dusty in the summer, ready to be taken out for the last of their sunset rides.  The days have grown short, colder, and dark.

It's sweet to see people walking hand in hand, stopping to ask about their neighbors with offerings of the final produce from their gardens

Three years now

I look back on the space and realize I've been coming here to write for nearly three years.  While that's certainly a milestone in the realm of creativity, what I also realize is that it's a milestone in more significant ways.  I started my online journal during a season of

rebuilding

A season when I was trying a new way of being.

The seeding of a different life, one that allowed tiny splashes of grace to trickle into the moments that used to be frenzied, and driven by the desires of others.  The moments when the puppies were barking, the kitchen timer just went off, a friend wanted to meet at a moment's notice, and a teenager did what!?  (again?!)

Looking back, there were big changes that needed to be made, no doubt about it.  But really there were so many small ones as well. The tiny shifts in my head, the pinches of salt on my eggs

A season of asking for forgiveness, when all I wanted to do was hide under the covers, run away, or stack the invisible hurts up into a wobbly house of cards — a feeble defense tower of my own making.

A season of teaching myself discipline with gentleness and forgiveness.  Knowing my first instincts were always to please someone else

A season of finding a sacred beauty in the endless cycle of cooking and cleaning and working; cooking and cleaning and working. (When really, I'd rather just take a warm bath, and read a good book)

A season of trying, and failing, and failing (again), and failing (yet again).

A tiny hummingbird flapping her wings as fast as she could, over and over and over.  That is until, by the sheer grace of God,  a second gust of wind would arrive in the form of a kind note from a friend, a long meditative walk, or a steaming hot chocolate

Building my new life was as disorganized, and far from seamless as one could possibly get.  Akin, I suppose, to creating a symphony  with untrained musicians, a frazzled conductor, and pitchy instruments.

Our conversation has been heavy on my heart, a child in need of nothing in particular, other than someone would listen.  A fellow hummingbird flapping his wings with everything he had.  A fellow traveler on a familiar journey, in a desperate attempt at finding his way.

His words took me right back to that season, and how painfully difficult it really is to change yourself at the core.  To the days that were dark, when it would have been easier to simply give up.

For a while, I tried to ignore the feelings he left on my heart, but really, sometimes there are things that one can only live

and love yourself through

Before finding myself at the park, I'd spent the better part of the day volunteering at the Boy's Recovery House, a residential program for teens that are struggling with addiction.  Sundays are always special and set aside for family visits.

I played games, watched a movie with the kids, and smiled at the parents as they came through the door.  The looks on their faces, I remember them well

“How does this work?  How did we end up visiting our child in a group home when we did the best we could?  When the program is finished, will they return him fixed up and as good as new?  Please?  So we pick up where we left off?”

Hopeful this season is simply an event, one that will appear as a blip on life's radar, instead of something that will define their family forever

“Most of the people I love won't have anything to do with me.”

“All you can do is build a new circle.”

“I'm such a different person now; how will they ever know? “

“They won't; know it's easier and more comfortable for people to turn away.  Keep the lesson close to your spirit, offering others the gifts of grace, and a second chance.”

“Am I forever defined as the person I was during a dark time in my life?”

“To some, you will be”

“Maybe it's true; you reap what you sow?”

“Lots of people see the world as black and white.  Though no one can really know what another soul is sowing, they make a judgment of you based on a snapshot in time

I much prefer to see life as a million shades of grey.  It's in those very shades that I've found beauty, grace, love, and a whole lot of forgiveness.  I've always felt God closest in the grey, especially in the grey

The times when the world pointed and branded me a failure.  Only I knew differently, the tiny seeds I was sowing”

“I love you; you know that, right?”

Long ago, I discovered that practicing a new way of being is just that – a practice.

It's the learning of a new exercise, the fitting into a new dress.  A deep, intrinsic mix of fancy footwork and endless alterations.  At times requiring all of me: my time, energy, and focus.

It was work, a beautiful and worthy work, but work nonetheless.  Admittedly, on some days, or cold nights, it felt almost selfish

I love to read about the process authors go through when writing a book.  It's always a surprise to discover there are times when it takes an entire season to write a single chapter.  Inspiration coming in fits and bursts, a broken shower head where the water pressure is too much, and then not enough; and suddenly a trickle of a sentence, or the drip of a paragraph breaks through.  And there is progress

In those seasons, they write, they have to be selfish; for there is something beautiful springing forth, and it requires all of their being

And so the author might decline that new project at work or the volunteer position at her child's school, and she might ignore the four dozen emails that feel pressing, or timely, or important.  She might quit her book club, cancel a dinner, or reschedule a meeting. She might appear to the outside world as distracted, unreliable, flighty, or even

selfish

And yet, inside, there was a portrait being painted.  There was a masterpiece being chiseled, and her job was to show up and to allow it.  To invite it, and to pick up the pen again, and again, and again

Through it all, to keep practicing.  Keep showing up; right where she was.  To keep trying and failing, and trying again.  To keep getting a little bit better every day

No matter who chooses to see.

A recipe for a take-out favorite that you can make at home.  A version that's healthier, cheaper, and tastier

Tender, crispy baked chicken bites in a sticky honey-Sriracha sauce make for an easy weeknight meal or party appetizer.

Certainly, you can toss the chicken in sauce and serve over rice, a replication of the take-out version.  Or we like the option of serving the sauce on the side, with toothpicks for dipping.

Enjoy!

xoxo

~ Adapted from JoCooks