still i rise

that moment when I forego the spoon and just dig my hands in.

There is something so therapeutic to me about making cinnamon rolls. Something all at once grounding and freeing about digging into that dough. I don't remember when I first started doing it...I was probably in jr. high. I used to make them for my team when we led worship on Sunday mornings and had to be there at O-Dark-Thirty.

I must confess that I have often been guilty of impatience...it always seems to take longer than I thought it would. Somehow, halfway through the first-rise when it feels like it has been 6 hours already, I suddenly have that sinking feeling.......they have to rise again...

that moment when I turn the bowl on its end and watch its contents spill onto my counter.

I started the process about 7:45 this morning, and the dough was prepped for its first rise by 8:30. The recipe calls for 1.5 hours of rising time. But I know the dough is always better the longer you leave it. And I'm in no rush.....on this, the Sabbath day.

that moment when the flour cloud rises up as I work it into the dough.

There is something about this process that slows me down. There is nothing I can do to speed it up. There is nothing to do but wait. And my soul slows, stills in the waiting.

that moment when I know it's enough, when the elasticity is just right.

I spend the first two hours on a cross-continental phone call. And even with the delay, even with her one-year-old clamoring for attention, we connect, share our souls. The first rise comes to a close, and I am already feeling full. I spend the next two rising-hours reading, journalling, curled up on my couch with my coffee.

that moment when I know I didn't kill the yeast...not this time...

It has risen.

I have risen.

The weekdays are heavy. The work is piled on my sagging shoulders, and the tension in my back pulls my gaze downward. I look at myself, I see how much I lack, I feel the knot in my stomach growing weightier by the second.

But the Sabbath, the Sabbath is for rising.

Rising does not always come naturally to me. Muscle memory is a powerful thing. But in the stillness, in the patient-waiting, the rising kneads itself into the knots in my shoulders. As I fret about whether the water was too hot or not hot enough, I suddenly look down to find the dough, doubled in size.

It is risen.

I have been reading through John, in this Lenten season. And today, of all days, I ventured into chapter 11. But it isn't until now, as I write, that I recognize the significance of it.

I am the Resurrection and the Life.

The One that called Lazarus from the tomb. The One that raised him from the dead. The One that could not be conquered by the grave. The One that lives, forever risen.

He is risen, indeed.