Last night, Brad and I conquered our first artichoke.

Sure, we’ve had it in dips before (my friend Keri makes an AMAZING spinach-artichoke dip), but never fresh. Because, hello? We used to live in Iowa. Artichoke season is about three heartbeats long there.

But this past weekend we went to the most glorious farmers’ market (with a sprout bar, bottles of beet kvass, soaked grain breads, and raw–really raw–nuts) and knew we had to get one.

I labored under the wise guidance of David Lebovitz and when we were finished:

This is what one fresh artichoke nets you. We each got a few bites of the heart, and that was it. It wasn’t amazing and probably wasn’t worth the $2 we spent on it.

Since yesterday was also our wedding anniversary, I’ve been thinking how very much preparing an artichoke is like facing life together. You labor together, you sweat, you might nick your finger, you work and work and what do you get? Something small. Something that at first might seem like disappointment, but is actually the tender heart of the matter. It doesn’t look like much. In fact, it might look like walking up the sidewalk to that first appointment with a new doctor, but it’s the most important part.

And now, because I never get tired of looking at this: My ridiculously handsome husband.

I mean…

Caught in between sleep and wakefulness, I started praying. Father, fill Brad’s day with blessings. Surprise him with Your goodness every single moment today. Then I laid my arm across his chest and gave his cheek a quick, half-conscious kiss. As soon as I did, a thought whispered in my mind as clearly as if it had been there all along: I can be that blessing.

My touch, my small kiss was that moment’s blessing for Brad from God.

It’s a small, old thought—I can be the vessel through which Christ blesses Brad—but it has never been so obvious to me as it was right after that kiss.

You might not need that reminder, but I do.

I know the Bible says it’s not good for man to be alone, but I think it wouldn’t be good for ME to be alone.

On my own, I think too hard. I wonder if my knuckles will get knobby a few years before everyone’s get knobby. I think with guilt about that moment 3 months ago when a friend called and I ignored it because I just didn’t feel like talking. I worry I’m not interested enough in what trendy e-newsletters say I should be into. I ask myself what kind of person goes to eat lunch outside and KNOWINGLY doesn’t apply sunscreen. (And a small voice in my head says, a person who wants cleavage wrinkles. Ewwwwww.)

But with Brad, this is life: Are we living with faith right now? and What are we having for dinner?

And you know what? That’s better. That makes for a more mentally healthy Joanna.

Moving to California (pictures and details soon, promise) has me thinking a lot about my relationship with Brad, and not just because we spent 2-1/2 days straight in a car next to one another and now live in an apartment so small, we can hear one another pee.

But actually, maybe kind of because of those things.

I’m thinking about Brad because it has been incredibly difficult to leave my family, especially my parents. Grief pushing against my eyes, my nose, my mouth, ready to come out every time I blink, breathe, or talk difficult. I keep thinking of it like that: I left my family. (I know. Dramatic.)

Then every time I look at this incredible man who also left his family for the joy of seeing me thrive at work and the adventure of taking chances, I remember he is my family first. The fun thing is I don’t even know what this means. I don’t know what that looks like. But I think it means I probably shouldn’t hang I Left My Family around my neck. I hope it will mean we learn things about one another we don’t already know. I hope it means God fixes our steps in one happy rhythm. I hope it means we find the most fun and the most comfort and the most home in one another. I hope it means I get better at being Brad’s wife.

On the list of leaps I never thought I’d take:

Moving to California.

I’m Midwestern enough to think eating kale on a regular basis is a cool thing. To know state fairs are not just entertainment for an afternoon, but a 10-day long Event that includes live broadcasts from various stages. To know I can drive 15 miles in almost any direction and encounter a corn field. To celebrate the arrival of the first Whole Foods in the state. And you know, I like it this way. It might seem quaint to people on the coasts, but it’s genuine.

In three weeks, Brad and I are packing our car full of all the genuine Midwestern spirit we can muster and pointing it west. I took a new job with Sunset and we’re taking a giant leap–one God has surprised us with–and moving to the Bay Area.

There are so many tangled thoughts in my head but I know three things for sure.
1. My heart will miss the Saturday nights with the nephews, the birthday dinners at my parents, the fire pit at the Wisconsin farm, the quick weekend trips to Davenport to see Brad’s family, and sitting in church in St. Louis next to Grandma.
2. This is the best thing for us right now and it feels good to know and believe that.
3. I will be able to finish SO MANY books on this road trip!

The items I’ve managed to sit down, read, and think about lately:

// A hopeful story about a little tyke with swollen joints and chronic pain who got better (!).

// I experienced shades of this article’s frustrations when I worked more social media in my job. Hilarious, but some coarse words.

// Bookish.

// Speaking of books, I can’t resist a book list. This one is ambitious–the entire Western Canon. I’ve always wanted to do this but felt like life was too short. Until NOW.

// You are going to think I’m the world’s biggest dork for this, but look! It’s a map that shows just where the heck all the characters are during the Lord of the Rings. I SO needed this these last few months while I was re-reading the trilogy.

// Intentionality is the quality I most admire about our friends Tim and Shanna. Here’s her beautiful take on it that I can’t stop thinking about.

// “You’re not finished cooking until you’re finished cleaning.” Oh, Seamus. If only!

I keep thinking about the last time we were here, just two weeks ago. I sat in the exam room with Brad, surrounded by acupuncture charts and meridian maps. The doctor’s bookcase has a slight lean to the right where he’s stacked thick binders of notes from research conferences. On the desk is bottle after bottle of herbs and tinctures. It’s a place with a lot to see.

We sat there, listening to the doctor talk about how Brad might need another oral surgery, when a weird thing happened. I kept listening and taking notes but part of my mind snapped into observing the three of us in the room, looking at us the way a stranger would.

And my mind said go. Grab Brad and run. Get in the car and drive and drive, leaving that very ill man and very scared girl behind.

The time keeps adding up. Five years together, five years of Brad in constant pain. Almost four years married, at least three since we started changing our diet, almost two since he tested positive for Lyme. Even so, it still sometimes feels like this life is happening to strangers. It hasn’t really taken five years of our life, has it? We’re not really the ones going through this, are we? But we are, and the longer it takes to have a breakthrough, the stronger my gut reaction is to take Brad and find someplace to hide where pain and fear and doubt can’t touch us.

Because guys, I’m just a girl. I don’t have superpowers of faith. I don’t feel like a conqueror. My eyes aren’t always clear and focused on our Savior. When we’re in bed and Brad is already halfway to sleep, I put my arm around him and can almost feel the pain vibrating off his body. So I’m not a saint. I’m a heartbroken and scared wife.

If I cling to the Lord, it’s because I’m dead desperate. If I pray and pray and pray, it’s because I need Him. If I doggedly read the Bible and wrestle truth out of every verse, it’s because I can’t live without it. If I feel happiness and peace knowing how much God loves us, it’s because I’ve begged for it.

Right now I feel like Eustace when Aslan claws his dragon scales off. This struggle between faith and feeling must mean layer after layer of self-reliance, doubt, weakness, and pride is being ripped away from me. So yes, I feel wounded. And yes, I feel naked, raw, and vulnerable. But I know the lion’s claws are really the loving hands of my sacrificial Savior tearing away what’s not pleasing to Him and clothing me with righteousness in its place.

Pray for us, because the ripping off doesn’t feel any better for knowing what it is.

Thank God for my husband.

I’m well aware of how lucky and blessed I am to have a guy who takes care of all our car problems, listens to me talk endlessly about Downton Abbey (don’t even with this week), routinely does the dishes, and plans (and let’s be real, with my current schedule, preps) most of our meals.

But being gone for a few days reminds me all over again just how fortunate I am to have my husband. Not someone else’s husband, not some idea of the perfect husband, but My. Husband.

I was at Alt Summit this week (for work, not for this blog, which will remain an underachiever until further notice) and when I got home Saturday afternoon, I was wiped. I barely remember Brad making me dinner (again!) and going to bed. But I do remember waking up Sunday morning and remembering him saying we should make my mom’s spinach pie for dinner that night. See? I love that man.

Because guys, my mom’s spinach pie is not something that gets lost in the haze, even one brought on by working 20-hour days (some of it performing legitimate manual labor) four days in a row.

It’s the pie we’ve always requested for our birthday meal, that Mom makes over the holidays, that she makes whenever my sisters are back in town…in fact, I think she made it when I first brought Brad home for dinner, just a day after we started dating. Just like Elizabeth Bennett seeing the grounds of Pemberley, I think Brad can trace his love for me back to his first taste of this pie.

So yesterday afternoon–after taking a 4-1/2 hour nap and banishing my remaining haze–we set to work. I handled the pie crust, Brad tackled the sausage, and we both hoped and hoped our version would be as good as my mom’s.

It wasn’t. Nothing could ever be as good as my mom’s and she’s the only person not allowed to ever make this recipe because I want her to keep making hers until the end of time. But, as far as clean comfort food goes, this was tops. The perfect welcome home meal, the best time back cooking side-by-side with the man I love.

spinach pie
makes 1 pie

So this is sort of like a quiche. It has an egg base, cheese, and it’s all tucked into a pie crust. But as my dad always says: Real men eat quiche. In our family, they (and the women) eat it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Sometimes cold, because it doesn’t lose anything for being served right out of the fridge the next day.

Pie Crust:
2-1/4 cups organic sprouted spelt flour, plus more for dusting
1 teaspoon sea salt
2/3 cup organic butter
8 tablespoons ice water
1 to 2 tablespoons vodka

Sausage:
1 lb grass-fed beef
3-1/2 teaspoons paprika
1-1/2 teaspoons sea salt
1 teaspoon black pepper
1/2 teaspoon fennel seeds, crushed
1 garlic clove, chopped

Filling:
6 eggs (hold aside one egg yolk, mix with water and brush on the top crust)
1 16-oz. package frozen spinach, drained and squeezed to remove moisture
3/4 lb. goat milk cheddar cheese (or mozzarella cheese), shredded
2/3 cup goat cheese
1/2 lb sausage, browned (save the rest for breakfast. mmmm)
sea salt
black pepper
onion powder

Prep the crust: Whisk together the flour and salt. Cut in the butter (I used a fork because, unbelievably, I don’t own a pastry cutter) until it’s pea-sized. Add 1 tablespoon of water at a time, tossing it with a fork until it’s moist, then pushing it to the side before repeating with a fresh spoonful of water (and vodka). When finished, the dough should hold together when formed into a ball, but not feel wet. This is the first time I used this method (taken from the famous Red Plaid…why not?), and I thought it made a really workable dough. The end product was a little heavier than white flour pastry, but I attribute that to the spelt more than the method. Anyway, halve the dough and form each into a round disk. If you’ve worked fast, you can roll out the first crust now and place it in a 9-inch pie plate and place the whole thing in the fridge. I recommend chilling the second half while you roll out the first and prep the filling.

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit.

Brown the sausage: Combine all sausage ingredients. Crumble into a pan (we prefer our cast iron because that poor thing needs all the seasoning it can get). Brown the meat (it’s ok if there’s a little pink), drain the meat and place it on a paper towel to soak up any extra grease. Unless you like grease. Then by all means, save it.

Prepare the filling: Whisk the eggs with the cheeses; fold in the spinach and sausage and season it with salt, pepper, and onion powder. Pour the filling into the chilled pie crust. Roll out the second pie crust if you haven’t already. Place on top of the filling, seal, crimp, and cut steam holes in the top. Brush the top with the egg yolk/water mixture.

Bake for 60 to 90 minutes (no, seriously), checking every 45. The pie filling will seem wet even when it’s done because of the moisture content in the spinach, so do the jiggle test and poke the crust at the edge to make sure it’s baked through before taking it out of the oven.

Let cool for a few minutes before slicing.

Right now, I’m salivating at the 2013 book previews I keep seeing. My shortlist includes Transatlantic by Colum McCann because I like novels that talk about being on planes. Seriously, that’s the reason it’s on my list. It also includes Going Clear, Lawrence Wright’s expose on Scientology, because frankly: Scientology sounds so cracked out I can’t believe anyone takes it seriously. So obviously I must know more.

But if happen to be the type of person who feels guilty while scrolling book previews and lists of books you should read (or don’t even pay attention to that stuff), may I present to you my list of five books you can safely, smugly ignore?

5. Wuthering Heights
I’m not sure how many times I’ve tried to read this, but I can never get past the first page. I would say it’s an aversion to the bloated language of the era, except I thrive on the bloated language of that era. I think it’s just that the first few pages are boring and I don’t feel obligated to read something that bores me. Though now that I make this public, I feel the last twinge of guilt that I’ve never powered through this classic. I’ll put it on my “if I get the flu, I’ll have the time to finally focus my attention on this and if I don’t like it, I can blame it on being sick” list. Also on that list? Moby Dick. Bleak House.

4. Les Miserables
This book is LONG and has so many history-focused tangents I forget the story before I’m halfway through. Just watch the movie (gasp!). And I don’t mean the movie out right now. I’m sure that one’s great, but I’m referring to the Liam Neeson movie that I watched with my dad at a very impressionable age. It terrified me. But not as much as reading another page about cannon manufacturing did.

3. Wicked
The musical is bewitching (see what I did there?), but this Wizard of Oz prequel is more like a glorified piece of fan fic. Plot that drags on way too long, characters that aren’t sympathetic, ties back to the original story that are heavy-handed when subtlety would have sufficed…all trademarks of amateur stories riding on an original works’ fame. I implore you, however, to go see the musical if you get the chance.

2. The Shipping News
Are they just handing out these Pulitzer Prizes now (or rather, did they do so in the early ’90s?)? This book started off dismally, really got a handle on things like character development, intrigue, and twists in the middle, then ended dismally. I like my novels with a meaty, satisfying ending, thanks.

1. Everything by Ian McEwan except Saturday and maybe Atonement
It pains me to say this because I read Saturday and thought Mr. McEwan and I were going to be lifelong friends. But then I read Atonement and wondered why all the fuss? Why is this The Greatest Book to Ever Be Made Into a Keira Knightley in Pretty Dresses Vehicle? And then I read that book about the newlywed wife who, despite no history of abuse, absolutely refused to be affectionate with her husband (that’s what we call a lack of motive, and it’s irritating). And then I read another early novel of his in December that was the most disturbing, pointless book ever to cross my Goodreads list and so now it’s official: Ian McEwan is not a writer I like, nor is he a writer I respect. Obviously, I want you to agree with me.

What books do you feel good about ignoring?

photo: a few books worth reading.

NPR is running a series this week on “Losing our Religion” in America. Yesterday, David Greene talked with six people in their 20s and 30s about the place religion has in their lives.

(Before I go any further, I have to declare David Greene’s voice as my favorite NPR voice. He sounds so compassionate, but funny. Inquisitive and prying, yet sensitive. Genuine, but in charge. I think I first fell for his voice when he reported some stories about just how truly awful it is to be a regular citizen of Russia (although there was also this). I felt for the Russians. Then, when he co-hosted Morning Edition for a stretch, I was in heaven. If anybody should be recording audiobooks, it’s David Greene.)

Moving ahead: Each person in the story had a different faith background and different reason for gradually (or suddenly) losing his or her faith. They said things like, “After all this bad stuff happens to you, you wonder how there could be a God.” Or, “Tragedy made me realize my actions are what give life meaning, not God.” Or, “Religion was my coping mechanism to handle those things.”

That was the sad thing.

As I sat in my car listening, I thought of a passage I read last week.

And Jesus went throughout all the cities and villages, teaching in their synagogues and proclaiming the gospel of the kingdom and healing every disease and every affliction. When he saw the crowds, he had compassion for them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd. Then he said to his disciples, “The harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few; therefore pray earnestly to the Lord of the harvest to send out laborers into his harvest.” (Matthew 9:35-38)

What struck me is that Jesus saw. He saw masses of pitiful people who appeared thrown down, distressed, and dispirited. Out of compassion, He urges His disciples to do something about it by sharing the news of the kingdom of heaven and praying for more to do the same.

So in 2013, in my beige Taurus riding down I-235 in Des Moines listening to NPR, I had a thought. The people talking to David Greene are those people. They are “harassed and helpless” and “distressed and dispirited.” I’m sometimes that person. You are probably sometimes that person. There’s no difference in humanity in Jesus’ time and humanity now. We’re still a planet full of broken people. We still get discouraged. Bad things still happen to us. But Jesus doesn’t ignore that. He sees it. Suffering means something to Him.

And if our suffering is the same, our antidote is the same. The good news the disciples shared is still good today. I easily get trapped into thinking everyone in America knows the basic story of the gospel. They get that religion is an option for them. They’ve thought it through and made up their mind. But I’m beginning to feel challenged to not assume just because people are aware of the American church, they’re aware of Jesus Christ. And also not to undersell Him. What He offers is incredible.

Who in that group of six–or who among us–wouldn’t love to hear these words genuinely and compassionately whispered in his or her ear?

“Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” (Matthew 11:28-30)

Jesus is the gospel and the salve to the broken-hearted, yesterday, today, tomorrow.

I went for a run in the January cold today. Believe me when I say it was very atypical for me. I’m the world’s biggest cold weather wuss. Normally, if the temperature is south of 55 degrees, I’m inside with my SmartWools on and a cup of my newest obsession–and it is an obsession–Shanna’s Hot Spiced Milk.

But this year I set a goal to tackle three Iowa runs I haven’t done yet: Dam to Dam, the Bix, and the Living History Farms Off-Road Race. Dam to Dam is in June, which is normally when I kick my running into high gear for a fall event. (Keep in mind, my “high gear” equals about 3 runs a week, each at a speed easily surpassed by ambitious toddlers.) A June 20k means a lot of running in the cold…but guys! I have cute arm warmers! So it’s ok.

Another goal of mine is to get back to the lovely habit of reading over my lunch hour. I did this a lot at the beginning of last year then let it slowly slip away, along with other good things. In fact, reclaiming my lunch hour is the larger theme here.

As excited as I am to run like a maniac in the cold (not very) and spend my lunch reading (super duper), I’m most excited about how both these activities might help me get back on track with writing, both here and on my own. When I run, I’m almost always playing with words and phrases or story lines. When I read, it instructs and inspires me to do the same. And that’s another thing I let slip away last year that I want to get back.

So “lunch: run or read” is my new motto. I’m one day in and feeling good.