…because of fry bread.

Last night, I made fry bread.  All the littles asked that we make Navajo tacos for our final Family Fun night of the summer.  School starts tomorrow and tonight will see early bedtime in preparation for an early wake up.  So-Navajo tacos and Secretariat for the win.

When we moved here last year, one of my first friends on the Rez, a young mama, came to my house and taught me the art of fry bread.  And, it is an art.  If you work the dough to much, it gets hard as it cooks.  If you are too gentle, its flimsy and too crunchy.  To make the dough, the bread, turn out just right, there is a certain level of comfort and gentility you must have while working the dough.  The water temperature has to be just right.  There are no measurements other than those you provide with your hands. My sweet friend was patient and kind as she showed me the steps…she taught me how to “love” the dough so that it turns out just right…and now my fry bread is a pretty good contender-especially for a Bilagáana, or a white person.

Where’s this going?  Hang in there with me.

As I was making fry bread last night, working the dough, molding the discs to fry and watching it turn golden brown, I was reminded of that precious night last summer.  I was reminded of the sounds of my babies playing with their sweet friends and the clear pops from the hot grease in the iron skillet.  When fry bread dough goes in and the temperature of the oil is right, it makes a sweet sound like a wind chime.  All those sounds were happening in my house again last night.  My babies were playing with their sweet Navajo sisters and the sound of perfectly temped oil and bread were tinkling in the background.  The only thing missing was my beautiful friend. I shared with J the memory of that night last summer and what a precious remembrance it was for me on this journey to loving the Rez.

After dinner, we were watching our family movie and there was a light knock on the door.  It was her.  I hadn’t seen her in months.  I had prayed for her, for her heart, for strongholds to be broken…and there she was. Standing in my doorway, needing to hear me say I loved her anyway.  So, I did.  I was able to share Jesus with her in a tangible way.  I was able to hug her and tell her that there was no expectation from me, from J…that we loved her unconditionally.

You see, when Jesus gets ahold of your heart its a beautiful thing…when He gets ahold of your eyes though, its something altogether different.  When we start seeing others through the same lens that Jesus does, we start to see past the broken, past the ugly, past the hurt and the bitterness and the angry-we start to see the beauty beneath all those things. The Holy Spirit met me on my front porch last night and all I could see was the beautiful heart of my friend.

I’ve learned over the past few years, especially this last year, we’re all so very broken in our own way.  We all have strongholds, they just look different from person to person.  Our hearts are all searching for something, something to hold on to, someone to love us without condition, someone to show us there’s a better way…

…there is a better way.  Jesus.

And because of fry bread-on a Tuesday night with all the littles grieving the end of summer and the beginning of school, Jesus gave us a better way.  He gave us an opportunity to love…in a gentle and patient way…much the same way you have to “love” the dough to get beautiful, golden fry bread.