I’ll admit. I’ve been in a sloth place lately. I’m having a real motivation challenge.
I find myself sitting too much, watching too much tv, and binging novels. I’m leaving too much undone.
I’ll admit that I got a little pandemic discouraged (and anxious) when I had a COVID exposure attending church. It was the first Sunday I hadn’t masked during worship since we were given the vaccinated all clear. Of course the next day new research came out saying, well actually, that even if we were vaccinated, masking indoors was recommended because we could still get the Delta variant (likely unknowing; likely worst case a mild infection), and we could become spreaders.
The safety protocols for me all along were mainly about being most concerned I’d infect someone else—and there’s a lot of at risk people around right now (everyone 12 and under; immunocompromised folks who can’t take the vaccine; and the big swath of people who choose not to be vaccinated). I also am aware of how very exhausted our health system is. I don’t want to make that worse if I don’t have to.
Having been exposed, I cancelled all of my coming events until I could be tested. Thankfully, I did get my test back in time (negative—whew!) to preach at a friend’s funeral.
This COVID alert, however, was the beginning of my increased slothfulness. I’d been so careful!!!
The slothful attitude was heightened when I went to the funeral and saw that many of our care-full practices were no longer in place. Food was served, there was little masking, and we grieving people were sitting close to one another. I’ll admit that although masked, I hugged people I loved. It’s. So. Hard. We. Are. So. Weary.
My tampered down spirit also comes, I think, because it feels as if few folks are as concerned as me. When I ran errands on Saturday except for a few masked people (all too many worn nose out), most people seemed to be acting as if the pandemic is as done as we wish it were.
Then I remembered the Benedictine words, everyday we begin again.
I remembered the Daughter’s of the King prayer, I am but one, but I am one. I cannot do everything, but I can do something. God what would you have me do?
And I made waffles.
I was one of the the gazillions that began baking sourdough when the pandemic began. I actually created my own starter and have learned through my slothful habits that it can thrive in the midst of a great deal of neglect.
On Saturday night I fed my starter that had not had any nourishment (flour, water, and then rest) since at least July. Even though having sat in my refrigerator for well over a month, it perked back up.
I still had sourdough bread left in my freezer so I decided it was time to make waffles. I used yogurt instead of the buttermilk called for in the recipe. Each batch had a different flavor enhancement. I used bacon, blueberries, cinnamon sugar, and pecans in a variety of combinations. I was living on the edge.
The kitchen is now full of dirty dishes, but I have a dishwasher. I have a plate stacked with waffles that will feed me for a good long while.
For today, I am in my God rhythm. Like my neglected sourdough starter, I can still thrive after a long spell with a only little water, a little flour, and a little rest (you can fill in what those three things mean for you). Yes, there will be a lot of dirty dishes. Yes, I don’t have to follow the exact recipe for everything to turn out. Yes, it actually may be even more delicious than I think it will.
Okay. Mask back on. Praying a lot. Remembering to make waffles.