The word passion reminds me of the first flush of marriage. I remember moving across the country, from Vancouver to Toronto, to begin a new life with my husband, Tim. Together we ventured into a brave new world: a new city, new jobs, new home, new marriage. Looking back, I’m surprised I wasn’t shaking in my size six boots at the prospect of being away from everything and everyone familiar to me, but the thrill of starting this grand adventure with Tim superseded my fears. Didn’t know a single person in this massive city, didn’t have a vehicle or telephone which made job hunting very difficult, didn’t have a stick of furniture, didn’t know how to cook whatsoever, but I did have a passion for my new life. Somehow, I was up for the task and any risks required to make this all work. So I figured things out and was proud to regale Tim with stories of my bravery – how I managed to get to and from a job interview via subway, how I figured out where the grocery store was, how I made lasagne with a plastic fork and knife and one sauce pot (one noodle at a time!).
My kitchen adventures, or rather misadventures, were numerous. One morning I decided to make Tim breakfast in bed and deduced that I had all the ingredients for French toast. After throwing together all the necessary components of French toast, I began the cooking process. However, things didn’t go well and the kitchen began to smoke up. I ran into the bedroom and woke Tim up shouting, “There’s something wrong with our toaster! It’s not hot enough to cook the French toast and now the egg is pouring all over the place and the toaster looks like it’s going to catch fire!” Now, if you know anything about French toast, you’ll know that “toast” is a misnomer. You’re not supposed to actually toast French toast. However, from my neophyte perspective, it made sense that you toasted something if it’s got the label of “toast”. Poor Tim had the ugly task of cleaning up my mess and the even more difficult job of explaining to me the logic of why you don’t toast French toast. I won’t even get into the kitchen fires I started due to recipes that assumed the chef knew the basics of cooking. And yet, I kept trying to cook and risking life and limb to try new things. Why? I was excited – passionate – about life with Tim!
This is what I want with God. I want to stretch myself and to brave new territory because it’s worth the risk! I want to get out of my safe place and take risks for God. Sure, my idea of risk may seem pretty tame, but how many of you have started as many kitchen fires as I have and survived to tell the story?!