The Post I Didn't Want to Write {On Trust, Loss, and Walking Deep Waters}

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I was hoping this was going to be the post where I got to tell you my exciting news.

Instead I am writing because this is the best way for me to process hard, because we are on this journey in which we need the encouragement of each other, and because even though my words have pain woven through them, God is writing a message on my heart that maybe you need to hear too.

I am writing because I was pregnant. The pregnancy was found to be not viable (which means somewhere along the way, life stopped forming.)

I had no idea that you could get through five and a half weeks of nausea and smell aversions and all the other body changes in that first trimester… that you could be utterly surprised and have no clue how you got pregnant, that you could cry both tears of joy and fear of change, that you could get excited and dream up names and tell family and friends… and all the while life not be there.

I am raw, angry, hurt and sad.

This baby, it may have surprised us, but it was so very wanted.

After I had gone in for my first prenatal appointment and they couldn’t find the heartbeat, they had told me it could just be too early. But I was worried. I told God, “I just can’t lose. Oh, God, please. I just can’t lose again.” After three losses, two this year, another just felt like too much.

After a formal sonogram and a devastating conversation with my doctor, here I am, loss number four, third within a year. I feel broken, like somewhere along the way the words failure got written across my uterus. Who gets pregnant three times in the same year all while preventing pregnancy and loses all three? It doesn’t seem fair. I’ve always wanted to leave room for God to have His way in my life. I might have in my rational mind thought it wasn’t time for a baby, but I still welcomed the idea of a surprise. But loss?

I have to admit that in my heart of hearts, that deep and fragile part that doesn’t understand and thinks I deserve an explanation, I don’t ever want to be pregnant again. Never. Because I don’t ever want to lose again. 

But here’s the thing. Sometimes we tell God anything. “You can do anything with me, God.” That “anything” might not just be hard, it might cost. And the cost might feel like more than you can bear. It might mean you are the vessel in which He places life, or at least the potential of life for a painfully short time. It might mean God leads you on a journey that is completely different from what you imagined. It might mean that what your heart desires must be hard fought. It might mean you suffer, and it might mean you don’t get an explanation. It might even feel meaningless.

Hebrews 10:39 has been a favorite verse of mine for a long time. It is the final statement that the writer makes before launching into a discussion of faith full of examples of men and women whom God used in mighty ways. Men and women who lost. Men and women who still chose to trust God. Men and women who saw the divine and the miraculous just beyond the tip of their own fingers.

“We are not of those who shrink back.”

We are not of those who live in fear. We are not of those who choose to close their hands to God’s blessings because the blessings might come through pain. We are not of those who stop trusting because we don’t understand. We are not of those who refuse to allow God access to anything and everything because it might hurt.

So here’s me saying: I am angry and hurt and so very afraid to lose again. But I will not shrink back. I will grieve. And then I will rise.

I will choose to trust.

I am reminded that I made this phrase my prayer for the year: “Trust without border.”

And here I am, in a place without border, without understanding. I am walking deep waters. Oh, they seem so deep. But God promises: “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you. And through the rivers, they will not overflow you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned. For I am the Lord Your God” (Isaiah 43:2-3). In deep waters, we learn trust.

I look at Addy and Jed with fresh eyes. Because life is so very precious and fragile. When it comes hard fought and through much pain, you savor it, you suck the marrow out of it. You count the moments for joy. And you know deep down, it’s all worth it.  I think of that scripture “Who for the joy set before Him, endured…” (Hebrews 12:2). Yes. And we were worth it even in all the free will variables in which we might turn our backs on Him who loves us and paid dearly for the chance. And that thing you hope for might just come through suffering—through enduring—but that doesn’t mean it’s not worthwhile.

I didn’t realize hope could require such bravery. I didn’t realize you could hold onto to hope while losing. But I am clinging to hope. Because, friends, yes, this girl does so much desire another baby and a big, loud family. And while I am afraid to lose, I shall be brave enough to hope.

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

Finding Spiritual Whitespace: A Review and a Giveaway

A few months ago, I noticed that my favorite (in)courage writer, Bonnie Gray, had a book coming out and had asked for people to sign up to be a part of the launch team. I usually don’t do that kind of stuff because I just don’t have the ability to make too many commitments right now.

But I felt compelled.

I knew this book on rest was the song Christ had been writing on my heart for the past year. After striving and struggling and trying to prove my value, rest is a message I am passionate about.

And then I started reading it. Because rest seems like this nice topic, right? Take a vacation, go for a hike, sip a cappuccino, read a book, be comfortable in your own skin. God loves you enough to let you rest. But this book hurts.

Because escape isn’t really rest. God doesn’t love us so small that He would just let us take escapes from our brokenness. God loves us so big that He wants to make us whole.

And that is rest. It’s digging beneath the things that we crowd our life with to try to look okay, to seem important, to wave at the rest of the world so we can be seen. It’s picking up broken pieces and giving them to God to make whole again. It’s knowing God’s loves us as is and that we are His work of art.

Bonnie opens up with us the pain in her past, the struggle in her present with PTSD, and what God has been teaching her about rest in this journey. This book is beautiful. It is also painful. And it breathes grace.

I don’t want to share Bonnie’s story, you are just going to have to grab a copy and read it for yourself, but I can tell you that while my own beginnings are so very different, this book has been so healing.

Practically, this book is easy to read. She weaves her story through all the non-fiction truth and revelation that, for this girl who struggles with reading non-fiction but delights in stories, it is easy to want to keep reading (I even have to admit to skipping ahead to see how things turn out, because I totally cheat like that with fiction). It’s also hard to read because it demands that you look into your own heart and see the brokenness Christ is longing to make whole in you. The chapters are small and at the end of each chapter is a time for reflection. This book is already perfect for a small group study and is meant to be gone through slowly—praying, reflecting, talking to a friend after each chapter.                     

I thought I would leave you with one of my most re-read highlights from the book: “In graphic design, whitespace is a key element to the aesthetic quality of a composition. The more fine art a composition is, the more whitespace you will find. The more commercial the piece, the more text and images you’ll find crowded in. The purpose is no longer beauty. It is commercialization… Whitespace is extravagance… Whitespace says we are someone special. It says we are fine art in God’s eyes” (67-68 of Spiritual Whitespace).

And you dear friend? You are a piece of fine art, created in the image of God.

Rest.

You can grab your own copy of this book HERE.

You can find Bonnie Gray HERE in the middle of a 21 day series on Rest. Her blog is beautiful and a favorite of mine.

Since I loved this book so well, I really wanted the chance to give one away to you, dear reader. {Of course if you just can't wait, buy the book now, and, if you win, give the winning copy away.} To enter, just log in to the rafflecopter using facebook or your email address and follow the prompts. The winner will be selected at random using the handy dandy rafflecopter gadget. As a head’s up, I will be contacting the winner and asking for a mailing address to send the prize to. Of course this is not shared or used for any other purpose (and is discarded after the prize is sent).

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

(Disclaimer: I received a copy of this book in exchange for my review. The opinions here are entirely my own)

a Rafflecopter giveaway

In Which I Struggle With Anxiety and Find Rest

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Last year, my husband who knows me well could see me struggling and told me he didn’t want me to lead anything in ministry.

I knew he was right even though I didn’t really like it.

And then the opportunity to lead presented itself. Perhaps it was the desire to have a clearly defined place in my world that seemed flipped upside down. Perhaps after years of leading bible studies, and internships, and children’s ministries, I just missed doing the work of the ministry. Perhaps, I struggled with pride and in my deepest heart of hearts, no matter how right I might have known my husband to be, I wanted to prove him wrong.   

Whatever it was, I chose to take the position.

{And okay, I did sit down with my husband first. He listened to my heart, told me he didn’t think it was a good idea, but that if I really thought I was ready, he would support me.}

I was to be the home groups’ coordinator. I made a video announcement, I recruited hosts and facilitators, I had a plan and a vision, I shared my heart for it in front of the church.

One week before the launch date, I felt crippled beneath anxiety and panic. It was the final push before the start. And.I.could.not.do.it.

Anxiety is like this: Imagine you have someone actively hunting your life. You are on the run. You operate under a heightened sense of awareness, every sound, every change in the atmosphere, a sign you’ve been exposed. You struggle with sleep because it’s when you are most vulnerable to attack. And now imagine this isn’t true. There is no need to be ready to fight or flight at any given moment. And you know it, but your body doesn’t. And so, panic is just under your skin ready to erupt into a fit of heart-racing, rapid-breathing fight for your life. Sleep eludes you. Shame and embarrassment are your prizes. 

Exactly six days before the launch, with meetings to have, details to nail down, phone calls to make… I found myself smack dab in the middle of one of the worst battles with anxiety I have ever had. I think if I was car, I would have been a car on the side of the road, with my tires blown, fumes coming out from under the hood, my timing belt off, and my engine fallen out some 200 yards back. This was not a patch job: you know pray, ask some of your closest to pray and keep going. Oh. No.

I was a mess.

Confessing that I could not carry those small groups to completion was one of the hardest and most humbling things I have ever done. Sharing the reason why was even harder: I was that broken, the struggle was that deep, and this supposedly seasoned leader/Christian was barely treading water. I wish I had the foresight to know that I couldn’t do it (I wish I had trusted that my husband did have that God-given foresight.)

After I sent that email, heartfelt and broken, I waited for a response. A prayer. Someone to tell me I was okay… that it was okay.

But no one did.

The only way I knew anyone had received my email was that the secretary called asking for my notes. I sat for a month with silence. They could have been angry. They could have been praying for me. I didn’t know. I only had God and His Words to comfort me.

Looking back, I am grateful for the silence no matter how it hurt. I had this unhealthy need for approval, this fear of failure. I got this chance to hear God’s heart for me without the competition of a person’s approval. I found that He could love me even when I failed miserably, even when I deserved judgment. Truly there is one voice from Whom we need to hear, “You are okay.” Only one voice that truly satisfies that deep inner longing for approval. God—Our Father.

I found myself like that banged up guy on the side of the road (Luke 10:30-35), overlooked by those who should have cared, and taken in by Jesus himself. The Best Neighbor. He bandaged my wounds and let me stay and rest—to take all the time I needed (and still need) to be made whole.

Truth is, God had been asking me to rest for a while. But I didn’t want to because it meant facing pain and brokenness. It meant stopping, slowing down. It meant coming face to face with this sinking fear I have always had that maybe God doesn’t really love me. That maybe my worth was in what I did rather than who I am, and, if I stopped doing, no one would see me.

My approval-hunt had led me to squeeze out the very last bit I could offer. And when I had nothing left, I found He was more than enough. And that He loved me still and He loved me big.

Tomorrow, I’ll be back talking a little more about this rest journey and reviewing a beautiful book and rest resource. I like it so well, I really want the chance to give it away to one of you, dear readers. Say it with me: Giveaway!

{You can click on over HERE now to read the Finding Spiritual Whitespace review AND to ENTER the GIVEAWAY)

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers


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If You've Ever Felt Your Dreams Crush Against Disappointment (Part 2)

This is that continuation I promised from the last blog post I did. You know, two weeks later than planned. ;)

We were sitting outside the hospital cafeteria in the sunshine, the air uncommonly sticky for California. My husband and I were trying to keep busy, to do something besides think and feel. My eyes were swollen, evidence that I was not as collected or as calm as I might have looked sitting there skimming through my phone.

Just fifteen minutes prior, I watched my almost-three-year old get wheeled towards the operating room. And even though it was a minor outpatient procedure, I am not so sure any procedure feels like a minor amount of weight on a momma’s heart.  

It made me think of how when us kids would talk of leaving home or of grand global adventures, my mom would wrap us up in her arms and with both laughter and sadness in her eyes she would declare, “Oh, no. I don’t think I can let you do that. My apron strings just don’t reach that far.”

The gorilla-sized tears and the ache in my stomach seemed to indicate that my apron strings didn’t reach operating rooms. The nurse had told me not to worry, that Jed was in good hands. But the truth is, I wanted Jed in my hands.

While we were sitting, waiting, Mike was listening to an interview of Jim Caviezel on accepting the role of Jesus in the Passion of the Christ. I wasn’t paying much attention. I may have even thought to myself what a random thing to listen to at this exact moment. Wasn’t that a decade ago?

But then Jim Caviezel said something that settled on my ears and demanded my attention.

“We all want resurrection; nobody wants suffering.”

Five minutes later, my husband got a call from the doctor. He asked for us to return to the room.

Somehow Mike instinctively knew to go without me. He insisted that I stay and that he would call me if I was needed. I sat attempting to write about Caviezel’s truth nugget, but really all I could think about was Jed.

Mike came back after the longest ten minutes. While prepping Jed for surgery, the doctor discovered something else that needed surgery… something that was more important and pressing than the original procedure for which we had scheduled Jed.

So, in total, my baby got three procedures done in one surgery. Three incisions, three bandages, three wounds from which to recover.

{In case you’ve been counting, that third one was a minor one that they asked if they could do when we first arrived, and another story altogether.}

I felt grateful that we had taken him in and that Jed was being spared from a much bigger problem later on all because of this doctor’s keen eye.

I wanted Jed better. But I didn’t want him to suffer.

But even my momma heart knew that I had to let him go, that the better meant the suffering.

Because it’s true: “We all want resurrection; [but] nobody wants suffering.”

I don’t fully understand suffering. I have a really long list of questions for God about suffering that begin with the word “Why.”

But Christ, he suffered. Lashings, beatings, thorns scraping skull, nails like railroad spikes into wrists and feet, and then he died. And when the stench of death would have just began to take him, when hope would have seemed lost, when resignation would have held Christ’s followers… Jesus resurrected.

Like the barley kernel at the back drop of the story of Ruth: cut down, trampled under the feet of donkeys, and crushed under stones, and just when the barley kernel might have felt like it’s purpose was done for, like it was crushed beyond recognition, the harvester threw it into the air and a beautiful usable kernel fell to the ground to be carried off to the mill for flour.

Because God plants beautiful purposes in chaffy human hearts.

It is through trials and pain and times that feel hopeless that separate the kernel of purpose from the human shell it lies in. And God doesn’t abandon us in our hardest times, he is waiting for that separation of chaff and dream, of human and spirit so that He can raise back up to life. Crushing and raising up are both important processes and equally dependent upon the other. Crushing seems cruel without the raising up; raising up is pointless without the crushing.

Perhaps, we would like to think that our holiness is wrapped up in substance of our ideals, our dreams. I remembered being a rosy-cheeked newlywed full of “holy” dreams, of two sharing the gospel together, of raising children, of a house that could be full of God’s love. But our holiness is something that comes about in the refining fire of when our reality and our dreams don’t match. Holiness is wrought in the struggle, in the surrender, in the telling God that I choose Him over all of it, even over my best-intentioned dreams. That I want Him and all of Him and there isn’t a thing here in this life that could possibly compare to the goodness of simply knowing Him. That He is God and I am woman and while I don’t understand His ways, surely I can choose to accept that I won’t comprehend them but that I can TRUST Him.

This is probably not the most fun material to read. The truth is, it’s not just suffering that proceeds resurrection; it’s death that proceeds resurrection. And this is hard. It’s hard to listen to, and it’s a thousand times harder to walk through. But I can say when you surrender, lay that dream on the altar, I do believe I can echo Paul with absolute certainty: God is exceedingly and abundantly able to do above and beyond all that you ask or think…. And that no human heart can conceive the things God has prepared for those who love Him. (Ephesian 3:20 & 1 Corinthians 2:9)

Amen.

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

If You've Ever Felt Your Dreams Crush Against Disappointment (Part 1)

I think it was hot. I sat on the porch swing watching my baby girl put two hands on the cement and one diaper butt into the air. She steadied herself in her newfound independence. One chunky-thighed leg in front of the other and she was wobble-walking towards me. 

Contentment was full in my heart. And then the phone rang.

I could hear it in Mike’s voice. Discouragement. Shame. “Amanda. I—um—I’ve been separated. I couldn’t pass the test.”

I can’t remember what I said. I probably offered some kind of encouragement, asked a few questions, told him we would get through it. I do remember what I did when I got off the phone. I wept.

Life had looked bright. A year prior my husband had lost his job and struggled to find steady work. And then he stumbled into law enforcement. He was one of seven chosen out of well over a hundred applicants to be put through police academy. He was paid, he had benefits, and he was doing well in his studies. It seemed like the pain of losing had found its purpose in this opportunity. Mike thought he had stumbled into his calling. And then, three weeks shy of graduation, he hit one too many cones on the emergency driving course. Just like that, he was out.

Before coming home, Mike drove himself to the men who had always encouraged him, always pointed him to God. There he heard these words: “Truth be told, Michael, I never saw you as a cop.”

Though those words were spoken as comfort, I think they crushed my husband.

I cried for Mike. For his dreams that felt lost. For how he must have felt like maybe he was less of a man for all the hard blows that seemed to keep him from a good job. I felt that deep hurt from so much hope dashed and that unshakable question word: Why? Why!? Oh God, Why?! I wept for how the future was so uncertain. I wept for the way our dreams of children and a home to raise them in seemed impossible.

Our dreams died that day.

A few years later, Mike was still talking about law enforcement. I told him to try one more time. I could sense the worry in him, worry that he would again fail. This time, he worked full-time while going to academy full-time. He was dad to two children, husband to this wife, full-time student and pest control expert. And somehow after over nine months of a crazy juggling act, he graduated at the top of his class. He received an award for perfect attendance. 

At the end of the ceremony, they read off one award--integrity befitting an officer--the recipient chosen by peers and instructors. When they said my husband’s name, I wept. Because there it was, what I always knew to be true, what Michael had doubted and questioned and struggled against-- yes, we see it, you are a man of character. You are fit to be a cop.

You’d think at some point it would have been smooth sailing, but sometimes our dreams are something we actively fight for, something we have to keep God’s promises stuck to… and we have to be crazy enough to believe He means what He promises, no matter the setbacks.

While Mike was in the hiring process, he was removed from his favorite department’s list for an integrity issue. He was discouraged, he wondered if he would ever realize this cop-dream, but instead of just letting it go and hoping another department would hire him, he challenged it. He submitted letters with his integrity award attached. He put on his nicest suit, pushed his tie to his neck, and met with the hiring captain. That captain gave him another chance.

If you read here you know, Mike's been working at that department for a year and a half. And, yep, it's the same department he worked at five years ago when his dreams felt crushed beyond hope.

I think of Ruth in the Bible. It's probably my favorite story.

Ruth—who must have dreamed of children, of a home full of love and of growing old with a husband—in one fell swoop, she loses her husband and everything she dreamed with him.

And then Ruth does something bold. Truth be told, I have no clue why she does it. She clings to this God she did not know and follows her mother-in-law back to Bethlehem… when she could have just started over. Perhaps, she knew she couldn’t go back, that you can never really go back, you can only move forward. Perhaps, she just wanted know this God--this God woven into the roots of her husband and his people.

Whatever the reason, Ruth arrives in Bethlehem—which means house of bread—as sickle met barley stalk. She goes to Boaz’s field to glean the grain dropped in the harvest, and there she finds favor. At Naomi’s encouragement, Ruth goes into the threshing floor on the night of the winnowing, when barley had been crushed and then raised into the air so chaff and kernel could separate. Ruth lay herself at the feet of Boaz.

Ruth—of crushed dreams—lying on the threshing floor.

And Boaz—he raises her up and promises to see her redeemed.

As I sit in a house that I never thought we could have and send my husband off to a job he never thought he could have, I marvel at this God we serve.

We serve a God who, when hope was all but lost, raised His Son from the dead. A God who saw Ruth and redeemed her brokenness. A God who lifted her up, breathed life into her long dead dreams, redeemed her long-passed husband’s name, and gave her a rich inheritance in Bethlehem.

God raises the dead to life.

The God who made the dormant seed to erupt from the dark confines of soil, knows how to resurrect dreams from disappointments. He can raise the dreams that seem impossible, the ones that maybe you are throwing your fist in the air crying at God over, the ones that sit in the pit of your stomach and leave a hole in your heart, the ones that make you ache.

He is the God of resurrection.

I don’t know what devastation you face. What dreams you are holding onto. What dreams have died. I am standing here heavy-hearted knowing there is someone who needs this message; knowing that as some of my dreams I dare not even commit to print lie waiting, I need this message too. I am reminding us that God is faithful. That sometimes dreams get crushed, but we serve a God who knows how to bring them back to life. I am standing here with you, brother or sister, praying for you, crazy enough to believe that God can and will redeem what seems lost.

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

I think*** I will be back tomorrow (or Monday) with a continuation of this post, because I have so much more to say on this. But truth be told, we've just moved and we’ve had another major change happen in our life unexpectedly, so I can’t promise. You will love me anyways, right? And maybe keep us in your prayers? Thanks, friends.

Also, is it okay to mention, that if you want to make sure you never miss a post, the best way to do that is to subscribe to this blog’s email list? It is only used to send you posts. I never share your email address and it is super easy to unsubscribe. Just click-->HERE.


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To the Momma of Little Ones

A few weeks ago, my son started stuttering. It came on sudden, so sudden I may have panicked and thought there was something seriously wrong and called the doctor. As it turns out, stutters are quite common at Jed’s age. It’s even common that they appear suddenly.  There is nothing wrong with my boy, it’s just a matter of his mind moving faster than his mouth can.

Here’s the thing about stutters. The best way to talk to my son is slow and clear (not obnoxiously slow, perhaps just slower this Californian tends to speak). The best way to deal with the stutter is to allow him to take his time to say what he wants to say, to complete his own thought himself. To hurry his words is to hurt him. To apply too much pressure to him to complete his words is to risk a lifetime of difficulty. To complete his thoughts for him is to stunt his growth.

Is it okay to admit that there are times when it takes everything in me to not rush him to the point of what he’s trying to say? Sometimes it’s hard to be slow, to stop and listen, and to listen well.

But the hurrying hurts. It pressures and it crushes. It binds up in fear. It lies and tells us accomplishments make us matter, make us enough. Hurry misses what is right in front of us. Hurry denies us the pleasure of the gifts of today. Hurry places greater value on the next thing rather than the now thing.

And that’s the thing about these small years, is it not?

The days are long and the work mundane. We do things like sit under children, like clean messes while another one is being made, like brave ten minutes of finger painting for a half-hour of clean up, like try to be healthy and take walks… while pushing a stroller, hollering at the one kid riding off down the street, and reminding the three year old to not pick someone else’s flowers or walk out in the street or to leave the roly-poly alone and to keep walking before sister gets too far ahead… (basically you move REALLY slowly through the neighborhood).

It’s slow work. It seems like small work.

I think it’s pretty normal to feel restless, to want to hurry it, hurry our kids through it, to feel like maybe you aren’t enough and maybe you need something else to show for who you are. Maybe it even feels like some of you is buried underneath the cheerio messes, the bottom-wiping, and the clothes-folding. Maybe you feel like your life is on hold and you wonder if it will ever move forward again.

I’ve mentioned this Indian proverb before: Children tie the feet of their mother.

And they do. And if you try to run through this season…try to do more than you are appointed to do in this season, you will feel yourself tearing against the taut rope of a momma’s and a child’s love, you will trip, you might even fall, and maybe even crush those little ones at your feet.

The best way to walk, and perhaps it’s the most unnatural way for a post-bra-burning western woman… Walk Slowly.

I think it’s important to recognize the season through which you are walking. I think it’s important to know that God works in seasons, and these small years… it is a season of seed planting.

You are doing the grueling work of tilling the hard ground of strong wills, of mine-mine-mine and me-me-me, and of temper-tantrums in public places.

You are planting the seeds of God’s love, self-worth, and hard-work. You are planting seeds in your kids that will one day bear fruit. And what you do now and how you do it… matters.

You are surrendering some of the dreams in your heart to the soil to lie dormant for a season, trusting that one day God will resurrect them from the ground.

I think it’s needful to be able to say with absolute certainty, “I am a mom” and to be able to stick a period at the end of the sentence. For those four words to reverberate inside of you with truth, that yes, there is absolutely more to you than being a mom, but being a mom is glorious and important and along with a handful of other things, what you are called to do.

I think there is something hard but freeing about walking slowly, realizing so many things can and will wait, and embracing with fullness this season.

We are moms. And right now, that’s enough.

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers


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One Good Simple Thing: Balsamic Honey Caramelized Onions

I have this cooking philosophy: sometimes all it takes is one special thing to take a basic meal to the next level.

These caramelized onions do that.

They are sweet, tangy, and have that caramelly flavor you can only get when you cook onion slices for a really long time.

And on that note: yes, these do take a long time. BUT (and this is a pretty great but) they are easy to make and you can make them in large batches to last you a few meals.

Honest moment: these are what I make for special occasions and a few random weeks when I am feeling especially fabulous; not every week to always have on hand. (Ain't nobody got time for that ;))

For instance: I might use them for my husband's birthday dinner of top loin steak served with parmesan mashed potatoes and crisp asparagus... all topped with this candy for your savory food. 

Or maybe I use them for that special get-my-girlfriends together lunch. I make these onions, grilled chicken, and pesto-mayo the night before. The day of I pull out a fresh loaf of dutch crust bread, cut it length-wise, spread it with pesto-mayo, put sliced chicken breast, thick tomatoes, fresh mozzarella, arugula, and these onions on top, and cut into sandwich sizes. On that day, I spend very little time in the kitchen busying about and a whole lot of time enjoying the company of my friends (and eating sandwiches that taste very "grown-up"... because that's all a mom really wants after a week of pb&j).

The rest of those kind of weeks, I use the remainder of the onions to top a "build your own pizza night," make tastier sandwiches for my husband's lunch, throw into some pasta primavera, or make an omelette with whatever's still in the fridge plus these onions.

Okay. So I know it's just one simple little thing, but one good simple thing can totally change a meal.

I like simple... and Lord knows, I like good food. 

Bon Appetite!

Balsamic Honey Carmelized Onions

(click here for a handy printable version)

Ingredients:

2 large yellow onions

2 TBS of olive oil

2 TSP of honey

1 TSP of balsamic vinegar

Directions:

1. Halve onions and cut in thin slices.
2. Heat skillet on medium/medium high heat. Add oil. Spread around pan. Add onions. Cover and cook, stirring occasionally until they are limp, 10-15 minutes. Uncover, reduce heat to medium-low/low and cook until onions are golden brown and sweet, 35-45 minutes, stirring frequently. 
3. Turn heat up to medium, drizzle honey into pan and cook for another 2 minutes. Add balsamic vinegar and cook for an additional minute.
4. These may be used immediately or stored in fridge for a week to add to various dishes.

By Grace,
Amanda Conquers