I'm a horrible disaster in the kitchen. But God seems to teach me things in this place of flour and butter. This morning, I tried my neighbor's delicious "popover" recipe. Their family loves popovers. They sprinkle lemon juice and powdered sugar atop the fluffy dish, and voila! Breakfast joy!
Yesterday, she scribbled the recipe for me on the back of my daughter's "She Had a Wonderful First Day in Kindergarten" card. You melt 2 tablespoons butter in an oven-safe skillet at 475 degrees. Meanwhile, you whisk together 1/2 cup milk, 1/2 cup flour, and 2 eggs. When the butter melts, you pour your batter in the skillet, close the over door, and wait exactly 12 minutes. No more, no less. And you cannot open the oven door. The popover won't puff up if you do.
I do everything according to the instructions. But when it comes to the "no peeking" part (and my oven has no glass window for seeing inside), I can hardly bear it. Was it working? Was my batter fluffing up?
12 minutes seems like an eternity. I'm dying. I have to peek. I have to make sure the process is working.
I bite my lip and wait. I actually count down with my timer--aloud--those last few seconds. Finally, I can open the oven door.
Why was it so hard to trust the process? Why did I have to bite my lip and restrain myself from needing proof that something good was actually happening inside that hot oven?
Oh me of little faith! As I enjoyed that delicious treat with my family, I remembered that I can trust the process even if I can't see what's happening. God works in secret within what often feels like an emotionally dark inferno. But if I trust the process, I'll turn into what I'm supposed to become.