These winter days are growing longer, and in earnest hope for the spring - thanks to recent outrageously sunny mid-winter 60-degree weather here in Chicago - I finally realized my long-time dream of making homemade granola bars (recipe found here). A shining, honey-and-brown-sugar kind of moment in what has been, at times, a dreary and bleak and long winter.
But as I was toasting and mixing and baking and slicing these delicious morsels of goodness last Saturday afternoon, things seemingly lightened. Andrew was steadily working on his genogram project for school - an endeavor proving to be a test of his patience and maturity - as he plunges into and sorts through the makings of family. And I, having just completed my midterms, was enjoying the chance to role up my sleeves, get in the kitchen, and make something happen.
And happen it did! We celebrated the granola bars and the weather with a much deserved break.
We headed down the street to Old Town - a quaint little neighborhood a few blocks to the south of us and just enjoyed meandering in and out of shops, finally winding up at the lake shore where the ice and snow had forgivingly melted, revealing something fresh and new and ready to be discovered. Stark blue water against a sky that reveled in comparison to the manmade empire opposite it. I breathed it in and thanked my Creator for a new revelation, a fresh reminder that meaning can be found, that true beauty is still relevant.
Thank goodness for homemade granola...