Burnt Granola

That indescribable odor that picks up just where the fragrance of warm vanilla oats leaves off curled my nose hairs so violently this morning that it finally woke me up. I probably got downstairs in 2 seconds flat, less time than it takes me even when I hear a cat getting sick down in the living room. The heated mixture was out in another second and I stood grumbling my eyes at it in disbelief.

Such a small thing. Extra toasty granola, still edible, but little better than a chore to eat. They've always told us not to cry over spilled milk. And yet I found myself musing on my granola still by the time I left for work an hour or two later, and occasionally throughout the day. I oughtn't to say it is the waste that bothers me the most since I just told you that the granola was not burnt, merely much darker than I enjoy it. Neither am I distressed solely by the fact that my brother is returning from Bolivia in two days and that he deserves much better than conversation-deafening crunches for breakfast. Perhaps it is the dismay that such perfectly tasty ingredients--the right ones, the right proportions--can so miserably be turned into delightless fodder by the mistake of an extra hour's heat.

One good thing about chewing something for a while is that it eventually because soft enough to swallow. This morning I could hear only the noise of my burnt granola in my head-- the little pinch of a small failure-- but upon working on it most of the day, at least some extent of digestion occured.

As children we are taught that when we make mistakes we must suffer for them, and that, to a great extent, is true. If studies are neglected, 'A's do tend to be rather shy. If we take too much food, well, the polite thing is to finish it. If we stay up too late, we will be tired in the morning. We are trained to believe that we will "pay" if we do something wrong. Life has therefore taught us that if we do something foolish like burning our granola, we must suffer through it and eat it until the very final toasted oat breaks between our teeth and makes its way through our bodies.

And yet, what are we as humans but perfectly wholesome ingredients gone awry? We are chosen, created, prepared, grown, nourished, perfected, confirmed, strengthened--and then we go and burn our granola. We rebel. We backbite. We scorn. But here is where the life-long lessons of justice are spun until their limbs are splayed out and then set shaking and confused on the ground: God doesn't work like life. God is merciful. As we recognize that we have burnt our granola, He is the one in the bakery, turning on the oven to just the right temperature, lovingly making us a whole new batch with His warm hands, and showing us how to do better next time.