Like a beacon, the
bowl sits. Layered up to its brim with the ingredients that will produce potato
salad, it holds me enthralled for a moment. Entranced. This act, the routine of
following a family recipe learned by heart, seems suddenly alive. Even sacred.
The bowl’s deep
aroma draws me in, and I sigh. Later, I’ll serve this dish to my family, the
small flock that gathers each night for my meals. They’ll dig in, dine well,
and dash off. And tomorrow, we’ll do it all over again.
Inhaling once more,
I remember when serving my flock felt like slavery. Mixing, measuring, and meal
prep never came natural to me, after all. I felt born for bigger things.
Better. Tasks that engaged my imagination, inspired praise. My homemaking duties
hounded me, dulling my senses and threatening to steal my joy.
Only the passage
of time seemed to save me. Like a hospital patient, I endured this distasteful medicine,
and over the years, it grew familiar, if not sweet.
At the same time,
God gently prodded me towards maturity.
One day in a flash, I remembered that I’d chosen this path for a reason –
one that hadn’t included my own self-fulfillment.
I realized these serving years were a crucible, a gift not only to my family,
but to my character. To my soul. Humbled, I began to cherish the very acts I’d
once despised, embracing by increments the housework that had seemed unbearable
for years.
And so, in the
end, I found peace. Not the peace I’d once longed for, the peace of service without
sacrifice. But the peace of surrendering to a work larger much than me, knowing
that “me” no longer holds first place in my heart.
***
On the counter,
the bowl still sits, waiting. Its layers of ingredients need only my effort to
create something beautiful, something good. I take up my spoon and dig in, lifting,
turning, mixing in a routine familiar enough to perform with my eyes closed. I
consider it now, but there’s no need. I pray with my eyes open instead, giving
thanks while this meal takes shape: My offering. My service. My joy. And my praise.
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