Vitamin Simple

 

The dishes are simple. White, embossed with a trim of 1960’s-gold blooms. I’ve gazed at them countless times, picturing the face of a monkey in a particular oval-shaped blossom, or wondering why anyone would purchase such a horrid design. True, they’re Corelle Ware: Made to last. But even my own mother opted for a prettier pattern after saving enough cash to start fresh. The new set, purchased sometime during my young girlhood, replaced almost all of the monkey/flower design, and I imagine we both breathed a sigh of relief.

We’d seen plenty of that pattern, after all. My mother's mother owned the same set, probably purchased when the styling was new. But with her characteristic thrift, Grandma nurtured those dishes until her death at age 92. And even then, they sparkled with the same dazzling brilliance as the day she first bought them.

And I should know. They’re sitting in my cupboard right now. I nearly rejected Mom’s offer to share them during the downsizing that followed my Grandma’s death, but something made me pause in mid-“no.” They’re simple dishes, after all. Easy to match.

“Actually,” I heard myself say, “I’ll take them. Thanks, Mom. Thanks a lot.”

And so, the pattern has come home. I wonder if my daughter stares at those painted blooms. I wonder if she thinks I’ve lost my already-meager sense of style. But the wondering doesn’t detract from my joy. They’re simple dishes, after all. And they speak to much more than my style. In their pattern, their very presence, I find peace. My Grandma was not given to bold public statements, yet her life-pattern fills my mind like a song. I ponder again on her faith. Her service. Her own sense of peace.  Grandma accepted what God provided, and found her greatest joy in quietly serving her fellow humans. A simple ambition, one I’ve often overlooked as I’ve churned my way through this life. But an ambition with staying power, all the same. Staying power, and a wisdom that beckons me home.

Home. It’s what I feel when I remember her, now. A smiling woman, full of grace. Generous and kind to a fault, yet possessed of an inner strength that sometimes snapped through her dark eyes, giving me a delightful, shivery surprise. She could crack a baseball,And so, the familial pattern has come home. I wonder, now, if my daughter stares at those blooms. I wonder if she thinks I’ve lost my meager supply of good taste. But the wondering doesn’t detract from my joy. They’re simple dishes, after all. And they speak to much more than my style. They remind me that although Grandma never aspired to influence or power, there’s another pattern - her pattern of living – that impacts my life to this day. I remember her unwavering reliance on God, and I turn to Him, just the same. I recall her pleasure in simple acts of service, and discover fresh joy in my own humble tasks. Her contentment. Her humility. Her faithfulness. Her smile. These and countless other habits of grace fill my mind when I see her soup bowls, her salad plates.

They’re simple traits, really. Not invented by Grandma, yet a part of her, all the same. Like the blossoms that bordered her dishes, they beautified her life, and blessed mine. I miss the woman that lived them. And yet, each time I glance at her dishes, I’ll remember her – and the patterns of grace that she lived. They’re her greatest gift, really. A gift so striking in its simplicity that someday, twenty or more generations removed, others will still benefit from the offering.

And that is the simple truth.