The Butter Dish

You can tell a lot about a family by looking at their butter dish.

If it's crystal... no kids.

If it matches the plates... maybe one child, or at least a newborn.

If it is chipped and/or mis-matched or does not have the top... probably a few children.

If there is no butter dish, only a small dessert plate, and the contents are mashed beyond buttery recognition... you are at my house.

:)

My mother is a genius in the realm of butter dishes.

She has a metal one.

Completely lightweight, sporting a classy black handle, this butter dish is indestructible. And when I opened it that first evening, the butter was smooth and unblemished. How lovely! I couldn't wait to sink my knife in and spread it's goodness all over our french bread.

Fast forward a few days.

Madly dashing around the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on a meal for the masses, I opened the butter dish and my heart sank. Gone were the smooth edges, the firm corners, the anything-that-remotely-resembles a stick of butter. In it's place was a big messy mosh of creamy yellow. With lots of bagel bits mixed in. The culprit was clearly Sports Fan. He had been scarfing down bagels since we arrived, and his buttering skills had not improved a whit.

I sighed a Mama-sigh and wondered to myself if I would ever possess a smooth wedge of butter again.

I thought about my parents, and how they would once again have smooth butter, but -alas- not until after we leave.... and could I even salvage what was left and make it presentable for the table?

And then my Mom walked in the door, home from work. The grand kids surrounded her and hugged her, calling out to the various siblings and relatives...

Grandma's home! Grandma's home!

Little Love danced and twirled, Little Boo jumped up and down. And my Mom's tired face broke into a grin. She hugged me and surveyed the dinner plans while the kids regaled her with stories from the day. A young babe was placed into her arms for a fervent snuggle, and a glass of wine was poured...

I cleaned up the butter in the dish that night, adding half of another stick to make it look decent. But I didn't begrudge the messiness. It's another way these children thrust themselves into our lives. The mastery of spreading butter neatly will come another day. For now, they have a more important task.

They teach us to look beyond the mess and the noise. To wonder at the mundane and the beautiful. To notice their handiwork, even in the butter, and realize that you will miss these days. These days when even your butter dish tells the story of the crazy love and joy that is your life.

:)


~cross-posted to DFW Catholic.

First Day of Homeschooling... Nut House Style

Little Love(wielding a glowing lightsaber): Mo-o-om! Little Boo is NOT letting me have the force or a Pad-uu-wan!

Me(reeling from 3 levels of Math, Literature and History) : Huh?

Little Love: I am Darth Bader! I was Anakin, and he has the force, but she sliced me, and now I am DARTH. BADER!!

Little Boo: Mom. Does it make any sense, that she just turned to the Dark Side, and she already has a Paduwan? Does it?

Me (summoning my amazing intelligence) : Um. no. But Anakin does have the force.

Little Love: Ye-a-ah, Little Boooooooo.

Little Boo: OK. But you can't have a Paduwan yet.


Hmmmm.

Was this supposed to be a post about homeschooling?


:P

North of the Storm

We've had quite a week of Texas weather. Every day has brought clouds and a feeling of being acutely unsettled. Mornings would greet us with indecision, and the close humid air was suffocating.

Saturday evening I checked the weather and saw a huge line of storms moving along the southern border of our county. They were tracking due east. My children ran outside to dance and sway with the trees and they squealed at the distant thunder, knowing that we were safely out of reach.

I gathered up my keys and purse and headed out to buy some last minute birthday gifts for my Little Boo. The stores were north of my house, so I didn't need to worry about boots or rain gear. I took DH's little car, once again confident that the roads were not going to become flooded.

As I drove, facing the glorious blue sky and piercing sun, I was amazed at the contrast of my views. Out my windshield was the remnants of a typical Texas summer day... streaks of clouds with a tint of amber, the brilliant blue sky just beyond. In my rear view mirror, a muddy sky with gray and midnight blue, flashes of lightning, and grumblings of thunder were dotted by the headlights of those cars emerging from the storm.

I was caught somewhere in the middle.

To my left, the fingers of the storm were stretching, eager to bring the northern towns into it's wrath and fury. As I sped north, I could almost feel the struggle. The draw of the beautiful storm was fighting the serenity of sunset... and losing. There was security in that, and my shoulders could relax and enjoy the dichotomy.

There have been a few storms in my life these days. This summer has been filled with them. Luckily, though, I've managed to stay just out of reach of the main fury. There have been no direct strikes so to speak. But they have been just close enough to exude feelings of anxiety and even fear. I could smell the the storm just as those old Texas ranchers can catch a whiff of rain on a cloudless day and herd their cattle to safety.

The answer for me has been to flee. Flee to the comfort and safety of prayer and abandonment. Knowing that however this all turns out, I am ultimately not in control. There can be fear even in that knowledge, especially for someone as domineering as myself. The fingers of fear have clutched around my heart threatening to bring me under and pound me with their 'what ifs' and 'what might have beens.' And so the cycle of prayer and abandonment continues, until there is nothing left between me and He who steers the ship.

Between me and my North.



Cross-posted to DFW Catholic.