I want to help. I really, really do. It makes my heart happy and I sing when I help. In fact, I'm probably at my happiest when I am helping. I've always seen myself as sort of a supporting beam. I look for ways to quietly slip into the structure and hold up it's arms; figuratively speaking, of course. The "structures' are people that cross my path. So, this time I have in Denver with my girl and her little just made family, I treasure as a time to mama in little ways that I think of.
Today, I was given the task of making lactation cookies. Don't ask. It's what they're called. No breast milk was harmed in the making of these delectables. However, I found myself in a kitchen I was not familiar with, using ingredients I'd never heard of with a Kitchen Aid mixer, a contraption that I've only used one other time. To top it off, I had to find the recipe on Pinterest. I don't navigate internet too terribly genius. Because I don't. That is why. So, to begin with, I clicked on the wrong recipe. I was thrilled to have clicked on anything. But it turned out to be the incorrect choice. So, I had to start over.
By the time it was over, I'd knocked the darling little hanging measuring cups off the wall, forgot to anchor down the Kitchen Aid bowl and.....well, that didn't go well, lathered myself in gluten free flour and worked myself into a sweaty fret trying to find everything I needed. I was frustrated and felt stupid. Seriously. I know how to cook. What is my problem? When my daughter came into the kitchen and noticed I'd made the wrong recipe I felt like I'd let her down. And it was then that I realized, I had been trying. Trying really hard to be good enough. To make them glad I had been invited to come stay with them. To help. Trying to be valuable.
I don't handle letting people down well. When I sense that I have, it wells up in me like a panic volcano. I start to tremor and look around for somewhere to run and hide. I want to help. I want to matter. I want to be good. And I didn't do it right. I wipe my hands on my dishrag and look around close to tears. And then feel stupid for the tears. Why can't I ever grow up in this one? I take a deep breath and start over, pulling out the Kitchen Aid of Fear and strange ingredients. I have to reach out and take grace for myself, whether it's offered or not. I have to run to Grace Himself and give Him all my failed cookies, my scary Kitchen Aids, my unfamiliar places and bumbling efforts. When I can hold that grace in my hands? Then I have some to give away.
In the end, we have two sets of cookies now. One lactating, one non lactating. The kitchen is clean and the evening lamps are glowing as the sun sets. It's my last night here. Helping. I've wrapped my head around being a Nana. I've slow danced with her and talked about cutting and cooking and pasting construction paper one day. And when she feels like she's let someone down. I'll hug her close and tell her I know exactly how she feels. And give her a cookie I made from Pinterest. I'll call it the Grace Cookie.
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