On Saturday I ate the meal. From the first bite, my taste-buds turned tunnel vision to the warmth of buttery wine sauce glazing my pallet. There were risks involved. After all, one does not usually stew a pan-seared hen in tannin-rich Cabernet. And it seems awkward to finish the gravy with al-dente asparagus and baby spinach. The rosemary potatoes were a given, but there were no other root vegetables—no hint of onion or carrot.
When I took my first bite I knew why my cook had done what he had done. The individual parts made no sense to me, but when combined, the whole was near inspirational. More than once I smiled as I took my “last bite, I promise.”
Passion inspires us to take unconventional risks. Writers cash in months of work on a novel without guarantee of publication. Painters begin blank canvases, without knowing whether they will create the great masterpiece or the great mistake. And everyday, mothers pour life into their children without guarantee of seeing any reward.
Perhaps mothering is like the preparation of a good meal. The finest ingredients, sharpest knives, and proper knowledge of deglazing do not guaranty success. Along the way, you can taste bits of the finished produce and see that it is good, but it is impossible to know how good until the product is finished. And when, by time, effort, love, and grace the meal turns out just right, it is so good.
And on those days, the audience, even if small, smiles.
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What risks have you taken in mothering your children? Share them with us in the comments. Help us tweak our recipes. After all, this is a community project.
{ 5 comments… read them below or add one }
Wow. This is such a wonderful illustration. I’m not a momma yet, so I have no ‘tips’ to share, but I just wanted to say that I SO appreciate this. It is relevant (or at least, should be) in all areas of life. Thank you for challenging- even if you didn’t know you were.
have you ever made the decision to just sit back and give something to Jesus? it’s hard. . .right?
darn near impossible for me.
my human brain wants to live by the things that are seen. . .the things that are real. . .the things that are tangible. Jesus is spirit, faith, belief. i can touch Him like i can touch a shiny new quarter. . .i can not see Him like i can see the blink of a firefly. . .i can not hear Him like I can hear the siren of a firetruck. but by my faith. . .i know. . . He is there.
i know He is there, but I struggle. . .daily. . .to overcome my human nature. . .to touch Him. . .to see Him. . .to hear Him. i struggle to be less of me and more of Him.
three boys. . .my three sons. . .the plan of adopting a daughter. . .the loss of a miscarriage. . .children change things. prayer changes things. Jesus changes things.
what was once my life became their life. . .what was once all about me, became more about them. how can i do it? how do i do it? how can i raise my children to touch Jesus. . .to see Jesus. . .to hear Jesus? how to i raise them to flee from evil and run to the Savior?
three lives, entrusted to me. . .a less than perfect soul. . .a struggling soul. . .a sometimes far from obedient soul. . .
do i do it? do i take the RISK? do i give back to Jesus the treasures of my love affair? can i give back to Him, the gifts in which He miraciously entrusted to me? how can i let go?
i climb into my quiet place. . .i close my eyes. . .i open the ears of my heart. . .i know that if it were up to me and me alone, my children would turn out lost. slaves to the master of this earthly world. for i am not perfect. . .i am flawed. . .i am a dying weed in a garden of despair. . .
but i know a gardener. . .the Gardener. . .so i resolve to RISK it all. . .to give my children to the One, the only One that knows how to grow them into beauty. . .the One who created the garden. . .the One that created them. . .
and when i listen closely. . .quietly. . .obediently. . .i can hear Him whisper, “daughter. . .you tend, and weed, and water. . .watch the garden and give it what it needs. . .I will GROW the blooms that I have entrusted to your care. . .I will grow them into the most beautiful and perfect flowers. . .My flowers. . .and I will give them eternal life in the garden surrounding My streets of gold.”
and so i do. i garden daily. sometimes i forget to weed. . .sometimes i am lazy in my tending, but i know. . .without a shadow of doubt. . .that my blooms no longer belong to me. they were given back to the Gardener of life. . .the Gardener of my soul.
what risks do I take in mothering?
hmmm…I said yes…when the test said pregnant and my mind said - single, no hope of the father being involved, just quit - literally the day before I got pregnant -my job, bills piling up daily and HELLO pregnant…PREGNANT the doctors said I could never be pregnant - then never carry the child to term. and my heart and soul said ok YES YES YES despite all that, I’m doing it.
I take the risk that I’ll flub it up as my own mother did, that I will abuse as my own mother did (I haven’t and don’t ever plan to but its always a worry), that I’ll do wrong and be wrong and through it all hope my child loves me. or at least loves himself. I take the risk that he will be injured from living or die from some horrible accident and my life will be over as I know it because I cannot imagine living without him.
but now, all I want. is for him.
for him to grow up to love himself. to know he is great, he is smart, he is perfect…he is all he needs to be.
and that’s a risk everyday. because I’m the one that has to do or be or say to help him develop that. some days I’m sad…I didn’t do such a great job. I might have yelled. I was crabby…sometimes I feel like I spend a lot of time saying “momma is crabby” or “hurry up, we’re late” and worrying about bills and money or the lack thereof and all that comes with being a single parent with a child who was born almost 2 months early and the subsequent medical bills and worries. but always at the end of the day, he snuggles close and I whisper “I love you, you are beautiful, you are perfect just the way you are” and he says “hug” and gently pats my back and “kiss” and gives me little kisses all over my face and figure I must be doing something right and I end the day…knowing…
all the risks are worth it.
Just being a mother - a parent - is a risk in itself, I think. You pour your heart and soul into one who at first has not a thing to give and later gets to choose whether or not to give. And so, along the way, you realize it’s not at all about what this one entrusted to you has to give to you. It’s simply about giving your best advice, your best prayers, your best example of love. So that one day they will find it easy - simple even - to give themselves to the One who loves them most of all, and who makes the risk of mothering - parenting - a risk filled with reward and joy and hope. Not to negate the struggles, for there are many. And the questions. But once, when I was praying fervently for my child who, at twenty-one, is jaded and hurt and upset about whether to choose or not, He spoke and said to me, “As long as there is breath, there is hope.” Ultimately, the risk for me is surrendering my heart to trust and believe and to hope in those words.
Thank you all for your comments. Nina, thank you especially for sharing a bit of your story. You took an incredible risk and we appreciate your openness.