Friday, January 13, 2012

My Mothers Kitchen

Growing up, our home was captivating.  We lived on a farm in Massachusetts in a log cabin.  By December, there was often snow on the ground and our home was a wonderland.  The trees would become heavy-laden with snow and we would watch out of frosted windows for the red cardinal to show up bouncing from bough to bough.  The chickadees would fight over the suet hanging just beyond the window pane.  Our wood stove and fire place would pump all of their warmth and light into our home.   The wood stove was in the kitchen and my mother had positioned an old rocking chair right beside it.  How I loved to be in my mother’s kitchen.  I would rock there as she conjured up the most comforting of foods. 

We talked in the kitchen.  The subject did not always matter; Birds, bees, boys - whatever teenagers and their mothers talk about. Our lives were shared right there amidst pots, pans, and dishes.  She had an 8 track on top of the refrigerator and from October on, sounds of Christmas would fill the warm air.  Bing Crosby and Nat King Cole would croon to us while we talked.  Laughing, dancing, and singing were all part of our days.
Our lives were far from perfect.  Dad had left us, we were very poor, and school was a hard place for me to be.  From the outside it would seem like I was one of those kids who had no refuge and no place to be safe, but I had plenty.  My mother wrapped me in so much good, that many days I was insulated from much of the pain.

It is not surprising that right there on that kitchen floor, by the wood stove and rocker, with music flowing from the eight track singing, “give them all, give them all, give them all to Jesus, shattered dreams, wounded hearts, broken toys” that I asked Jesus to take my pain and help me, to come and live in my heart, and never leave me.  I knew at that moment, without anyone telling me, that the gates of heaven opened up for me and I would never be the same.

I was fortunate that God gave me a mother with such a gift for creating love and warmth.  She was the one to hold me and listen to me, to teach and guide me. In the following years, our conversations were often about God and living a Christian life.  She discipled me right there while cooking dinners and washing dishes.

In the years that followed, I strayed from the warmth and comfort of my mother’s kitchen and from the lessons she taught me there.  No matter what choices I made, she and the Lord were always there.  They never left me and always believed in me. In hind sight, I am grateful she took advantage of what little she had and the time available to make such a difference that has endured throughout my life. 
Proverbs 31:28   Her children rise up and call her blessed.

Posts from the Trailer Park ~ Catherine

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