The Love of God
By Jane DeLaney
Often you hear that when you parent, you choose your battles. And after that, you choose which battles are going to be big and which ones are going to be small. And then with everything else, you just make your peace and simply lay it to rest. I have to say I've done a lot of the latter.
Take, for instance, the battle over manners. There are times when it seems my life-long goal is to get my son to eat with his mouth closed. If it weren't so unpleasant to watch, I would just say, "Never mind!" I've tried everything short of making him eat with his back turned to the whole family. But no hurry I guess. He's still young. I figure that by the time he proposes marriage to someone there won't be food still gaping from his mouth. And even if there is, I'll at least have no doubt the girl must really love him - that is if, Lord willing, she still says yes.
When I was about the same age as my son, I don't recall eating improperly, but my Mom decided (for some other reason I'm sure), to send me to charm school. I didn't know then to be insulted at the notion, so I dutifully went anyway.
When I arrived, there were only a few other sheepish girls in the class, each looking about as thrilled as I was not to be sitting in their tree house instead. The teacher looked like Betty Crocker with mint green eye shadow. And I only remember a few tips about sitting with your feet to the side, how to wear mascara two days in a row, and, yep, that about covers it. Needless to say, I was not charmed.
What my Mom didn't realize was that I had all the charm and grace I needed to observe at home. And no, it wasn't in Betty Crocker or Emily Post. It was in my very own Mom - a class act all her own. Her poise and dignity were to her like breathing. Even when no one was around, no guests watching, no onlooker to impress - she was always her same graceful self. And even though this charmed apple did not fall very close, I admire and strive to creep back towards those refined roots.
For me, keeping order and cleanliness in the midst of children and chaos without becoming a drill sergeant or neat freak can seem near impossible. It's easy in the flurry to quickly lose any shred of dignity you have left. So running a household with even a dab of elegance and beauty just does the soul some good.
In my Mom's scheme of things, she somehow kept the balance well. She had some routine and system in place, but not without flexibility. For instance, at dinnertime she gave us the choice to either help before or clean up afterwards. Of course, I would do anything to avoid cleaning up. To this day, if I never have to wash another dish it wouldn't be soon enough. I'm almost positive I read in the Bible that in heaven there will be no dish washing, nor laundry for that matter. It does say we will be feasting in heaven - so I'll be sure to show up to help beforehand if I have to. I've had lots of good practice.
Helping my Mom with dinner beforehand had its own little ritual. First, there was setting the table - a lost art nowadays. What is so hard about the fork on the left? Then boiling water until the whistle blew, pouring the water over tea bags in a tea pot, pouring the tea over ice, ice crushed from a recycled milk carton beaten against the back brick wall. And then finally, making a salad tossed with her own incredible oil & vinegar dressing she threw together like a science experiment every time.
Then there were other odd jobs. One was putting the ketchup on the table - no, not the ketchup bottle on the table - but ketchup in a small dish with a spoon on the table. This was one of those few inflexible rules she had - the "no-ketchup-mustard-or mayo-jars-on-the-table" rule. It somehow defied her dignity to do anything other than "spoon" your ketchup on to your burger.
I do recall complaining about this - especially when I lucked into post-dinner dishwashing. Another trait of my dear, frugal Mom - nothing gets thrown away - every baggie and milk carton rinsed and re-used, every piece of aluminum foil rinsed and reused until it disintegrates - and yes, every ounce of leftover ketchup spared and somehow scraped back into that maddening bottle. We just did it anyway - all a part of the dinner ordeal.
And dinner was just that - an ordeal. But what did that teach me? Do I put ketchup bowls on my table to this day? Do I rinse and recycle bags? No, but that's not really the point. Am I glad my Mom did? You better believe it! Those baggies and ketchup bottles taught me something charm school could never buy. Doing the little things were all her way of making dinner matter. And not just the dinner, or the eating, but the gathering of our family. Dinner was an ordeal, an event, occasion, the gathering of each day no matter what.
With every little attention to detail and deliberate effort, she was demonstrating without words that this time mattered, that we mattered. Giving this hour dignity and prominence gave our family esteem and pride. To her, we were worth the effort, the extra mile - just our family and nobody else. Laced in every dish prepared and portion on our plates, and yes, even the spooning of ketchup, was her affection and love for each one of us. No other driving force would deliver night after night the dinners we enjoyed together.
Yet I know, her driving force, the steady stream of love was truly the very love of God in her. What an awesome picture of what God already refers to us as a way He demonstrates His love. In Psalm 23 - the words often skimmed over . . .
"Thou preparest a table before me . . . my cup overflows . . . surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life and I will dwell in the House of the Lord forever."
For now, we only have a peek behind the curtain of what His elaborate banquet table offers - down to every detail, our very own place setting, each name card written in permanent ink - all because He loves us each.
He also says that one day "He will bring me to His banqueting table. His banner over me is love." He wants to draw us every day to enjoy the love He has for us.
In the same way, every time we were drawn to the table at home, it was so much more than just the taste of food, but another taste of the goodness and love of God - just a glimpse - even a small picture of something so vast and measureless, like a banner with no end stretching across the sky.
"The love of God is greater far than tongue or pen can ever tell. It goes beyond the highest star" as one author penned.
And he goes on …
"Could we with ink the ocean fill And were the skies of parchment made Were every stalk on earth a quill And every man a scribe by trade To write the love of God above Would drain the ocean dry Nor could the scroll contain the whole Though stretched from sky to sky."
There is no shred of doubt in me that there is such Love. Seen with my own eyes, written on the parchment of my own heart, received from the very hands of my Mom who lovingly served her family day after day. It's not the food or the ritual, it's the banner of the Love of God that arched over our table every night that will be the banner I hope to carry on, stretching from generation to generation, knowing no end.
It's a battle worth choosing. A banquet worth preparing. A reason for feasting. And the one Truth I hope to never lay to rest - surely, all the days of my life.
Copyright 2005. Jane DeLaney. All rights reserved.
By Jane DeLaney
Often you hear that when you parent, you choose your battles. And after that, you choose which battles are going to be big and which ones are going to be small. And then with everything else, you just make your peace and simply lay it to rest. I have to say I've done a lot of the latter.
Take, for instance, the battle over manners. There are times when it seems my life-long goal is to get my son to eat with his mouth closed. If it weren't so unpleasant to watch, I would just say, "Never mind!" I've tried everything short of making him eat with his back turned to the whole family. But no hurry I guess. He's still young. I figure that by the time he proposes marriage to someone there won't be food still gaping from his mouth. And even if there is, I'll at least have no doubt the girl must really love him - that is if, Lord willing, she still says yes.
When I was about the same age as my son, I don't recall eating improperly, but my Mom decided (for some other reason I'm sure), to send me to charm school. I didn't know then to be insulted at the notion, so I dutifully went anyway.
When I arrived, there were only a few other sheepish girls in the class, each looking about as thrilled as I was not to be sitting in their tree house instead. The teacher looked like Betty Crocker with mint green eye shadow. And I only remember a few tips about sitting with your feet to the side, how to wear mascara two days in a row, and, yep, that about covers it. Needless to say, I was not charmed.
What my Mom didn't realize was that I had all the charm and grace I needed to observe at home. And no, it wasn't in Betty Crocker or Emily Post. It was in my very own Mom - a class act all her own. Her poise and dignity were to her like breathing. Even when no one was around, no guests watching, no onlooker to impress - she was always her same graceful self. And even though this charmed apple did not fall very close, I admire and strive to creep back towards those refined roots.
For me, keeping order and cleanliness in the midst of children and chaos without becoming a drill sergeant or neat freak can seem near impossible. It's easy in the flurry to quickly lose any shred of dignity you have left. So running a household with even a dab of elegance and beauty just does the soul some good.
In my Mom's scheme of things, she somehow kept the balance well. She had some routine and system in place, but not without flexibility. For instance, at dinnertime she gave us the choice to either help before or clean up afterwards. Of course, I would do anything to avoid cleaning up. To this day, if I never have to wash another dish it wouldn't be soon enough. I'm almost positive I read in the Bible that in heaven there will be no dish washing, nor laundry for that matter. It does say we will be feasting in heaven - so I'll be sure to show up to help beforehand if I have to. I've had lots of good practice.
Helping my Mom with dinner beforehand had its own little ritual. First, there was setting the table - a lost art nowadays. What is so hard about the fork on the left? Then boiling water until the whistle blew, pouring the water over tea bags in a tea pot, pouring the tea over ice, ice crushed from a recycled milk carton beaten against the back brick wall. And then finally, making a salad tossed with her own incredible oil & vinegar dressing she threw together like a science experiment every time.
Then there were other odd jobs. One was putting the ketchup on the table - no, not the ketchup bottle on the table - but ketchup in a small dish with a spoon on the table. This was one of those few inflexible rules she had - the "no-ketchup-mustard-or mayo-jars-on-the-table" rule. It somehow defied her dignity to do anything other than "spoon" your ketchup on to your burger.
I do recall complaining about this - especially when I lucked into post-dinner dishwashing. Another trait of my dear, frugal Mom - nothing gets thrown away - every baggie and milk carton rinsed and re-used, every piece of aluminum foil rinsed and reused until it disintegrates - and yes, every ounce of leftover ketchup spared and somehow scraped back into that maddening bottle. We just did it anyway - all a part of the dinner ordeal.
And dinner was just that - an ordeal. But what did that teach me? Do I put ketchup bowls on my table to this day? Do I rinse and recycle bags? No, but that's not really the point. Am I glad my Mom did? You better believe it! Those baggies and ketchup bottles taught me something charm school could never buy. Doing the little things were all her way of making dinner matter. And not just the dinner, or the eating, but the gathering of our family. Dinner was an ordeal, an event, occasion, the gathering of each day no matter what.
With every little attention to detail and deliberate effort, she was demonstrating without words that this time mattered, that we mattered. Giving this hour dignity and prominence gave our family esteem and pride. To her, we were worth the effort, the extra mile - just our family and nobody else. Laced in every dish prepared and portion on our plates, and yes, even the spooning of ketchup, was her affection and love for each one of us. No other driving force would deliver night after night the dinners we enjoyed together.
Yet I know, her driving force, the steady stream of love was truly the very love of God in her. What an awesome picture of what God already refers to us as a way He demonstrates His love. In Psalm 23 - the words often skimmed over . . .
"Thou preparest a table before me . . . my cup overflows . . . surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life and I will dwell in the House of the Lord forever."
For now, we only have a peek behind the curtain of what His elaborate banquet table offers - down to every detail, our very own place setting, each name card written in permanent ink - all because He loves us each.
He also says that one day "He will bring me to His banqueting table. His banner over me is love." He wants to draw us every day to enjoy the love He has for us.
In the same way, every time we were drawn to the table at home, it was so much more than just the taste of food, but another taste of the goodness and love of God - just a glimpse - even a small picture of something so vast and measureless, like a banner with no end stretching across the sky.
"The love of God is greater far than tongue or pen can ever tell. It goes beyond the highest star" as one author penned.
And he goes on …
"Could we with ink the ocean fill And were the skies of parchment made Were every stalk on earth a quill And every man a scribe by trade To write the love of God above Would drain the ocean dry Nor could the scroll contain the whole Though stretched from sky to sky."
There is no shred of doubt in me that there is such Love. Seen with my own eyes, written on the parchment of my own heart, received from the very hands of my Mom who lovingly served her family day after day. It's not the food or the ritual, it's the banner of the Love of God that arched over our table every night that will be the banner I hope to carry on, stretching from generation to generation, knowing no end.
It's a battle worth choosing. A banquet worth preparing. A reason for feasting. And the one Truth I hope to never lay to rest - surely, all the days of my life.
Copyright 2005. Jane DeLaney. All rights reserved.