Lots of people my age have treasured memories of their family kitchens. They recall learning to bake, cook, experiment, and create. They can almost smell apple pie cooling on the window sill.
These are not my memories.
My mother fed us well. I’m not complaining. My sister learned to make pies one summer and probably has fond memories of those days. I have fond memories of eating the pies.
But when I think of my mother’s kitchen, I see this galley at our little school. She worked there most of our growing up years. I’ve heard the kitchen is due for renovation, so I’m grateful to a friend who snapped this picture recently. It looks pretty much the same today as it did when I graduated in 1974. Minus the dishwashing machine. Our mama didn’t have anything that fancy. She scrubbed those pots and pans plus every tray, bowl, dish, knife, fork, and spoon by hand.
It isn’t the dishwashing I remember, either, although her stamina was amazing. What I remember most was the little window where we slid our tray to her. I can’t tell you how it felt to navigate the mysteries of high-school knowing I could see my mother for a minute at lunch. But not just me. More than two-hundred students in our K-12 school, plus teachers and support staff, peeked through the window to catch her smile. Our Mama had a kind word for every person every day.
If we complained about someone at school – teacher or student – she always gave us a reason to reconsider. Some little thing she had picked up about their life. “He probably had a rough childhood,” became something of a joke in our sibling group, but we knew she was usually right.
This post isn’t to brag about our mama, though. It is meant to encourage every parent who worries that leaving home to go to their job could be harmful to their children. It might be. You will have to ask God about that. But, it also might be that you are teaching your children something immensely valuable about serving people. Loving people. And always believing the best.
They will remember that.