Measure of Success

Isn’t it funny how the alarm goes off and the day begins without knowledge of circumstances that will reveal themselves. We reflect on the previous days for clues about how events and schedules were handled, and even make predictions about the present day, but we can only guess.

I arose from bed with a fresh attitude, determined to live, breathe, and be an example of God’s love today. Hannah was already up when I knocked on her door after getting ready myself. I count these as blessings when my daughter picks out her own coordinating outfits and has good hair, two less battles to face each day.

She is an artist in her own room. I hear drawers opening and closing, the closet doors sliding open and shut, and her running dialogue with her imaginary friends and family upbeat and expressive all the while. The result is usually successful by both of our standards.

Today was different. Hannah opened her door to reveal three layers of clothing draped on her body. The pants, shirt, dress, and jacket had nothing to do with each other in color, pattern, or layering effect besides sharing the space on her living-breathing frame. My suggestion to change was shut down immediately, so I opted for a spontaneous back-up plan.

“Will you make breakfast this morning?” I asked. The combination of independence and helpfulness compliments like bread and butter. We made plans for her early morning cooking adventure as we walked down the stairs to the kitchen and saw the single, pink rose in the tiny vase on the island counter.

Since God had created this delicate rose with its heavenly scent, how much more does he care about us...his creation, his occasional screw-ups, his hard-working people who try to keep it all together, sometimes succeeding, and sometimes failing? I breathed in the rose feeling thankful for fresh starts on this first week of school.

We had thirty minutes to make breakfast happen. I placed three eggs on the counter by the sink next to her bowl and towel. I thought, “This isn’t half-bad,” as she tapped the egg on the side of the sink and proceeded to squish the egg into the bowl. We had practiced countless times, hand-over-hand, cracking together, but today I was letting go.

I made myself busy with her juice and additives, glancing over to say, “Great job on that one...We just need two more.”
“I...I ...can’t!” she stammered, until the inevitable plop of the egg into the bowl convinced her otherwise.
“I did it!” she exclaimed, wiping her hands and grabbing another egg.

Sure, there were a few chunks of shell in the mix, but those were fished out while she washed her hands in the sink. She buttered the cinnamon-raisin bagel half while I cooked the scrambled eggs with a splash of milk and a sprinkling of Cheddar cheese.

We portioned out the meal for three, two for now, and one who would eat on the drive to school, and sat down together. Hannah didn’t settle for my sincere blessing of, “Thank you, God, for this meal.”

She took my hand in hers and said, “No, me, mom,” and proceeded.
“Thank you, dear Lord, for my mom. She is so special, and she is so p-proud of me. Pray for my Devon, my best sister, who I made breakfast for. Pray for Dad, Jeff, on his trip. Pray for Jerad, my b-best big buddy, and brother.”

Then, I chimed in, “And pray for Hannah, who teaches us so much about love every day. Thank you for Hannah, who helps us to stretch and grow into better people. Bless her, and protect her, dear Lord. Amen.”

With minutes to spare for the rest of the morning routine, we left the rinsed dishes in the sink and ran upstairs. I flew open her closet door, grabbed a dress, and gave her two choices of leggings. She dressed while I served up new bubblegum flavored toothpaste on her toothbrush. The bathroom routine, socks and shoes, check...check...check, and we were out the door.

We raced back downstairs, grabbed the lunches off of the counter and I stole three seconds to close my eyes and breathe in the rose. The measure of success was so high on our charts before the school day even began!

The vision of the cracked egg, the fear of committing to something unknown, where the outcome could be messy, is something we face each day. It is our job to seek God’s help, and to trust that we are in his hands. Our lives are the blossoms he created. The outcome is so delicately revealed in the choices we make each day.