The Soup Pot and the Scale

Finding Grace in Ordinary Days

Today was supposed to be a writing day.

I had done all the right things. I exercised gently this morning, drank my water and tea, ate a protein-filled breakfast, and settled into the rhythm I have been trying so carefully to build. The children and I had started the day well with Bible study before they moved into their schoolwork.

But while I sat down to work on Chapter 13 of my manuscript, my body kept interrupting me. The words were not flowing, so I decided a shower might refresh me. I tried not to cry after stepping on the scales in the bathroom, but the tears fell anyway. I also realized that I was too tired to even enjoy a gentle shower. Sometimes an autoimmune condition dictates a change of plans.

I am learning to listen to my body as I grieve the old Brooke.

Normally, I would have joined my weekly Zoom call with fellow authors, but I knew I needed to accept the slower routine my body was asking for.

Thirty minutes of seated refreshment was needed.

About that time, my oldest daughter called with a request. She has been able to employ my fourteen-year-old son, or “Bruh” as he calls others these days, to help with her growing business. She wanted to know if he could come early to learn how to restock inventory at one of her retailers.

I rested awhile, then threw my hair into a ponytail, slipped on comfy tennis shoes, added lipstick, and headed out the door. I am that kind of small-town Southern woman. “Put on some lipstick and brush the lint off the back of your pants,” my mother used to say before sending me on an errand. Old habits die hard, and honestly, it still makes me feel a little more put together.

After dropping off Aiden, I came back home and made an easy lunch. I have learned to prep things ahead, especially now that I have such good helpers on the weekends. I pulled out a bag of mixed greens and opened a can of sardines. Gotta have those omegas for the battle going on inside my body. I squeezed fresh lemon all over them because the acidity helps soften the overpowering fishy taste. I added a handful of almond flour crackers, some green grapes, and my ever-present 40-ounce water bottle.

Lunch with Cierra gave me renewed energy.

She made a big salad while we enjoyed some one-on-one time together. Children love to be the “only” sometimes. We worked on math afterward and had some big victories learning the distributive property of multiplication.

Later in the afternoon, my friend and mentor texted us a darling video of a tiny fawn born near the wood line behind her home. As we talked on the phone, the little baby deer slowly made its way right up to her porch. The mother had not returned since the night before, and years ago my friend had helped rescue another fawn in much the same way.

The children and I watched in amazement as she gently reached out and stroked the timid baby on the head. She was eventually able to guide the fawn back toward the nesting area. The tenderness of that moment felt like a gift from the Lord in the middle of a heavy season.

I replied to friends on Marco Polo and received a call from the nursing care facility where my mother now resides. We exchanged medical information that I was able to pass along to my younger brother and sister.

This is much of the life of the sandwich years: caring for the generation before me while still caring for the generation after me.

And one of the biggest things I am learning is this:

If I do not care for myself, I cannot care well for the people I love.

As evening approached, I made sure everything was ready for dinner: Mediterranean power bowls. Because of days like today, when MS fatigue hits hard, I try to prepare ahead when I have the strength. Burwell grilled chicken breasts this weekend, and we already had food prepped in the refrigerator. The vegetables were chopped. Hummus was ready. All I needed to do was warm the noodles and set everything out before the family returned home from karate.

As I worked in the kitchen, I thought about how well dinner had gone the night before. We had made lemon chicken soup together as a family. I chopped onions and carrots while Aiden minced garlic and sautéed everything beside me. Burwell squeezed fresh lemons and prepared the rice cooker. Cierra added the chicken broth and meat to the pot, then did her favorite job of all, stirring the soup.

We buttered bread, sprinkled it with garlic seasoning, and toasted it in the oven. Everyone added rice to their bowl according to taste. The fresh lemon gave the broth just the right brightness.

The meal was delicious.

Everybody worked together.

The family was happy.

And I was not mentally or physically drained afterward.

Years ago, I could have managed all of that by myself without much thought. But sometimes life causes us to make changes we never anticipated.

And yet, there is beauty in the change.

There is beauty in children learning responsibility.

Beauty in shared burdens.

Beauty in slower pacing.

Beauty in soup simmering on the stove while conversations unfold around the kitchen island.

Lately, I have also realized how important it is to preserve emotional capacity because there is so much grief surrounding us.

Family members are battling cancer.

Friends from church are also battling cancer.

People we love are carrying heavy diagnoses, losses, fears, and uncertainties.

As a pastor’s wife, I want to care well for them. I want to pray faithfully and carry these burdens before the Lord.

But I am learning that I cannot pour from a place of constant depletion. The family sharing the load today gave me the emotional and physical margin to care for others well.

Life is layered grief, but it is also layered grace.

And the magnificent thing is that God keeps weaving both together.

“My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.”

— Psalm 74:26

Prayer

Dear Heavenly Father,

Thank You, Lord, that though I may be weak, You are strong. Thank You for Your provision. Thank You for the wisdom to slow down when I need to rest, and thank You for Your grace when I feel that I have missed the mark.

Lord, sometimes I realize I was aiming in the wrong direction while You had something else in mind. Help me to be faithful with what You have given me, and help me to steward well all that You have entrusted to my care.

Thank You for Your grace, and thank You for the moments of healing You so kindly grant.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.