Impossible

I just put dinner in the oven.

Tonight's entree is an Impossible Pie, featuring last night's leftover chicken, tossed with shredded cheddar, peas, and seasonings, along with the usual Impossible Pie stuff. It is hardly difficult to make, but even still, I dragged my feet into the kitchen, barely able to lift the mixing bowl onto the counter. I felt....sorry for myself.

I hate making dinner. It is true. I wish I did like it. "Loves to Cook" is way high up the on the huge list of  "Talents I Wish God Had Given Me".  But it isn't.

Today being one of "those days" with the Monkey (and to be honest, with myself), I had an even lower desire to prepare dinner than normal.

I love the "Anne of Green Gables" book series. I have read them often since my older brother and sister gave me a boxed set when I was around 13. After I became a mother, I remember reading about Anne's mothering days, despairing that I could not be as happy, creative, and free as she seemed to be (and yes, I am horribly influenced by what I read, hear, or see. So the "Be Careful Little Eyes What You See" song has great meaning to me). THEN I finally realized that Anne had house help! And I thought about it.

I think I, too, could be a much more fabulous mother if I had someone to clean my house, or care for my little one from time to time, or - cue the "Hallelujah Chorus" - make dinner for my family.

After that, I didn't feel so bad when I read about people with house help.

I digress...

Back to me feeling sorry for myself in the kitchen tonight, while I spent all of 15 minutes throwing dinner together.

Sure - I hate making dinner. But my family needs to eat. I have to make dinner. I have two choices each time I enter that kitchen:

1. To go about dinner prep with a heavy heart, doing my "duty", or
2. Offering it as a gift to my family, and through my family, to God. And this assumes the grumbling (even the inner griping) stops. 

Either way, dinner ends up on the table.
But my heart knows the difference.

"God sees only her love. She may exhaust herself , even kill herself with work, but unless her work is interwoven with love it is useless. God does not need her work. God will not ask (her) how many books she has read, how many miracles she has worked, but He will ask her if she has done her best, for the love of Him...". . Blessed Teresa of Calcutta, Love: A Fruit Always in Season, sixth Sunday after Pentecost, Wednesday.