For All the King's Daughters

  The past few years we've settled into a Mother's day tradition of having a small work frolic at my mother's house. We get her backyard set up for summer, bringing lawn furniture out of the shed. The Mister fixes any handyman tasks that need to be done. In return, she cooks the main dish for a picnic meal and it's a great day. I love this day of giving. My mother gives me the greatest gift all year long when I get to see her be a loving grandmother to our Little Mister and care for him him with all of her heart. It is truly the best thing she has ever given me. 

Better than all the help she gave me as I put myself through college.

Better than the time she wired me money because I got stranded in Eastern Europe. (Long story. Not my fault. Except for the part where I went there.)

Better than the help she gave me when I had to put myself through college AGAIN.

You get the idea. It's all of those things, plus more. What could be better than being thought of as loving?

 Little Mister's school holds an annual Mother's Day tea. This year I was presented with this fascinating fact sheet about myself! The teacher said it only took two days to get these insightful answers out of my son, during which time he consistently claimed that while he is at school I "light gummy bears on fire." I shouldn't have to say that this has never happened. Also, note that I am 7 years old. SO much younger and more spry than the mom sitting next to me who was 9 years old. It was also funny to find out that he doesn't know my real name. 

  I have a confession about that roast chicken he likes so much. It may or may not be mine. About twice a month I have a day where a whole lot of activities converge simultaneously in the span of an hour and I need help with putting a meal on the table. I sometimes hire a rotisserie chicken. I do it out of love, because I love staying sane. That pizza is mine, though.

  I've been calling this season The Great Rains. Dreary days that never stop and come in alternating sheets and droplets. Every day is a good day for soup, and every sale a mud sale. We must be on day eighty-something of it. I scrape the mud from the floor twice a week. A love of clean floors is my curse and I would not wish it on anyone.  It has made things feel mundane and rote, which reminds me of something thoughtful that I read recently: Everyone wants to change the world but no one wants to do the dishes.

And that ye study to be quiet, and to do your own business, and to work with your own hands, as we commanded you; (1 Thessalonians 4:11)

  That was a reminder to me that our identity isn't sown from scraps of achievements or the accolades of man, but from a loving and powerful God who holds a much different standard of what constitutes greatness. It wouldn't hurt us while, in the middle of scrubbing the tub or chopping vegetables in the kitchen, to stop and yell out "I am the daughter of a King!" to remind ourselves of a greater truth. Go ahead, I dare you.

  Even if we can't get a homemade roasted chicken on the table every time. Even if we can't get every errand done, every nose wiped, every weed pulled.

  It's enough to make a mean pizza, with love, and then wash the dishes. For what's done in love unseen is still done in love. 

 This is my garden veggie pizza made with homemade basil pesto for those years I grow it in our garden. Recently I found that Aldi is selling pesto quite cheaply, so it might be false economy for me to keep making and freezing my own. Anyway, here is the assembly:

Rub the crust with crushed garlic. Discard 
garlic.

Spread crust with basil pesto.
Top with your favorite cheese.
Add thin slices of tomatoes, green peppers, 
and mushrooms. I enjoy red onion, too. 
Also, spinach. 
Sprinkle on your pizza seasoning. 
Bake at 450 for 10-15 minutes.



Now them that are such we command and exhort by our Lord Jesus Christ, that with quietness they work, and eat their own bread. 
2 Thessalonians 3:12