Day 29: Tare the Scale: Story of Mercy & Cookies
Grace is truly scandalous and often I want there to be more justice. Woe is me little child, all too eager to dish out discipline and correction. Then, with a swat across my body, I'm undone.
Pulling out the kitchen scale to bake. I place the mixing bowl atop and tare it. Zero, not positive, not negative.
With the birth of Caprice, we've seen more unrest, more unraveling, more of everything. Meltdowns to full scale eruptions and gifts undeserved are the last thing I want to dole out. To say "I delight in you" when I don't feel it. To say "I believe" when I don't know it. To cry out when you are at the end and you know God is taring it.
Watching Top Chef and seeing how they have a surprise challenge to bake a dessert is a sight to behold as the fear spills from their eyes. A side interview from a contestant, "Baking is such a science. You have to use formulas & precision. I'm not a baker." My spontaneous side loves cooking for that matter--no formulas but let loose creativity. The structured side of me needs baking. Measuring spoon by spoon until it reaches exactly 12 ounces of almond flour. I know I can get the same results every time. It's reliable.
Wanting a formula, a pattern to do this new life. I need you to tare it, but how? I need real people, real help. I don't even know how to create from scratch in the kitchen. I'm left with an empty ball, completely depleted finding a recipe that will work. Nothing does. But, when a conversation feels one sided...it's really not.
You see, there I was in my car on one drizzle spilled Sunday. You know the one, where it feels like the rain pouring on the windshield is reflective of the crying soul inside your very being. Ben told me to leave for a couple hours, in order to find refreshment. Caprice was nine weeks old that day. I was at the end of me. Driving to find a place to write, or read, but nothing sounded appealing.
It would take me a whole day to unwind to even find a clean slate of creative gardens. I didn't have the time, my baby would need to nurse again. Wipers ran across the windshield, while my sleeve mimicked as I wiped my eyes. "No, you are not going to spend your time crying," I thought. But, you know when you even slightly open the tear gates, the floods pour.
My stomach ached for the umpteenth day in a row, my body felt achy like it was coming down with a flu and my hypochondriac postpartum looney thoughts told me I was certainly dying. I cried out, "How? How can I do this? I need a physical person. Someone who can actually help me. I am at the end of myself. I don't even know how to cook or clean. I don't know where to begin Jesus. Where are those wiser older women for this young woman, me?"
The next day, Monday, I received a call from a lady I know just barely. What I know of her is that she's amazing and to think otherwise is like hating Mary Poppins. "Hi Kamille, I was reading some of your posts and felt like I needed to call you. I feel strongly that God wants me to help you," she said putting herself out there. I'm undone. I'm a puddle of sweet mercy.
"Well, me oh my!" I quietly reply
He removed the bowl of almond flour, baking soda, & salt. Tare the scale while I wasn't looking. Lining up the chocolate to chop through into chunks. I look down to see the number '0.' He is listening. He pulls out the bench scraper to help with the chocolate. He cracks the eggs, holds my hand guiding me how to stir again. We open the homemade bourbon vanilla and smell it deeply. My stomach salivates for the first time in a while.
That call on that Monday morning taught me that I am being listened to. He is listening to me. Why me? Why should I get an answer in the form of real life help?
Baking chocolate chip cookies with Tay. Watching V and Tay delight in them brings me immense joy deep within my core, I want them to know tender mercy as my friend would call it. Grace & tender mercy is nothing on my part. He simply tares the scale to show me, "It is done," for I am undone.