The newly divorce
Newly divorced and struggling to hang on to my small ramshackle home, I thought Denalyn’s former life as a missionary sounded idyllic compared to the struggle of raising three children on my own. I was trying to keep my sanity with a deadline to meet by eight o’clock the next morning and a dinner of fish sticks in the oven. I have to admit that while cooking dinner in my galley-style kitchen that evening, I felt a twinge—well, let’s call it a surge—of jealousy. I got cynical.
Isn’t it easy, I internalized, to create pleasant memories with your children when you have faithful husband who is a wonderful father and whose fabulous spiritual gifts purchased a home with a French country kitchen, including a fireplace, no less?
Lucado is a gracious and humble woman, thus it was completely apparent that my envious feelings arose from my own stuff. But I kept struggling with them. I brought to mind the radiant smile of Marta living in exile, producing a feast on one small hot plate. I brought to mind the twinkling eyes of the two Arab women living peacefully in a country rife with racial hostilities. I remembered the faces of Haitian mothers I had known who considered themselves fortunate to offer a banana or piece of sugarcane to their children for dinner.
Since speaking with Lucado, I’ve come full circle, and honestly, I bless her gorgeous kitchen—although it took a while for me to do so! Mine may not be French, but it’s definitely country. Okay, my kitchen is missing Euro ambiance, but it makes up for that in simple abundance (emphasis on simple). When I put on the music of Claude Debussy and serve French onion soup in bread bowls, you’d hardly miss the Provence tablecloth or the crackling fire.