lesson

THE SUDS OF GRACE

/ jessicaivaska / 6 Comments

Our kitchen sink has a built-in soap dispenser. While I’m sure you could fill it with hand soap, we use dish soap. That way we have easy access for all the things we handwash, like sharp knives, pots, pans, and our favorite mugs. 

The dispenser works great, except when it comes time to refill it, which I did today. I often ask Erik to do this little task — having studied biology and chemistry in college, he knows how to pour slowly, with steady hands. But he was busy and I figured if I was careful, I’d be fine. 

Within seconds of starting to squeeze the soap out of the bottle and into the dispenser I decided it was taking too long. So, to speed things along I unscrewed the flip-top cap and set it aside. Now we were talking! Soap steadily streamed from the bottle into the neck of the dispenser. Not one drip escaped. Feeling smug, I tipped the bottle a little more, ignoring the fact that because the sink was solid chrome, I couldn’t see how full the reservoir was getting. 

Convincing myself that there would be some sort of miraculous sign from heaven when it was time for me to stop pouring, I gently squeezed the side of the bottle and kept watching. 

But there was no sign. 
Not even a tiny bubble telling me the dispenser was almost full.
Then it was too late. 

The blue soap started oozing over the neck of the dispenser and within seconds had puddled on the top of the sink and started running down the sides. 

Dang it. And here I thought I was doing such a great job. Oh well, it’s just dish soap. It should be easy to clean up, right? 

Do you see where this is going? 

Water + liquid soap = suds. And because we buy the concentrated soap, a little goes a long way. Within a few seconds of turning on the faucet, my soap volcano erupted into a mass of suds. The more I rinsed, the more it grew. 

Looking down at the mountain of tiny bubbles, I was transported back to middle school on a night when it was my turn to do the dishes. I was alone in the kitchen. My parents had gone out for a few hours. My older sister was probably watching TV or hiding in her room. 

As I slid the last plate the dishwasher, I thought of a commercial I’d seen recently. It was for a brand-new (at the time) product: gel dishwasher detergent. The commercial made this new innovation seem cleaner and simpler to use than the powdered stuff in the green box my family always bought. So, thinking I was being clever, I reached under the kitchen sink, grabbed the liquid dish soap, filled the triangle dispenser, closed the door, hit start, and left the kitchen. 

About five minutes later I wanted something to drink, so went back in and found a river of tiny bubbles pouring out of the dishwasher. I hollered for my sister, who came in and said something equivalent to, “You’re gonna be in big trouble.” 
I grabbed the nearest dish towel and started to frantically wipe at the explosion of bubbles escaping through the sides of the dishwasher door. It was no use. A waterfall of suds kept pouring out. 

My pulse pounded in my ears. 
What had I done? 
Could I get it cleaned up in time?

Nope. Mid-clean up, my parents came back home. 

“I’m so sorry,” I said and explained that I thought I could use liquid soap in the dishwasher because of the commercials.
My mom grabbed some rags and larger towels, got onto her knees, and started mopping up the mess. She was silent as she cleaned. My heart pounded as I braced for my punishment.

Then my mom spoke. 

“This is a lesson everyone has to learn once. Now you know and you won’t make the same mistake again.” 

Today, as I looked at the mound of suds in my sink, I smiled remembering the sweet relief I felt in that moment. Even though it was totally my fault, even though I had deviated from what I’d been taught, and even though I had made a huge mess, my mom didn’t scold me, yell at me, or punish me.

Instead, she got on her knees and cleaned up my mess. 

I haven’t thought about that day for years. But today, the suds lining the bottom of my sink led me right back to that moment. I think this is the first time I’m seeing my mom’s response for what it really was. 

A lesson in the grace of God.

When we’ve made a mistake, He doesn’t yell at us and storm away. 
He doesn’t dole out a list of punishments — even if we deserve them. 
He doesn’t abandon us to our consequences. 

Instead, He gets on His knees and cleans up our mess. 

That is grace. 
That is love. 
That is Jesus. 

LIFE CYCLE LESSONS

/ jessicaivaska / 4 Comments

The garden is in. 

The  tomato plants I started tenderly in January are in their permanent homes. 

The kale, broccoli, and lettuce have been transplanted, too. 

Much to my surprise, almost everything I started from seed has survived. 

But that doesn’t mean it’s producing yet. For that, I’ve got to wait longer. As I wait, I can’t help but tuck a few more seeds into the open spaces. And because Erik and I would love to grow even more of our own food, I’ve started another round of carrots. 

And those carrots take their sweet, sweet time. For me, that means it takes about 2 weeks of consistent watering before the first hint of growth even begins to pop through the starter mix. The glimpse of green is so small I do a double take. I get onto my hands and knees, my face inches away from the soil. 

Did they? Did they? 

Yes!

A sprout, thin as a blade of grass, has started stretching towards the light. A few days later, the sprout is taller and no longer alone. It’s brothers and sisters joined it. Now there are 11 sprouts . . . no . . .13!

As I’m counting, I notice something. 

A few of the starts are wearing a hat. 

What is that? I peer closer. 

Oh, of course! 

Some of the seed casings are still hanging on. The stems are stretching taller, but the cotyledons are trapped in the husk. Its job is done, but it can’t seem to let go. 

I start to reach forward, then stop. I want to help. If I ever so carefully remove the “hat,” I’ll free the leaves from their straight jacket. They’ll have full access to the light. That’s what they need to grow! 

But because I’ve been trying to slow down more, I sit back and take a few breaths and think. A half-second later I remember a conversation I had with a friend on Sunday. Her family home schools, and this spring they’ve been learning about life cycles. They’ve watched butterflies emerge from silk cocoons and baby chickens break though the shell of eggs. 

“When we saw the first crack in the shell, we cancelled the whole day,” she says. “We all just sat there, watching this tiny beak break its way through. We wanted to help it. Just pull back a tiny piece of the shell, but we didn’t. We had just learned that butterflies need the entire process of breaking out of the cocoon to strengthen their wings. If you slice the cocoon open, or tug it off, attempting to help, the butterfly will always have weaker wings. It might never fly.  . . It’s like God had a plan or something,” she finishes with a glorious flare of sarcasm. 

As I stare at my burdened carrots, I think through the implication of her story. 

If God has purpose in the struggle for butterflies and chickens, He probably has purpose in it for plants, too. 

The next thing you know, I’m picturing an anemic zucchini plant from last year. I’d started it from seed and thought I was helping when I gently pulled the expired seed casing off its brand-new leaves. It never really recovered. The left leaf – the one where the casing had been stuck, stayed misshapen and weirdly yellow, even though it had been freed! The plant eventually grew, but it didn’t flourish the way it should have. At the time, I chalked it up to not being good at growing zucchini. Now I’m realizing it suffered because it didn’t go through its intended struggle. 

It needs the struggle to survive. 

Resistance makes it stronger. 

The right amount of pressure allows it to fully grow into what it was meant to be. 

If it’s true for plants, butterflies, and chickens, it’s probably true for me, too. I guess I need to wrestle through things to become stronger and to be who God intends for me to be. 

Right now, I feel a little like my carrot seedling. Something is weighing me down and I just can’t shake it. 

I want someone to reach down and pull me out of the sadness I feel. 

I want to know that it will all be ok. 

I want to rush to the other side. 

But today, I’m reminded that there is purpose in the process. So, once again, I pull my hands away from my seedling tray. My carrots will undoubtably be stronger from wrestling. I hope I will, too.