Lessons Learned in Cupid’s Cafe

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We concluded our Fourteen Days of Love last night with a family meal at Cupid’s Cafe.  No strangers to mystery meals, the kids sipped a sample of bubbly love potion while they decided between prehistoric lava lamps (red and white jello parfaits with gummy dinosaurs perched on top) and twisted hearts (braided bread sticks in the shape of a heart) ; Cupid’s clouds (homemade mashed potatoes) and runaway lovers (spoons…”and the dish ran away with the spoon”). 
 
From big ones to small ones, our diners delighted in the sheer silliness of the evening and the unpredictable combinations of food that were kindly served by Chef Cupid and her handsome bow-struck lover.

Only Josh hesitated when his first plate full of food was delivered without cutlery. “I need a spoon,” he said, pointing to the parfait cup filled with wiggly red jello. “And a fork,” he added with a nod toward the mashed potatoes on his plate.

“I’m sorry, young man,” I, with the beaming red hat and floral apron replied, “you didn’t order those items to accompany your first course. Perhaps your next round will include forks and spoons.”

Joshua stared silently at the jello, then eyed his potatoes once more. “But how am I supposed to do this?” he whispered as he rested his chin on the palm of his hand and planted his elbow on the table.
Momentarily, I considered running to the silverware drawer and grabbing the shiny metal utensils my littlest boy needed for tidy, mannerly eating, but then Josh spotted his big brother’s long pink tongue lapping a sky-high  piece of French silk pie. The snow white smear of whipped cream on the tip of his hero’s nose must have inspired little brother, for soon mashed potatoes were painting a similar pattern across his own pint-sized snout. Fun had trumped practicality! And Cupid’s Cafe had escaped dinnertime meltdown.
 
As I wiped food smudges from the wall  (Maggie’s messy fingers had created a mashed potato masterpiece when I was busy dishing out the final course), I thought again about Joshua’s angst over the missing silverware. And I felt a kindred compassion for my little boy’s Valentine meal dilemma. As I dumped half-eaten parfaits down the drown, I asked the Lord why I often feel so ill-equipped to love well. Why, in the moments when I expect love to be second-nature, do I feel like a small child fumbling to grasp God’s grace with unsteady hands and no cutlery?
 
Our day of cut-out-hearts and chocolate candy was drawing to a close when the son I ushered into this world with a groan and a shout splattered words of condemnation across the happy evening’s end. Stomping feet stormed down the hallway. Bedroom door slammed. Baby in the crib woke with a jolt and added her own irritated wail to the disharmony. I stood between baby and growing boy and wondered who needed me more–the fuzzy-sleepered toddler seeking comfort in the dark or the irritated pre-teen fighting for an identity to call his own?

I covered my littlest one with her pink blankie and turned to face the closed door. I breathed deep, knocked quietly and stepped into the man-child’s room. His glare was cold and empty. The fingers that once wrapped around mine were clenched and taut.  I was surprised by his anger, but more surprised by mine. How do I love this child of my heart as he thrashes to find himself outside of me? How do I hold him close when he no longer fits upon  my lap or welcomes my arms wrapped about his slender frame?

 
“Just leave me alone,” he warned, eyes seemingly repulsed by the sight of mine. My skin prickled, my tongue loosened to strike with defensive words.  Lord, I seem to be missing something here. Where’s that unconditional love  that washed over me when the doctor placed this child in my arms? Where is the patient mom I thought I’d be? The graceful example I’d hoped to set?  How am I supposed to do this?

No fork of faith appeared to dig me out of my own flawed pit. No spoon of revelation scooped the selfishness from my own wrestling heart and set me free to love like I had dreamed mommies would. Didn’t I order something more, Lord? I seem to be lacking a few parenting utensils.  

The man child flopped on his bed.

Just dig in with your hands.. the ones I’m holding.

I took a hesitant step towards Mr. Angry even though my feet longed to flee.

But I’ll get so messy.

Yes.


I breathed deep and patted my firstborn on the back. Muscles arched. Head disappeared deeper into the pillows.

But what if my best effort just splatters all over?

I’m right here waiting to clean up your spills.

Then why don’t you just give me what I need. . . Something to make love easier.

More is Who I Am.  You need me.

I fumbled for words, stroked once more the sweaty hidden head and tiptoed from the room. Baby’s cries had subsided. Bunk bed girls lay silent, the hum of their nightmusic seeping through the crack beneath their door. Valentine’s Day was drawing to a close.

I checked backpacks, cleaned the coffee pot, and headed weary-legged to bed. Cupid’s Cafe was closed, the red-hat returned to the dress up closet, the paper menus relinquished to the garbage can. I dug through piles of clean laundry to find my pajamas- the cute ones- in honor of the day. And then the voice that had erupted in anger hollered from bed.   “Be sure to check your pillow before you go to sleep.”

I folded the colorful quilt and spotted it then, a bulky white envelope propped quietly on my pillow, an unexpected gift from the one who had rolled his eye and challenged my own paltry love. I unfurled the blue-lined notebook paper crammed inside and read the hurried scribbles. Scrawling twelve-year-old letters diminished my lack with holy luster.  “I really do love you, Mom….”

And the One who was calling out the stars by name set an agape feast of grace before me and urged,

Dig in and taste my goodness. Lick it from your fingers. Slurp it into your soul. Share it with the hungry. I am enough. I am enough. I am enough.
 
The Overflow: 
But from everlasting to everlasting the LORD’s love is with those who fear him, and his righteousness with their children’s children
—Psalm 103:17
Alicia

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