I thought myself a real domestic queen as I stood baking a homemade peach cobbler with peaches from my daughter, Alena, and her husband Aaron’s tree.
Some nights I just feel the urge to make something.
Completely random, I thought.
The desire to bake had just hit, and at 9pm I was suddenly peeling and de-pitting.
Now, a homemade peach cobbler warrants good vanilla ice cream, I decided, so I slipped my shoes on, smoothed my hair,
and headed to Safeway.
Once I got there, I noticed a woman standing, holding a cardboard sign.
She was looking towards the automatic doors, hoping, but not saying anything.
She looked sad, sunburnt, and small, but as the cobbler was in the oven, I was in a hurry.
I grabbed my ice cream inside, and shuffled back to the car quickly,
but as I backed out of my parking space and looked in my rear view mirror,
I made eye contact with her.
At first I didn’t think too much of it, but before I got to the exit to the lot, there was a pressing in my heart:
The question of her.
Had I actually been in too big a hurry?
Did I REALLY have nothing for her?
Me, with a $7 pint of ice cream on my seat.
Sometimes God works like this:
He presses, and just won’t let up.
I started thinking about that cobbler that I never really planned to make,
and I suddenly felt like it was never even for me.
I knew what the real plan had been all along:
A test of what I’d do when forced to answer a question about if I would actually practice what I preach.
For months now I’ve spoken to anyone who’d listen (and even some who wouldn’t) about how love and kindness are the true way forward. No matter what a battle it is, we have to get back to them, stand for them, still believe in them when they’re hard to see.
In a world that is increasingly cold, and harsh, those two things are big acts of resistance these days.
Back at home I told God, “OK! OK!” and as I waited for the oven timer to beep,
I started packing a little care package up.
My heart said to pack two of everything, so I did.
Maybe she’d be sharing it with somebody:
Two peanut butter and jellies, two pieces of fruit, two bottles of water,
at least half of my now piping hot cobbler, and two plastic forks.
I started to close the bag, and felt like it still was not enough.
What else could I give her?…
I could give her encouraging words!
I know that would be what I craved most if it was me.
I sat down at my table and began writing her a note:
“You are valuable to this world.
You matter, and are loved.
You were dreamed up by a creative God who couldn’t imagine this world without you,
just as you are, and I hope you never forget it.”
I placed it in the bag, and tied it with a knot.
When I pulled back into the parking space I could tell she recognized my car, and she looked slightly concerned as I approached her, maybe feeling worried about what I was going to say, but I gently held out the bag of my offerings, and began to explain.
“Hi. I saw you here earlier, and I didn’t have anything to give you then.
I still don’t have much, but I was in the middle of baking this cobbler at home,
and …well…I thought that every woman deserves someone to bake for her sometimes.”
She looked at me like she just couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
“I put a couple things inside with it.
There are forks, and a couple of sandwiches, too, for later.”
I kept on talking, noticing her hands beginning to tremble, and tears coming to her eyes.
“Oh my goodness!”
Tears trailed down her cracked skin.
“You have no idea how much this touches me.”
She clutched the bag to her chest in a hug.
Her voice broke.
“I just…haven’t had anything homemade in so long, and…you gave me enough that I can even share some with my dog.”
I pictured them having a little cobbler party.
She stood crying, saying thank you, and looking up at me as if I had handed her a crisp hundred dollar bill, and I cried right there with her in the parking lot, thinking about how there was one woman in a sleeping bag, and one with a home and a bed,
but how she was really no different than me.
We both cry when shown love. We both like a little something sweet.
Who knows what had led her there to that street, and that life.
It’s not always a choice that gets made.
I hugged her goodbye, wondering how long it had been since anyone else had as I held her,
And, as I turned, she called out, “You’re a beautiful woman!”
I got in my car only to watch her crouch and pull from the bag the folded note.
I didn’t stay to watch her read it.
I did drive home, and cried the whole way.
Later on, my youngest daughters wanted some lemons, and when they, then, ALSO returned from the store, they reported seeing some homeless woman standing on the curb that had called “have a good weekend,” to them for no reason, then had added, “I know I’m looking forward to mine!”
They were laughing about it, saying it seemed strange, not knowing anything about my earlier encounter with her.
They had no idea her stomach was full of my cobbler.
I just smiled to myself as they told me.
I wasn’t going to tell this story at all, actually.
I was going to keep it to myself,
but I share it now as a reminder that each of us has more to give someone than we may at first think.
It doesn’t have to be big.
I think it could have been just that note that I gave her:
A quick little scribble on some notebook paper,
but right now the whole world is begging for kindness and gentleness, some encouraging words, and love more than it ever has.
I tell this because I hope all of us will look for ways to give it.
I refuse to go without a fight into a world that is void of them.
We may not be able to change the whole world for every person,
but we all can change a small something for just one.
Eyes open for opportunities.
Mom Outnumbered
Hi! My name is Kerri Green; Wife to Justin, and mother to four highly entertaining daughters -Alena, Chloe, Tessa, and Paige. I am an artist, a writer, a daycare provider, a lover of people, a believer that there is humor and beauty in all things, and the author of Mom Outnumbered; a blog about real family life, and my observations of it. My goal is to make people laugh, to be there for them when they cry, and most importantly, to let them know that they are not at all alone in this up and down world. I live with my family in Sebastopol California, and I am opening the window into our life. So welcome! Come in. Sit down. Just please don’t mind the mysterious wet spots.
