Scrambled Eggs on the Floor

I was getting ready for church this morning when Dean asked me what I was fixing him for breakfast. When I said steel-cut oatmeal (which just needed heated up), he said he wanted to fix himself some scrambled eggs instead. Knowing I wouldn't be leaving for a little while, I said for him to go ahead then and do the eggs himself.

That's when disaster struck. As he was taking the eggs out of the refrigerator, the carton, almost full of eggs, made a nosedive out of his hands and onto the floor. What a mess! I don't know what he would have done, if I hadn't been there to clean up the gooey remains. I managed to salvage five or six cracked eggs, which I broke into a frying pan for him to start scrambling for us both to eat. Then I threw out or mopped up the rest of the eggs.

He felt bad enough already, so I refrained from yelling at him for his carelessness. (Wish I had that much patience when I was a young mother.) But then Dean, halfway serious, told me it was really MY fault, since I had told him to fix his own breakfast.

When trials come, do I tend to point my finger at God, even a little too? Even though God has given me freedom to choose, and all the basic necessities of life, I still want to throw the blame onto Him, because He's supposed to be in charge. I hope I can remember that it's our loving, patient God, after all, who cleans up the messes I've pretty much made on my own. Even the accidental ones.

Service With a Smile

Sunday morning has traditionally been our pancake morning. Lately, I've been the main one doing the flipping, but this morning Dean announced that he was going to the kitchen to make our "usual" and asked what I wanted on the first one.

I told him butter and syrup, but a few minutes later he comes back to my room and asks what we can do with a scrambled pancake. He forgot to oil the skillet. Hmmm. I told him to toss it--in the TRASH, I added. He verified again what I wanted on my first cake, and a few minutes later comes in with a plate of food for me and a big smile on his face, saying "Service with a smile." The pancake, although covered with the appropriate syrup, looked woefully pale underneath. Thank heaven it didn't taste raw though, so I happily ate it with gusto. It was nice he still has an accomplishment all his own around here.

I wonder if my efforts to please God are giving Him a chuckle sometimes too. I appear to be doing just fine, in my own eyes, but my works of righteousness must fall awfully short of anything Jesus did. All I can really offer Him is my "service with a smile". Joyful willingness counts for a lot.

(Latest report from the kitchen: one burned pancake and one raw on one side. Sounds like I'm the lucky one in the middle.)