As I was working in my kitchen, preparing dinner for my family, I noticed something pretty amazing. It was the butter. Butter? Yes, the butter. Let me tell you why, as we take a short walk down the memories of my heart. When I was young, I’d visit my grandparents’ house. It was one of my most favorite places to be. Of all the places I would go, to my grandmother was my favorite. She made me feel special. I was seen, heard, and loved for just being me. I didn’t have to do anything, just be myself.
Each morning my grandparents would rise with the sun, brew a pot of coffee, and have peanut butter and jelly toast. Crumbs scattered across the wooden kitchen table top, the butter dish sat out, soft and ready for the next slice of toast. As a child, I thought this was interesting. I noticed the differences from my familiar home routine. My family didn’t have a butter dish. We kept the margarine in the refrigerator. My mother woke before the sun and was out the door and off to work. My father worked from home and would shuffle us off to school. We didn’t have a slow, relaxing morning ritual of toast.
As I grew up, I collected my own routines and household traditions. Providing healthy, whole foods grew important to me. Preparing plentiful meals, really enough to feed a small army at any time, was a skill appreciated and learned well from my mother in law. There was always enough to feed the family plus a few. Our table was welcoming. As I learned more, I added to our nourishment rituals. Margarine fell aside and butter took it’s prominent position on my counter, always soft and ready for the next slice of bread.
As my children have grown and started households of their own, I’ve noticed similarities of comfort. I feel at ease in their homes as if they’re an extension of my own. The placement of the pots and pans, the glasses, and even the organization of the refrigerator are familiar. I noticed the butter dishes are sitting on the counter. This small and seemingly unimportant dish has made a profound impact on my heart.
We as mothers make small and gentle movements throughout our motherhood that can impact the futures of our children for a lifetime. Generations, in fact, have that same affect. I found it beautiful that the great grandchild, who never had the opportunity to meet the great grandmother, was influenced by her decision over butter.
Many times it’s the simple steps we take that speak the loudest deep down in our souls. How we choose to spend our mornings, what we fill our minds with, the way we refuel and recharge, how we love and communicate, they all create the rhythm to our lives. They form the traditions and the rituals we rest in. It’s like the simple, rudimentary rudder that has the power to steer the ship. Tiny influences create deep ripples through the waters that move us.
Motherhood can feel mundane at times, even futile as we repeat the same simple acts over and over again. When my children were very young, I often found myself enduring the day instead of fully enjoying it. There were days when my heart would ache for something new, even the occasional thought to rush through to the next stage of childhood because of the monotony. Nevertheless, the rhythm is created in the earthly, uneventful flow of time. It’s slow, simple, and gradual. It’s like a balm for the soul. It has the potential to transform the ordinary. Often it’s uncomplicated and unadorned. It’s presence can even go unnoticed at times. Yet, there are the moments when we notice and our hearts are quickened, memories are refreshed, and the world feels new again. It can be amazing when we take the time to notice the still and quiet blessings of butter.
