|My Box that Holds some of my grandmother, VaVa's, Recipes|
Joshua, a freshman in high school, placed an oblong gift-wrapped present on the table in front of me.
His eyes hid his feelings, telling me he worried that I might not like it. “Happy Mother’s Day,” he said.
I smiled up at him. “Oh, thank you, Son.”
As I tore open the paper on top, Joshua rubbed his finger and thumb together in anticipation. “I made it in woodshop.”
My own fingers worked faster in my accelerated excitement. “I love crafted gifts.” I gasped. “Oh, Joshua, what a nice job.” In blue paint, Joshua had printed “MOM’S BOX” on the front below the hinged lid. “You made me a box to store things in.”
“Actually, Mom, it’s for your recipes.” He pointed. “I measured with a recipe card to make the box the same width.”
“Well, what a great job you did.” I reached over and gave Joshua a hug and a pat on the back. “You’re a fine woodworker. Thank you.”
He bowed his head, and a soft smile creased his lips. “You’re welcome.”
I love my box for many reasons—one being that it has a flaw. Below the lid, the front has a crack about one-third over. To compensate, when Joshua wrote “MOM’S BOX,” he had to begin his letters to the right of the split in the wood. He wrote “MOM’S” and below that, “BOX,” so the letters are neatly to one side.
Dear Father, after twenty years, MOM’S BOX still sits on my counter in the kitchen. The bright-blue letters, and the ease with which the lid opens, reminds me of Joshua and his handiwork. How blessed to have been loved by him. I’m honored that You chose me for his mom. In Jesus’s holy name, I’m grateful. Amen.
~Your Mother Memories~
~Your Prayer of Praise~
~A Scripture of Encouragement~