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<\/figure>\nWhen I was a child, our mini-van would crunch onto the gravel drive-way around noon on Sundays, and park in front of our red-brick farmhouse. Everyone would crawl out and walk inside to put away their Bibles and shed Sunday shoes. My dad would pull out the Bisquick, eggs, and milk and begin whisking up pancakes in a large measuring cup.<\/p>\n
To me, pancakes for Sunday dinner seemed as natural as Saturday evening baths. From my earliest memories,\u00a0 Sunday afternoons began with consuming Dad\u2019s big fluffy pancakes dripping with butter and syrup. I did not treasure the tradition\u2013who of us remembers to value the air we breathe? I did not scorn it\u2014what is there to dislike about pancakes when you have not yet learned to enjoy eating vegetables?<\/p>\n
And then one of my friends began commenting how strange it was that my family ate pancakes for Sunday dinner. For her family, Sunday dinner meant a roast with cooked carrots and potatoes. As a preteen, I measured life by the plumbline of\u00a0normal<\/em>, and apparently my family did not measure up. I began to feel a little ashamed about our weekly pancake dinner, and avoided publicizing it. But, as I recall, when the pancakes were on the table, I was never loath to partake.<\/p>\n My dad has been gone for eight years. Now, I realize how special it was to have a dad that would come home after preaching or participating in a church service to make pancakes for his family every week. They say he began the tradition before my mom had one of her babies, when she felt too sick to cook; now I recognize from personal experience how nice it is to have a husband who helps out in the kitchen when you can barely get off the couch.<\/p>\n Sometimes, though, this life I presently live lacks the nostalgia of pancakes for dinner. My husband might feel affection towards that thin blue-plaid shirt he has had for the last decade, the one with the paint on the sleeve; but when I see him come down the stairs, happy and rumple-haired, in his favorite every-day shirt, I cringe a bit and hope that none of my friends see him before he changes out of it.<\/p>\n I forget to treasure the lengthy routine of twin two-year-olds giving bedtime kisses to everyone in the family. (\u201cWait, I didn\u2019t give a kiss to Caroline! Now a hug!\u201d)\u00a0Could we draw this to a rapid close and get them safely tucked away in bed?<\/em><\/p>\n Our blanket basket constantly overflows into the rest of the family room. Our hooks pile up with coats and hats and paraphernalia. My front window is traditionally steamed from children\u2019s breath and smudged with small hand prints. When I read books that speak of organization and home management, I come away with helpful tips\u2013but also a bit of discontentment. I forget to love the signs and sights of our home, just the way it is.<\/p>\n I want to be mature enough to not see life through the imaginary lens of an outside and critical observer. Or through the eyes of a mama who needs perfection in home and routine to be happy.<\/p>\n God has given me eyes, if only I use them. Eyes that can recognize and take comfort in the familiar. Eyes that treasure the people and traditions closest to me and their charming ways. Eyes that can see everything as a gift given to me by a loving Father, like a pancake lunch made by my dad.<\/p>\n I want to see with the eyes of love\u2026and confess to the world that pancakes for dinner are the best.<\/p>\n
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