"It's not only children who grow. Parents do too. As much as we watch to see what our children do with their lives, they are watching us to see what we do with ours. I can't tell my children to reach for the sun. All I can do is reach for it, myself."
---Joyce Maynard
Cake is usually symbolic of a celebratory time.
It is almost always the foundation of a birthday party, an anniversary celebration, and the decadent addition of a dinner for the record books.
But for me, and for my boys, cake is symbolic of something entirely different. A time of struggle. Of pain. Of loss.
Maybe that’s why I always request cherry pie when my mom asks each year what kind of cake I’d like for my birthday.
And maybe that is precisely why each of my boys enjoy pie over cake.
Just the thought of that makes my heart hurt.
Many years ago - in what I now refer to as my "other life," - when the boys were very young and times were very tough, there were days, and sometimes many days, when there was no food left in the pantry. I learned to scrimp and save and improvise but it seemed like each month – without fail – there would be a series of days when we had next to nothing.
Except…cake mixes.
My grandmother was the queen of coupon clipping. And if you’ve ever clipped coupons you know that cake coupons are a dime a dozen. So each time she and my grandfather would make the drive from East Texas to my place, she would always bring me a sack full of cake and cornbread mixes.
What is almost (but not quite) humorous today, was not at all funny back then. There were many mornings when I’d open the pantry door, looking for something of sustenance for my two young sons, and only an endless row of cake mixes and cornbread batter mixes lined the shelves.
I did what any mother in that situation would do. I scrounged up the eggs and made the batter. I wish I could say that we have sweet memories of those times of eating plain yellow cake for breakfast and for lunch. But the truth is that those memories are more of the bittersweet quality.
Bitter because I am painfully aware that my kids share these memories with me.
But still sweet, because I can look back now and see just how blessed our lives have become since those days.
So it is with such mixed emotion that, all these years later, I've found myself saying about our children - our blended family, let them eat cake. I could never, ever voice this aloud because, quite frankly, I fear no one would understand. This all began to come to me a few days ago as I worked out.
Instead of the usual music in my ear, I used this time for prayer, feeling a special need to lay my heart bare before God. It was one of those moments that come to a mom when she has relinquished all physical control, and yet the mothering "urge" is stronger than ever. I concentrated on lunges, squats, and planks, but in my heart I was crying. “Oh, God. Please let our children experience the same relationship with you that we've found. Be real to them. Very real.”
There was but a moment of silence, both around me and inside me, before His still, small voice spoke to me. Stopped me in my tracks. “Remember what it took to bring you to this place with me?” His voice ushered me back to those stark years, to that one moment when I had no place to turn but to my knees. “Are you sure you’re ready for them to experience that?”
I grew so still inside my soul. I didn’t know how to answer that question. Still don't. I'm fairly certain that I don't WANT to answer that question. Never, ever, ever do I want my children to have to endure the heartache and the pain that I did at their ages, and just beyond. I want to pave the way for them, make life as easy to navigate as possible.
But I also want them to become great men of God.
Men that instinctively know that true strength is found in weakness and that their weaknesses are merely open invitations for God to come in and perform the mighty in their lives.
But the truth is that you can’t teach that to your children.
You can model it.
You can explain it.
You can pray for it.
But, in the end, it is up to them to seek this path for themselves.
And now, as our children are having (and raising) their own children, and the last few strands of my apron strings have been ripped from my waist, I find my heart both bleeding and rejoicing.
I ache because that's what a Mom does - she feels for that child, long after they are grown and out of her home, and her prayer is that they will learn – much as she did – that God is indeed the sanctuary.
But...also rejoicing because she trusts their journeys will be as rewarding and as fruitful as hers has been.
Let them eat cake.
