Remind Your Suffering Sisters

Casseroles are my love language. As a mom of many, author, artist, wife, chauffeur, room mother, wanna-be yogi, and personal chef of all things with the crust cut off, I am run ragged.

I recall a season which was hard. I could barely face cooking dinner. Things seemed out of control and honestly, utterly hopeless. It is during these times that I believe Christian women feel most neglected. Candid, I know. But the low spots are the times when I have questioned my faith, my God, and my “good deeds.”

Even in the freedom of salvation, I have wondered, Why is God allowing this season? And yes, I believe. Jesus died, there is no condemnation or wrath, he loves me, I can’t pay him back. Still, he seems to be on a different schedule than I am.

On this particular low day, alone in my kitchen, staring at boxes of macaroni and cheese and frozen pork chops I had neglected to set out to thaw, I found myself weeping. The mundane was impossible. I love my family, but alas, I couldn’t face even the boiling of water. I began digging through the junk drawer for pizza coupons, again.

Just then the doorbell rang, and I yelled fruitlessly for someone to answer it. On the second ring, I murmured a few ugly words, slammed the drawer, and went to answer it myself. A widow from down the street, someone I barely knew, was standing on the porch. She held a canvas bag in one hand and in the other she balanced a large casserole dish with foil on top.

“Hello!” she chimed.

“Oh, hello Mrs. Barnes.  How are you?” I managed the words with no small effort.

I mentally inventoried my sad yoga pants and cringed at the thought of my hair, which was stacked high in a “messy bun,” a style that wouldn’t be coined for another three years. “Please,” I motioned, “Come on in.”  Mrs. Barnes moved swiftly past me and headed toward the kitchen. I cringed again at the mental image of a sink full of dirty dishes.

“I just wanted to stop by with a blessing!” she said.

I chased after her quickly, seriously considering form tackling her before she reached my calamitous kitchen.

“Please excuse the mess,” I stammered, “I–I have been . . .”

She cut me off. “No need to apologize. Some seasons the dishes and dinner come last.”

Mrs. Barnes set the casserole dish on the only piece of counter not covered with “life.”  She then moved to the oven and, as if she’d been in my kitchen a dozen times before, pressed the button to preheat it. Then she opened the large canvas bag, which held a gallon of milk, a gallon of sweet tea, a bag of salad, a bottle of Italian dressing, a loaf of French bread, and another bag of chocolate chip cookies.

My neighbor moved about the kitchen, putting the milk in the fridge and grabbing a pretty plate from a shelf, organizing the cookies on it. As she did, she issued instructions.

“As soon as the oven is ready, you put this lasagna in for thirty minutes, then take the foil off and let it bubble up for fifteen more.  The bread can go in for the last five.  Dear, grab me a serving bowl for this salad.”

I was paralyzed with confusion and gratitude.

“Jami!” She snapped her fingers at me, not unkindly.

“Yes!” I quickly moved to find a clean bowl, and she proceeded to dump the bag of leafy greens into it.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “but what in the world provoked you to this dear gesture?”

“Well, I have heard through a few folks that you’ve had a hard couple of months. I wanted you to know you are seen and loved.”

She leaned against the cabinet and continued. “I had seven children.  I remember once when my Leo was out of work, things were so awful, so stressful. I thought of how neglected and how far from God I felt. I see you. I know you are struggling. I don’t know the details, but I see you.”

I could no longer stand. I moved to the kitchen table and plopped into a chair.

“Can I get you anything?” Ms. Barnes asked.

As tears rolled down my cheeks, I managed to murmur, “No, you can’t even imagine how much this means to me.  I am so tired.”

She rubbed her hands together and said, “Good.  That was the only objective–to bless you and give you a night off from cooking.”

I followed her to the door.  “I can’t thank you enough.”

“It’s my pleasure,” she said. “And Jami, how can I pray for you?”

We ended up sitting on the porch for another twenty minutes talking about my struggle. My neighbor offered neither advice nor platitudes. She just told me she was sorry and that she would pray.

That lasagna tasted better than anything I have ever eaten. But even thought I asked Mrs. Barnes for the recipe and followed it to the letter, when I made it, it wasn’t quite as good. But I propose that is because the gift was the secret ingredient. And no, I am not suggesting a casserole ministry, although I’d think it was brilliant.

What I am suggesting is the gesture of reminding suffering sisters, “I see you.” Those words still mean so very much to me. I was seen, cared for. And I have taken a nod from the late Mrs. Barnes. Sometimes it is just a card or a plate of cookies while other times it is lunch or a cup of coffee. But I always include her words, which matter so much: “I see you.”

The Lord sees you too.

Romans 12:10 “Be devoted to one another in love. Honor one another above yourselves.”

Jami Amerine, M.Ed., is the author of Stolen Jesus: An Unconventional Search for the Real Savior. She and her husband Justin live in the Houston, Texas area. The couple have six children ranging in age from 23 to 4 and are advocates of foster care and adoption. You can find more of Jami’s work at Sacred Grounds, Sticky Floors.

Photograph © Jonathan Pielmayer, used with permission