Lessons Learned from a Yellow Bowl

We were just finishing up the last of the Saturday house cleaning when I heard a crash. Taking a deep breath (I knew composure would be ideal come what may), I headed into the kitchen. My yellow bowl, my yellow vintage Pyrex, lay shattered among the popcorn remnants it once held. Little Miss Avery Kate looked up with big eyes. "It just slipped, Mommy." I quickly assessed the situation. "Are you okay, Sweetie?" She nodded. The others were drawn to the scene and looked on. Remarkably, I was at peace. I swept the scattered shards, keeping up a casual conversation so that Avery, too, would sense the peace. It was okay. Bethie sighed and commented, "Looks like you're going to have to find another one."

Yes, I'll have to find another one. I had started a collection in hopes of matching the set my grandmother once used. This was my first. The yellow mixing bowl. Somewhere out there I would also find the green, the blue, the red. Some estate sale, some Goodwill outing, they would be there. Now I'll have to be on the lookout for the yellow one again, too. But that's okay.

I seem to have a thing for bowls. I also seem to have a thing for breaking them. When Jamie and I were engaged, we went to a bridal show. At the end of the event, prizes were given to a number of couples. We won a beautiful blue and white Portmeirion bowl. It was soon christened "The Blue Bowl." It held crisp salads and whipped potatoes for a few years until that fateful day when I tried to juggle too many dishes at once. It shattered. I mourned for my Blue Bowl. It was a sad, sad day.

The following Christmas, my parents presented Jamie and me with a box. From England. Its contents? A new Blue Bowl. Apparently, it had become quite difficult to track down by that time, but my blessed ma-MA (please accent so as to sound British) phoned her way until she found the Blue Bowl. It now resides loftily on display above my kitchen cabinets. I love my Blue Bowl.

As much as I love these simple little treasures, I know that my reactions to accidents are even more crucial. It was actually quite uncharacteristic of me to be so composed during the Yellow Bowl Incident of 2010. But I was, and I know that it was the work of the Holy Spirit that enabled me to respond with composure. His word, just recently nestled in my heart, determined the outcome: Let us pursue the things which make for peace . . . . Indeed, I felt whole and complete -- even among the brokenness. When God's children allow the Spirit to manifest the fruit instead of trying to force it on their own, I'm convinced that they will experience a startlingly abundant life, no matter how trivial the situation may seem.

I fully intend to be on the lookout for another yellow bowl. The hunt is part of the fun. I know it's out there somewhere. And as soon as it's nestled safely in my cupboard, my new Yellow Bowl will become a quiet reminder of that blessed peace that even a "hopelessly flawed" mama can attain.