It’s Good

It’s funny how sometimes we hear something.  And even though we might hear it all the time, all the sudden we actually hear it.  

Our daughter Kathryn, who is grown now, has been home for a few days before heading off to her new profession.  It has been great to have her home and have time to visit and go on walks again.  Tonight she volunteered to make us dinner.  She bought the groceries and spent a good part of the day planning, marinating, cutting and peeling. By mid-afternoon the house was filled with the wonderful aroma of her slow roasting dinner.  

We still have a house full of kids, though our original ones have grown and gone out on their own.  We currently have two 7-year-olds, two 9-year-olds, an 11-year-old, a 13-year-old, a 15-year-old, and a 17-year-old at home.  They all have their own stories.  Their own experiences of loss, chaos, and tragedy.  And the hiding, hoarding, sneaking, and gorging of food often serves to give us a glimmer of some of the chaos and desperation they’ve endured. 

Two of them, when they first came to live with us, would ask us almost every night if we were going to have dinner tonight.  They didn’t ask what was for dinner.  They asked IF we were having dinner.  And every night, for months, we would reassure them that, yes, we were going to have dinner tonight.  That we actually have dinner EVERY night.  To which they would smile slightly, and nod.  Trying to take in this new reality.  That maybe they could let their guard down just a little.  That instead of taking some other kid’s leftover school lunch and quietly slipping it into their pocket or backpack for later, they could relax.  Because we would be having dinner tonight. 

We have dinner every night.  Some nights might just be leftovers.  But even that is more evidence of just how much we have.  Some nights we have so much dinner that there’s enough left over to have it for dinner another night!

This past year, the youngest kids in our home have developed a nightly dinner ritual.  About a minute into the meal, one of them will say, “It’s good.”  It’s a different kid every night who initiates it. And the other three under the age of 10 will each follow suit.

“Yeah, it’s good.”  

“I like it.”

“It’s really good.”

They are all good eaters.  Very appreciative for whatever we prepare for them.  Unlike our older kids, they never question “what’s in” something.  Meals which our older kids might have balked at for having “too many vegetables” these guys gobble up, thank us, and ask for seconds.  And every night.  Every. Single.  Night.  About a minute after the first bite has been taken.  It’ll happen.

“It’s good.”

“Yeah, it’s good.”

“I like it.”

“It’s really good.”

At times I have silently rolled my eyes.  I say “thanks guys.”  But it has become such a habitual thing that I don’t really even pay attention to what’s being said anymore.  I mumble my thanks, and take another bite, usually thinking about something else.

Today a number of things went wrong.  Problems erupted.  Unforeseen developments temporarily threw us for a loop.  And by the time we got to sit down and eat the dinner Kathryn had made the pork roast was overdone and dry, the sweet potato fries were slightly burnt, and the salad was limp from sitting for too long.  

She fought back the disappointment.  She’d wanted to cook up something special for us.  And, though it was still very good, she felt that it was ruined.  

After reassuring her in the kitchen that it was still a wonderful meal, and having her not accept a word of what we said, we sat down to eat.  Geoff and I, and Kathryn.  And our six youngest kids.  

We took the first few bites. And I was thinking that it really was still a wonderful meal. But I also felt sorry for our daughter who had worked so hard.

And then it came.  The ritual. Only this time, I actually heard the words.

“It’s good.”

“Yeah, it’s good.

“I like it.”

“It’s really good.”

The kids were feasting on pork roast, roasted sweet potatoes, and salad with blue cheese crumbles and pear slices.  They were chatting happily, gobbling up everything on their plates and asking for seconds.

“Yeah, the meat has really good flavor, Kathryn!”

“I love the sweet potatoes when they’re kinda dark like this!”

“Can I have some more salad?  I like my lettuce like this!”

Their roast wasn’t too dry.  They didn’t seem to even notice the burned spots on top of some of the sweet potatoes, or that the lettuce was limp.  

We three adults looked at each other and smiled.  The dinner really was good.  Even though to the cook it was a disappointment.  

The kids were delighted with their dinner.  And appreciative of the effort put into it.  Their words, though said every single night, were no less genuine for the repetition of them.  They meant every word.  Like they do every night.  

So tonight I’m thinking about how much we have.  And how much we take for granted.  Even though we try not to take things for granted.  Maybe we need to take a lesson from our younger kids, and be more appreciative.  

Because they’re right.  It is good. Every single night.