Don’t Cry Over Chicken Soup…

by Beth Duewel

Last week I embarked on a new adventure—chicken soup. Why was this adventurous? I decided to try and forfeit the chicken broth in a can and make my own. Yes, home-made. I mean, Martha Stewart seems to have so much fun making everything from start to finish. Carving furniture out of bars of soap, fashioning lampshades from taffeta. So how hard can broth be? And so I started early in the morning, boiling, cutting, and simmering. Yeah—me.

The fact that both my children had the flu also fed my passion to go wholesome. After all, isn’t chicken soup good for the soul, the throat, the flu? Doesn’t it fall under the category of the worthy things grandma used to make to pass around the neighborhood, curing colds and colic?

I have to tell you, after all this time and attention to steamy broth, the house did smell great. Chicken soup wafted through the air and lay like a blanket of comfort. So I set the table and called all who were well and ill to come and eat. Yumm—me.

However, my two sick ones greeted the soup with less than expected enthusiasm, especially when they saw floating orange and yellow. “What are those?” the children wondered while trying to drown carrots with their fork.  “Those are vegetables,” I clarified. All the while thinking that my mother would have a fit if she knew my children couldn't pick a carrot out of a line-up. Had I really strayed so far from scratch?

Then the feasting began. One child dissected the soup as if it were a frog in science lab; while the other tried the fine art of separation: good stuff vs. stuff he would try to feed to the dog. Last but not least, the first born ate in compliant silence, and then quietly excused herself. “Wait a minute,” I grabbed the evidence. As suspected—green and yellow stow-a-ways lay discreetly in the bottom of the bowl.  So much for chicken soup for this family’s soul. I could have hoisted a chicken in a pail of water and gotten the same results.  What about the accolades? The high fives for mom and praises for chopping celery stalks all day. Yuck—me.

Overall, I think I responded to the rejection rather well. Only pouting an hour or so. Doesn’t anyone appreciate the work I do around here? When I was a kid I swallowed canned asparagus…whole…just to avoid hurting my mom’s feelings. My thoughts ticking, I excused myself for bed and let my prayers reflect my smog of martyrdom.

Then, the next morning while packing lunches, there it sat—the forgotten soup, now cold and coagulated. Harrumph. It seems it sat out all night, and now needed to be thrown away. What a waste of time and talent, I thought as I let the tears fall. Don't ask me why I cried over chicken soup. I just did.

The next day while recounting the sad soup story to my accountability partner, the smog cleared a little. As the words tumbled out and bumped into each other, I pieced together a theme. The theme of me.

It is true. I often start a task with good intentions. My motives pure and forthright. But then…BAM. Like a moved stool in a dark room, I run into something. That something being me.

Now I have to wonder—did Jesus go to bed all put out the night he washed the disciple’s feet? Did he pout because there were no high fives and praises for his gracious act of love? No, Jesus—to the end—was about others. Our selfishness giving birth to His selflessness.

Many times in my life I can see that a selfish attitude hurt no one but me. When my father was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, I was initially resentful. Upset that the responsibility of his care fell on my shoulders, I would huff and puff and write long whiney songs for my husband to fall asleep to at night. After all, wasn't I the youngest of the three daughters? Didn't I have young children of my own to care for? Wasn't our oldest daughter seriously ill? My list of complaints grew until I asked God to help me get over myself. And He did. It turns out that caring for my father gave me a chance to know and grow closer to my dad than I ever thought possible. In retrospect, I wouldn't trade those last days, those last few hours, for anything this side of heaven.

So, if you are like me and bump into yourself every now and then—theirs hope for you. And guess what? Tonight my youngest came in and asked for that “good soup you make mommy.” Oh, how sweet! Two minutes later she was smiling as she sipped on “Lipton’s Cup of Soup.” What can I say? My kids love me.

Dear Lord,
Help me to see beyond myself. Give me a heart to serve without complaining and endure without whining. Amen.

Copyright © 2008 - Elizabeth Duewel. All rights reserved.