Someone’s Daughter

“Here, you sit on my side of the table, that way you can watch the lake,” encouraged my husband’s uncle. I breathed in the feeling of being nurtured by someone I could easily picture as my dad. My dad died when I was thirteen and I surprised my fifty-something self with the longing that welled up in my heart. I sat in his chair and drank in the view of the mist rising off the lake in eastern South Dakota.

The Misty Lake
The Misty Lake

I watched the capable and bustling figure of Doug’s aunt, awake before dawn, she had her kitchen well in order. Raised in South Dakota, strong and fierce, yet brimming with love.

“Yes, sit down and I will cook you breakfast.” she chimed in, placing a steaming cup of coffee in front of me.

I go back and savor that single sentence over and over in my heart. My own mother has been dead for twenty years. She lived with us, her body in a vise grip of pain from arthritis. I had long taken over the role of physical mothering and I thrived on being needed and keeping everything organized. I was unaware and unprepared for what it would feel like to be waited on and served by this nurturing woman.

At first I was uncomfortable and fidgeted in my seat. I did not know how to sit still or be gracious in accepting this precious gift she was offering to me, the feeling of being a daughter in someone’s house. It had been so long that I had forgotten the sweetness of feeling treasured. My omelet was perfect and my coffee cup never went empty. Making a memory, my heart took a picture of that kitchen flooded with morning light and love.

I am wondering if the gift I received that morning is the knowledge of the power that rests in my hands. The power to create that same nurturing oasis of comfort for someone else who is heartsore. Have I been missing out all these years not realizing that what I do counts? I have no proper degree, no impressive business title, but if I can believe that I make a difference, that people feel embraced by love in my kitchen and at my table, then nothing else matters.

Closing my eyes, I can see the sink where I was thankful to have been given the opportunity to wield a dish towel and dry dishes. Did the wise aunt recognize my pleading desire for inclusion? For a moment, I was someone’s daughter come home and cherished.

South Dakota. I am going back one day.
South Dakota. I am going back one day.

 

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Terri Written by:

I am a wife and mother of two sons. Our eldest, Justin, was killed in a car accident September 27, 2010, he was 25 years old.

8 Comments

  1. Anne Madison
    August 6, 2016

    Beautiful. Thanks, Terri!

    • August 8, 2016

      Thank you Anne for the gift of your time to read and wander through South Dakota with me! That trip was the absolute best we have experienced. Haven’t quite shaken off the call of the mid-west, I understand now why folks visit and are never quite the same. Wishing you a very peace filled rest of the summer. Thank you for the continued gift of your friendship!

  2. Laura Buchheit
    August 8, 2016

    “that people feel embraced by love in my kitchen and at my table, then nothing else matters.” -dearest Terri, your generosity; graciousness; hospitality are so clear to all who know you. We are all embraced by love in your kitchen, in your photos, in your bread, in your never-empty cup of coffee. Thank you, my friend! Love you! Laura

    • August 8, 2016

      Thank you my faithful friend for your loving words and encouragement. I love you too Laura!

    • Thaeda
      August 9, 2016

      Yeah– what Laura said. 100%. <3

      • August 10, 2016

        Thank you Thaeda!

  3. Laura Palmer
    August 10, 2016

    Thank you for providing perspective! As a native of South Dakota, this makes me realize how much we take such hospitality for granted 🙂

    • August 10, 2016

      Justin fell in love with the people of the mid-west, I am not sure he would have ever come back east. The big skies and big hearts got him too. I keep dreaming. Much love to you Laura, thank you for your note!

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