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.

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.