I have been riddled with guilt.

I was unaware of its presence, or the tarnish of shame, regret, and remorse it was etching into my spirit. I knew something was not right, but, like in most cases, the eyes of my heart were clouded; I could not see what was going on until one moment of pristine and crude clarity.

The kitchen teaches me patience, and preserving food is a lesson in delayed gratification. And when my boys watch me milling about–sometimes with my hair tossed in a messy pony tail and still in my pajamas–pacing from the counter to the fridge to the garden to the trash can to the table and back to the counter working on countless food projects at once–they see something beyond the mess.

Each morning I wake groggily and find my way to the kitchen. I pour a steaming cup of coffee and head out to the garden. Slowly I make my way around mounds of soil and baby plants to see the growth that took place over night. They are always growing. New sprouts– where nothing was yesterday, today there is green life, new leaves, and finally–first fruits.

There was always a bit of commotion when my mom was making chocolate chip cookies. Along with the warm, sweet aroma wafting from the kitchen came a distinct “whack!” “whack!” “whack!”; the telltale melody of cookies coming out of the oven and being dropped onto the counter top.

“For better and for worse, children learn from our example. If we believe that outdoor work is beneath us, they will too. If we see it as a time to be with God while enjoying sunshine and fresh air, they will to…In order to see, hear, smell, taste, and touch God’s creation, we need to work alongside Him.”

Today was full– full but not busy, not hectic, not frenzied, just full and fulfilling. We hunted for the perfect tomatoes, rode a lawn mower train, bought our garden’s worth of transplants, planted half of them into the earth. Today I taught my son what a baby broccoli plant looks like, and how to place it into the soil so it can grow. So he can eat it. So he can grow.