Cheese Sandwich
A woman told about her experience as a child when her efforts to bake a cake
for her dad ended in disaster. Rather than berating her, her
usually-less-than-diplomatic father praised her effort. It was a life lesson for
that lady. It boosted her self-esteem so that she had the courage to try new
things without the fear of failure.
When I read about that, my mind went back over four decades to a lazy summer
afternoon. I was seven. Dad was in the Air Force, and we were stationed in
Wisconsin for a year. My family lived in a big farmhouse outside of Madison. It
was our first experience with country living. A local farmer worked the land and
raised the chickens and pigs that were housed in the barn, and we rented the
two-story house with its huge lawn and ready-to-climb apple trees.
Our family of six was enjoying the summer afternoon, lying on the grass out
close to the road, watching the shapes of the clouds floating across the sky. A
plane flew overhead, so high in the sky that it was barely visible. Daddy made a
joke, and we all laughed. It was a time of lazy conversation and just being
together.
Daddy glanced at me and said, "Karen, run up to the house and fix me a cheese
sandwich."
I jumped up and ran across our lawn that was the size of a football field. I
went into the kitchen and gathered the ingredients for the "best-ever"
sandwich-two slices of white bread and a thick slice of cheese. Feeling like a
big girl, I ran back across the yard and proudly handed my creation to Daddy,
who took a big bite. As he chewed, he asked, "Did you wash your hands first?"
"No, sir," I answered. I hadn't even thought about it.
He sputtered and spit the chewed-up food out onto the ground as he tossed the
sandwich into the air. Cheese and bread flew everywhere. My brother and sisters
rolled with laughter at the sight. I swallowed hard and blinked back my tears.
"Now, go back to the house, wash your hands, and fix me another sandwich," he
said.
I turned and walked slowly across the yard, struggling not to cry, torn between
hurt and anger. The day no longer seemed so beautiful.
That was one of the first times in my life that my dad made me feel inadequate,
but it certainly wasn't the last. Many times through the years, when I failed to
meet his standards, he would ask, "Are you stupid?"
On one level, I knew I was smart. I made good grades in school and was a member
of the National Honor Society. But on another level, that little voice that
said, "You're stupid!" Was always in the back of my mind, ready to accuse at the
slightest mistake, instilling a fear of failure and rejection.
In his later years, my dad mellowed a lot. He was an affectionate grandfather to
my sons. He supported me and showed his love for me in very tangible ways. But I
wonder. What if Dad had used the unwashed-hands-and-cheese-sandwich incident in
a positive way, like the father whose daughter failed in her cake baking?
Perhaps that little "you're stupid" voice that has plagued me all my life would
never have had a chance to develop.
For some time, I based my perception of my heavenly Father on my experiences
with my earthly father. God was someone to be feared and placated. I had to
tiptoe around Him carefully. No matter how good I tried to be, no matter how
many good works I performed, it would never be enough. I could never be good
enough for Him.
I knew the truth of the passage in Ephesians 2:8-9 which says, "For by grace are
ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God: not
of works, lest any man should boast." Salvation is a gift of grace that cannot
be earned. But on some level, I still thought I had to work to be good enough
for God.
Then came a day when I was at a very low point in my life. I'd made a mess of
everything important to me. Frustrated, I looked in the bathroom mirror and
spoke harshly to the woman looking back at me, "You are so stupid!"
Head bowed and heart-heavy, I walked into my bedroom and turned on the tape
player. I sat slumped on the edge of the bed and listened to the words of the
song. It spoke of God sheltering me in His arms.
Suddenly, I felt as if my heavenly Father had picked me up like a little child
and sat me down in His lap. He wrapped His loving arms tightly around me and
spoke to my heart. "Karen, you're My child. I love you! Your sins have been
covered by the blood of My Son Jesus. Because of that, you don't ever have to
worry about being good enough for Me."
My face crumpled and was washed in healing tears. I leaned back and rested in my
Father's grace.
What rest! What peace! By His grace, my hands are clean enough to serve Him!
"To the praise of the glory of His grace, wherein He hath made us accepted in
the beloved." - Ephesians 1:6
Karen Harper DeLoach
kdeloach@frontiernet.net
Karen is the author of Thirty-one Years and a Stumble (Xlibris), a story of
restoration and hope in the healing of her marriage. She is co-author with her
siblings of Musings, Meditations, and Memories of One Slightly Dysfunctional
American Family (PublishAmerica). Her stories have been published in God Allows
U-Turns: American Moments, Women Alive! Magazine, and several church
publications and e-zines, including HeartTouchers. She is the mother of three
sons and helps her husband at their business in Statesboro, Georgia.