I looked at my kitchen counter, littered with onion peelings, tops of unscrewed seasonings, and random measuring cups in no certain order.
My mother’s helper (a young homeschooled girl who I hired to help me with the kids twice a week) played with the kids in the background while I studied the already food-stained cookbook in front of me. I had 1.5 hours left to make a scrumptious french lentil soup, vegan banana bread, and garlic green beans for a potluck feast that my son’s homeschool community group was hosting the next day.
As I turned on my Instapot and churned out all the ingredients, I couldn't help but smile with anticipation at the thought of my newfound mom friends and their guests eating my food and smiling with delight. The thought energized my impregnated body that had just begun entering into the stage of the “wobble.”
The aroma of garlic, onions, and tomatoes completely infiltrated the tight space of our kitchen, while the fiber of my clothing inhabited the smells of each.
“My mom’s here,” my helper yelled.
Perfect timing. I thought.
Everything was done and in their respective dishes for the next day. I stood proud and made a quick video.
While transferring the soup into its container, my hands lost its grip on the stainless steel container and soup splattered all across the floor.
My two-year-old daughter came to see the commotion, and I watched in slow motion as she couldn’t resist the temptation to stomp her lightly colored tennis shoes onto the tomato-based soup. I hunched over and moved her to the side, stifling a silent scream of despair and frustration wrapped in one.
What came out was a deep groan.
“MOVE!”
I didn’t want to process what just happened.
Instead, I grabbed a few paper towels and wiped the floor in quick succession, hoping that I could perhaps wash away the memory as quickly as it occurred. I then ran to take off my daughter’s tennis shoes. She was now on to her next mission of going up our carpeted stairs with signs of paprika still on the crevices of her kicks.
I didn’t have much time to breakdown. I still had to make dinner for the family and my husband was working late, so that meant I needed to make dinner, feed the kiddos, and then get them dressed. We had been invited to a church service that night by a friend.
As I moved from task to task, I felt the Holy Spirit beckon me to call my sister and ask her to pray for me. Although I wasn’t visibly breaking down and fairly calm, I could feel something on the surface begin to bubble. After rescuing the potential for a severely clogged toilet, since my two-year-old daughter ran upstairs to flush an entire roll of toilet paper down the drain, I felt again the Holy Spirit say, “Call your sister!”
I came downstairs, placed the broccoli and noodles on everyone’s plates and Facetimed my sister who lived thousands of miles away.
She didn’t answer.
“Pray for me. Kiddos are a lot right now. ” I texted.
She instantly responded, “I’m praying John 14 over you.”
I didn’t quite know what John 14 was, and I surely didn’t have time to look it up, but instantly the Holy Spirit spoke these words to me.
“Peace I give to you. My Peace, I leave to you. Do not let your heart be troubled. Neither let it be afraid.”
My one-year-old daughter dumped her plate onto the table and my two year old followed suit.
Once we were done eating, I slapped the kids coats on and ran upstairs to change my food-stained shirt. When my husband walked through the door, he and I greeted one another with a quick kiss and went straight to the car. While driving, I felt a strong desire to just escape and go to sleep… on my heavenly Father’s lap.
My husband spoke about his day and then he asked about mine.
The tears came and the confession.
“I know it sounds small, but that soup represented recognition for me. I kept thinking, ‘I’m going to be acknowledged and recognized for something.’ And when I saw the soup on the floor, my one hope of feeling seen dissipated .”
I explained how my work felt so unseen as a stay at home mother.
No one was there praising me for how I managed the house or the kids. And the world certainly didn’t exalt my line of work either. No promotion. No monetary compensation. And although I wouldn’t change anything because I knew the seeds that I was sowing were eternal in nature, the temporal feeling of loneliness was nonetheless felt.
My husband looked over at me as we approached a stop light.
I knew he might’ve been searching for a solution.
After a pregnant pause, he asked, “Do I not recognize you enough?”
The well that had run dry inside of me couldn’t be filled by man. That I knew. I needed the Lord.
“This has nothing to do with you. I just want your empathy. Can you just touch me?”
He placed his hand on my thigh for the remainder of the car ride.
We walked into the church building.
The church was undergoing major renovations. There was no heat. Construction tape roped off many parts of the building. Once inside the sanctuary, Evan and I took our three small kiddos and sat off to the side in the very back row. While my husband and I attempted to get our kids all settled in, I heard the worship singers on stage singing, “You Know My Name” by Tasha Cobbs Leonard. Tears flowed down my face with little restraint and wouldn’t stop.
The Lord knew my name.
He saw me.
He really saw me.
And, He knew.
The worship set flowed from song to song while I witnessed individuals lost in complete worship. The energy in the room felt as though “time” didn’t take precedence.
There was no rush.
No hurriedness.
No formalized set.
It felt as though we were all sitting at the feet of Jesus, absent of the worries and trials that faced us the moment we walked out of the building’s doors.
My kiddos pulled at my legs here and there.
My youngest moved with a hint of restlessness while siting in her daddy’s arms.
But I felt a complete freedom and abandon that made me completely enraptured in the words sung by those around me. The well that had run dry was filling up steadily, and I didn’t want it to end. I couldn’t.
In my periphery, I saw a man approach my husband. They spoke briefly and shook hands. I turned in the man’s direction and waved politely and returned back to my state of longing.
But then, I felt a hand on my shoulder. The man who had spoken to my husband now stood behind me.
“Can I pray for you?” he asked.
On our car ride over to the church service, my husband relayed to me that he knew a team of ministers who were visiting from another church and that many had the gift of prophecy. He mentioned that this group of ministers were going to be there that night. This man who stood behind me was one of the lead pastors from the visiting church.
“Yes,” I retorted quickly to his question.
He placed his hand on my shoulders and paused.
“Come, Holy Spirit.”
He continued to wait.
After a few moments of silence, I heard him gasp, “Woooooooow. Wooowwww. What’s your name?”
“Jessica.”
“Huh?”
“Jessica,” I said louder over the continued worship music.
“Jessica…your roots go down so deep. Wooooooow. Your roots go down soooooo deep,” he kept repeating. He continued to speak things about my life that only the Holy Spirit could have revealed.
Then he paused.
“And Jessica, for some reason, I see like a dishwasher.” I felt him searching for the right words.
“Yeah, I see a dishwasher and like dishes. And I sense the Lord saying that you will encounter him even while you wash dishes. Even while you change diapers. Expect encounter.”
I smiled inwardly to myself. Did he know just how much I stood in the kitchen day after day?
“And I see the Lord giving you His Peace. Complete Peace,” he said. The same peace spoken of through John 14 that the Lord led my sister to pray over me.
He then spoke about the child in my womb. And spoke a promise of the baby that I’ll keep to myself.
He spoke about how the Lord viewed my heart in the spiritual realm.
Then the prayer ended.
I walked into a church building that I didn’t know…seeking to be seen and affirmed. And this girl, with the smell of garlic and onions still on her hands, this girl who sat in the very back row, this girl who so desired to feel recognized. The Lord sent this man, who was visiting from an entirely different church (and did I mention, country?) to share with me that…
The LORD SEES ME.
Even if no one was applauding me for making breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Even if I never received any accolades, compensation, or public praise for my line of work year after year after year after year…the God of the entire universe reminded me that night that He knew. He saw. He cared. And most important to me, the work of my hands and the prayers of my heart were not in VAIN. They were actually reaping more fruit than my eyes could see.
I started the day off hoping that I could receive man’s outward adulation over a bowl of soup. Instead, the Lord gave me so much more.
He showed me His hands clapping for things that I thought no one saw. He showed me how He viewed my heart despite my sin. He showed me the gifts the Lord longed to give me, if I but open my hands to receive them.
In short, He showed me that the audience of ONE was more than enough.
I walked out of church with my well completely filled.
I’ll see the fruit of my prayers and of my hands. If not now, one day.
Proverbs 31: 30-31
30 Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting;
but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.
31 Honor her for all that her hands have done,
and let her works bring her praise eat the city gate.