The following post touched my heart.
I’ve messed up real bad of late, let someone push me, knock me down, and step on me to the point that I reacted badly after asking everyone to pray I would not.
This post lets me know that we’re all human.
Although I do not usually post this column on Sundays I felt it was needed.
There is grace, and it is given to us by God.
I ask everyone to remember that when they’re dealing with any situation.
All is not easily washed away, but with the grace of God we can come through all manner of things.
In the following story the love and grace shines through.
Blessid be to Jo and her daughter for sharing this story.
Thanks to all who have the grace of God within their soul.
When you’ve read this I hope you will share.
If you visit Jo’s site, or buy her book please let her know from where you heard of her.
Thanks to all, and blessid be.
Sprinkles of Grace
When my daughter Sarah finished her first full year of preschool at age four, it was time to celebrate. I let her decide between a trip to a nearby park or homemade ice cream sundaes, but I breathed an inward sigh of relief when she chose the sundaes. It was one of those ridiculously hot afternoons in late May when spring plays hooky and lets summer take over.
First came ice cream, then chocolate sauce. Just a dab of sauce for me, a little more for Sarah. Why not—we were celebrating, right? Then whipped cream in a can. Sarah giggled when the spray cream made its usual silly noise as it billowed magically onto her sundae.
“How do they squeeze the cream into that can?” she asked.
“I have no idea,” I answered, thinking to myself that I really didn’t want to know. I reached up into the cupboard for the rainbow sprinkles.
Sarah, who had been sitting on the kitchen counter watching me build the sundaes, stretched past me and grabbed a plastic jar. “I want this kind.”
Thinking she had recognized her beloved rainbow sprinkles on the shelf, I didn’t take time to check the bottle she gave me. I just unscrewed the cap and shook the jar generously over her sundae. I took a hard pass on the sprinkles, so I secured the lid and put the jar back in the cupboard while I made sure my daughter got down from the counter safely. She busied herself rifling through the silverware drawer for her favorite spoons with Snoopy® heads on the handles, all the while belting out the “Teamwork” song from the Wonder Pets® program that was starting on the TV in the living room.
I carried our sundaes carefully to the plastic mat we had spread on the carpet in front of the TV—and that was when the calamity happened.
I bit into my ice cream, relishing the cold, delicious bliss, and expecting a sigh of contentment from my daughter as she tasted her perfectly decadent sundae.
“Mommy!” Sarah wailed. “It’s yucky! It tastes like … sh—“ She gagged, then started sobbing.
“Sarah! What’s wrong?”
“It tastes like …” Another gag. “Sugar!”
In preschool, Sarah had learned more than how to count to ten and distinguish her colors, which had resulted in a few serious discussions and word substitutions at our house, and I knew my distraught little girl wasn’t talking about the sweet white crystals I stirred into my coffee every morning.
“Oh … don’t cry … let me see.” I took the sundae from her, and after one sniff, I knew. “Sarah, I put garlic on your ice cream!”
“Garlic is awful!” my daughter sniffled. “You ruined my sundae!”
My heart sank. I had wanted to make a perfect celebration sundae for Sarah. A sighted mom would never have mistaken rainbow sprinkles for minced garlic. For that matter, I would never have mistaken rainbow sprinkles for minced garlic if I had taken an extra second to feel the shape of the bottle and sniff its contents. But I’d been so sure Sarah would recognize her sprinkles and hand them to me, I’d cut corners, and now I’d ruined her sundae, ruined her celebration, ruined everything. She didn’t deserve this.
“Mom?” Sarah said in a small voice as she took my hand. “You look sad. We can get more ice cream.”
“Sure we can.” I smiled, jolted out of my pity party. This was an easy fix. I set my dish of melting ice cream on the TV stand where my guide dog couldn’t get it and carried Sarah’s garlic sundae back to the kitchen. We rinsed the evidence of our goof-up down the sink, built a new sundae, complete with a generous helping of rainbow sprinkles, and settled down to watch the Wonder Pets save the day with teamwork.
Even now, five years later, we laugh about garlic sundaes when the topics of miscommunication or cooking disasters come up. Because guess what? Mistakes aren’t the end of the world—not just for moms whose eyes don’t work, but for everybody. Mistakes are nothing more than glitches to be gotten through and gotten over. My daughter and I both learned a lot from that garlic sundae—about grace and teamwork, about bouncing back and remembering what really matters, and about how chocolate ice cream and rainbow sprinkles can make any situation a little better.
This piece first appeared on Holly Bonner’s Blind-Motherhood blog:
More On Jo…
“The Bright Side of Darkness” Is an award-winning novel, Available in Kindle, audio, and paperback formats.
About the author…
J. E. Pinto is a magnet for underdogs! Early in her married life, her home became a hangout for troubled neighborhood kids. This experience lit the flame for her first novel, The Bright Side of Darkness.
Pinto’s Spanish-American roots grow deep in the Rocky Mountains, dating back six generations. J. E. Pinto lives with her family in Colorado where she works as a writer and also proofreads textbooks and audio books. One of her favorite pastimes is taking a nature walk with her service dog.
The Bright Side of Darkness won a first place Indie Book Award for “First Novel over Eighty Thousand Words,” as well as First Place for “Inspirational Fiction.” The novel also won several awards from the Colorado Independent Publishers Association: First Place for “Inspirational Fiction,” Second Place for “Audio Book,” and First Place for “Literary and Contemporary Fiction.
Rick Myers, an orphan without much faith in the future, and Daisy Bettencourt, a blind girl who is running from an alcoholic father and a set of overprotective foster parents, cross paths at a high school baseball game and make their way together. Daisy becomes the bright spot in Rick’s universe as he and his four lifelong friends–Tim, Mark, and the twins–battle the forces of poverty and hopelessness. Mark’s grandma dies of heart failure, and Tim’s stepdad is arrested on felony child abuse charges, leaving them, like Rick and Daisy, with no authority figures in their lives.
Rick and Daisy are trailed by a fat man in a battered green jeep who makes Rick more and more uneasy as the weeks pass. Then, just when Rick discovers an interest in the culinary field and decides to complete his education, the bottom drops out of his world.
There’s nothing a damn bit bright about sunshine when you’re seventeen and you see it from the wrong side of a jail cell window.
It isn’t that I’m moping for my lost freedom or anything. I wouldn’t give a half a crap for my life anymore now that the crew is scattered to the four winds, and all I have left of Daisy is her parting note in the waistband of my jeans and a wilted dandelion dangling between my fingers. But it seems to me that the Man Upstairs could have marked my downfall with a terrific thunderstorm or at least a few nasty black clouds out of the west.
When there’s a war or a funeral or some other sad thing going on in the movies, the sky usually turns dark and ugly, and the rain pours down in buckets. The longer I stare at the square of sunlight streaming through the tiny window of my cell and stealing across the floor, the lonelier I feel. August 27, 1986, is slipping by the same as every other hot, heavy day, and I’m the only one in the world who knows that nothing will ever be all right again.
It hasn’t always been this way. I ought to have known better than to believe I could reach out and snag a piece of paradise, but for a little while I had it on my fingertips. Breaks are hard to come by for kids from the projects, though, and sure enough, all I ended up with at the last second was empty hands.
I’m doing my level best to hold off a flood of memories, but my mind keeps drifting back to the sweltering summer evening when the chain of events began that shattered my world into a zillion pieces. First thing tomorrow morning, some juvenile court judge will decide if my life is worth rebuilding. Maybe he’ll have better luck with my future than I did with my past.
If you would like to contact Author Jo E Pinto please feel free to e-mail: at email@example.com.
To see her guest blog posts, please check out: https://blindmotherhood.com/.
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