Sickness hit my home on Monday night. My little girl was sick in bed for the next few days cold then hot, as her temperature fluctuated. In an effort to help, I tried the old method of making a pot of bone broth. This is a long process of cooking down, in my case, chicken bones as I added various nutritious spices to make the broth tasty and vitamin fortified. Dropping the diced onions, ginger, garlic, and turmeric into the pot I covered the brew to a simmer.
The next morning I tried to get my sick little girl to drink the broth, but she frowned and gave me back the piping cup of nutrients. Disappointed but not dejected I decided on trying a new approach, homemade chicken noodle soup. That morning I rolled out the egg noodles I made from the old blue “First Presbyterian Church cookbook” I bought at a garage sale. The dollar I spent was worth it for the recipes are all tried and true. With confidence, I rolled out the dough and began cutting it into noodles. Meanwhile, the broth gently rolled to a boil in the pot as I sprinkled in more spices and onions.
By lunchtime, the soup was ready not only for her but for my ailing son who also stayed home from school. She happily consumed the bone broth as it hid underneath juicy noodles and tender carrots and chicken chunks. Satisfied as if Betty Crocker herself, was smiling down from her heavenly kitchen I felt the joy of sharing a good bowl of soup.
In my imagination, I pictured getting the Master Chef trophy for healing sick kids and at the podium taking a moment to thank…onions. If it wasn’t for the onions, the soup would have been a disaster. Of course, there is a price to pay to enjoy the flavor, in just one onion slice my eyes will burn and become swollen from the powerful gasses, but the flavor is unbeatable.
Soon the children were finished consuming their lunch and were off to their beds for an afternoon nap. As I picked up the bowls I scooped up a pile of unwanted onions my finicky son had picked out of his bowl. He has an eye for anything healthy to quickly fish it out, but I smiled knowing that the benefits were already consumed in the tasty bone broth within the soup.
With a good bowl of soup, I began to think: onions are important, but as I think of them I can’t help thinking about the mysterious truths these vegetables hold not only for the recipe but for the human heart.
The Layers of the heart are mysterious. I often think if you cut the soul in two you would see rings like the stump of a great Red Wood- and with every ring a new revelation of who and why we are. Through every chapter of our lives both sad and wonderful, victorious and uneventful each ring makes our story stand alone.
We are each unique like the curious pattern of a thumbprint or the melodic ring of joyful laughter. We make our mark on the world, we break the silence with our existence. So in the wonder called “human” why are so many of us lost, wandering, and searching for an explanation? “Why was I born?” “What is my purpose?” The mystery I believe is found in the layers.
I read somewhere if you peel an onion and leave it on the counter it will absorb all the toxins in the air. The odorous vegetable will absorb the germs meant for us to breathe in so we stay healthy.
This same onion if chopped up and thrown into a skillet with oil will release the sweet flavor trapped inside as it marinates. The heat breaks down the eye-watering potent strength into a sweet caramelized flavor.
How many layers in me are so opinionated they bring tears to Your eyes? Oh Lord, I wish I knew. Unfortunately, it is in the shedding process of the layers that I gain insight. And when the heat is turned up, is there anything sweet coming from me? In Your culinary hands, you are crafting all my layers into something both powerful and sweet. In me, You are creating something of both healing and meaning.
Though it is hard to look at the truth sometimes, I do not wish to walk upon this earth soul denying. I do not wish to wander but to stand in wonder. Perhaps we were never meant to get the full picture of who we are on our own. Perhaps the Master chef is the only one who can really see the purpose of all that is within.
Over my own empty bowl of homemade chicken noodle soup, I sit quietly in introspection. It is time to open the Master’s cookbook I keep on the end table in the living room. Within its pages I have highlighted and underlined all the secrets He has written out for me to learn. His ingredients are tried and true. I begin to understand why I sometimes feel a pinch here and a sprinkle there. Through the tears I discover healing and hope. But I also have faith that he is making something beautiful from all the layers of my heart and all the chapters of my life. After reading for a while, I too drift off for an afternoon nap full and satisfied from the meal I received at the table of the Master Chef.
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