In 1972, when Scott was nine,  I had Jonathan.  And within a few months I had surgery on my heart that left me pretty much helpless.  That next year about all I could do was sit.  My strength was gone. But I had four children and a husband to feed.

So when it was time to think about what to fix the six of us for supper, about all I could do was plan.  I was thirty-four years old and completely shot.  (I've told you about that in past blogs.  It was a tumor, and they took out the walls of my heart and messed up the AV node.  I lived.  But I no longer have any heartbeats of my own.  Thank God for pacemakers.)

Ken was driving sixty-five miles a day to work.  Becky was a cheerleader and busy every day after school.  Pat was in drama and they had practice every afternoon.  However, Scott  would come in from baseball practice a little before everyone else did--and I would tell him what to do and he would fix our food as I gave him instructions.  What a cool nine year old.

"Boil four cups of water.  Get the spaghetti out of the pantry and put it in the water.  Open a couple of cans of Contadina tomato paste.  Chop up an onion.  Brown a pound of hamburger in the iron skillet."  Eventually, we would have spaghetti sauce.  He got really good at fixing dinner.  He could even make gravy.  Eventually I didn't have to tell him what to do.

He liked to cook.  He still does.   Between the two  of us, we got dinner on the table every night.  Ken and the girls would come home, and we would all sit down together to eat.  Ken brought home a paycheck.  The girls set the table and took care of Jonathan.  Scott cooked dinner.  And I sat around doing not much of anything for three years.  It was awful for a Type A personality.  But God is good.  And now I am semi-normal.  Whatever that is.

Psalms 23:1 "The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want....He prepares a table before me..."