Recipes Aren't Always What They Seem

Say what you mean and mean what you say

On my 10th birthday, my Mom gave me a gift that I have cherished above all others.

I had already opened my big present—a camera of my very own. My dad and brother had retreated to the backyard, putting the finishing touches on the birthday barbecue. That’s when Mom quietly slipped a square-shaped box onto my lap.

I looked at her, puzzled. She simply said, “This is a special gift—from me and many others—to you.”

Even as a child, I sensed that this was no ordinary gift. So, I opened it slowly, carefully.

Inside was a recipe book titled “My Favorite Recipes.” Not quite what I was expecting.

Mom motioned for me to open it. On the first page, in her familiar handwriting, was a note that read:

To Laura Ann Rockwell on your 10th Birthday.Happy Birthday! This is a special recipe book filled with lots of love from the many members of your family that have lovingly prepared these recipes in the past. Please add your own favorite recipes to this and it will become your favorite recipes too. Lovingly,Mother, Grandma Burrill, Great Grandma Burrill, and Great Grandma Schwartze.

I turned the pages and saw cards slipped into each plastic sleeve: Great Grandma Burrill’s Yeast Rolls. Jam Coffee Cake from a visit to Aunt Lois Dean. Grandma Burrill’s Pumpkin Pie. Every single recipe, a memory. Every card, a thread connecting me to the ones who came before me.

For me, that book sent me into a tizzy of happiness. It still does.

That same sort of happiness often catches me off guard when I think about all the good things God has done in my life. The kind of happiness that’s tinged with awe. Because the longer I live, the more I’m convinced: God keeps showing up with care and kindness—no matter how we feel, what we think, what mood we’re in, or how gracious or cranky we are. God keeps offering love. Welcome. Peace. Over and over again.

And here’s the thing—I almost missed it - all of it. You know why?

Because somewhere in my later adolescence, I discovered that many of the “original” family recipes weren’t original at all. Great Grandma’s yeast rolls? They’re in Joy of Cooking. Grandma’s Pumpkin Pie? Right there on the label of Libby’s canned pumpkin.

I was so disappointed.

How could this treasured family heirloom be filled with borrowed recipes?

But I had misunderstood the assignment.

These weren’t just recipes. They were acts of love. Ingredients wrapped in memories. The cookbook wasn’t just a gift—it was a quilt of belonging, a map of the table that had always made room for me. Each copied recipe held its own sacredness because of who stirred it, why it was chosen, and when it was served. The recipes weren’t special because they were original—they were special because they were ours.

I’ve come to learn that God’s generosity is often like that.

We look for dazzling miracles and extraordinary experiences—when often, what we receive are the daily gifts of life: breath, a sunrise, the perfect cup of coffee, the friend who texts at just the right moment, a song on the radio that speaks right to your soul.

We can miss it if we’re not paying attention.

Gratitude grows in the soil of surprise. When we lose our wonder and awe—when we trudge or zoom through our days—we risk missing the extraordinary ordinary gifts right in front of us.

But when we savor life, when we taste it—like a slice of pumpkin pie at just the right moment—we remember: we are deeply loved.

The recipe book my mom gave me is still on my shelf. It’s stained now, dog-eared, added to over time. It holds newer recipes, from my own family—some original, some borrowed, but all beloved. And like the grace of God, it continues to nourish.

I’m reminded of one of the questions United Methodist clergy are asked at ordination:“Do you expect to be made perfect in love in this life?”Not perfect in skill. Not perfect in originality. Perfect in love.

I think of that now, every time I open that book.

Because recipes—like grace—aren’t always what they seem.