don’t save the good dishes

This is a story about memory, rest, and everyday beauty.

Nine years and some months ago, Michael and I took four of our children on a really big vacation. We spent three days on the beach in Miami, five days at Universal Studios in Orlando, and then drove to Charlotte to stay with longtime family friends. We celebrated Evan’s 15th birthday on that trip, and we were all absolutely in awe of the Harry Potter sections at Universal. It felt like stepping straight into the films - the attention to detail in the buildings and rides was remarkable.

Naturally, we all wanted souvenirs to remember the trip, and I chose a keychain with a metal replica of the train ticket for Platform 9¾. Like most souvenirs, it eventually broke a couple of years later and quietly disappeared into memory.

Fast forward to May of 2024. Michael asked for passes to Universal Studios Hollywood for his birthday. While the Harry Potter section there is much smaller than Orlando’s, it didn’t stop me from looking for that same keychain whenever we went, and I wasn’t successful until our very last visit on May 5th, Michael’s birthday. I was so excited, a feeling he shared with me, and of course, I bought it.

After that, it lived in a dresser drawer; something that once occupied a year-long search, becoming the very last thing on my mind given Michael’s diagnosis just days later, and then it got packed up during our move to my mom’s house. Yesterday, as I unpacked more boxes and put things away, I came across it; tag still attached. That silly little keychain took my breath away. Memories came flooding back all at once, and I just stood there, holding it close, eyes filled with tears, remembering that day we spent together and how much fun it was.

The last couple of weeks have been full - and when I say full, I mean FILLED. Ask me if there’s anything you can do to help and I’ll respond with, “That’s a loaded question!” I’ll take a massage, a few days poolside, and a Cadillac margarita, thank you very much. Joking aside, the exhaustion is beginning to catch up with me. I can feel it. Add in the fact that I’ve caught the cold that seems to be making the rounds, and the fatigue is only fueling all the little fires I keep trying to put out, exacerbating the aches and pains of both body and heart.

“Oh, that I had the wings of a dove! I would fly away and be at rest. I would flee far away and stay in the desert; I would hurry to my place of shelter, far from the tempest and storm.” ~ Psalm 55:6-8

So today, I took a much-needed break. I ran a few errands, bought myself some fresh flowers - roses, carnations, calla lilies - and an iced vanilla Americano. I came home, arranged the flowers, put a lemon olive oil cake in the oven because baking relaxes me and because…cake, and made the most delicious marinated butter bean salad that I served over a few generous spoonfuls of cottage cheese (both recipes found on Pinterest and linked for you).

Sometimes, when I’m really tired, I need the softness of arranging beauty and the methodical movements that come with preparing something delicious to carry me along until I can make my way to bed - heating pad on the highest setting, something good to watch that I will most likely fall asleep to (currently, Bookish on PBS Masterpiece).

For now, let me leave you with a small bedtime story.

Not so long ago, owning fine china was a thing. It was passed down from grandmother to mother to daughter or chosen by new brides and added to wedding registries alongside serving pieces, crystal, and flatware. These days, those traditions and the beauty of those treasured dishes have largely faded away.

When I was starting junior high and my mom began earning a little extra money, she would visit a local store in Long Beach called Victor’s. There, she slowly started collecting pieces of a china pattern she fell in love with; a delicate, gold-rimmed affair with pink and white carnations. Over time, she grew the collection into service for eight. Very occasionally, she would bring them out for special celebrations.

I called them “the rich plates.” They were fancy, and I knew enough to understand that they were expensive and significant to her (her grandmother’s fine Haviland China having been donated to the church, and no wedding guests bearing fancy, wrapped packages). I can probably count on one hand the number of times we used them. They were that dear.

I hadn’t seen those dishes in at least 30 years - truly not exaggerating - until recently, while cleaning my mom’s home in preparation for our move. And there they were. The Rich Plates! Every single one intact, still just as lovely as I remembered.

Tonight, for the first time in a very long time, they were brought out (Daniel and I making up silly stories of what the dishes had been saying to one another during their long season of disuse). The occasion? Homemade cake, a cup of tea, and the decision to let the rich plates become our everyday dishes, because beauty shouldn’t be hidden away.

And with that, sweet loves, I bid you goodnight as I leave you with the Bedtime Shema.

“Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, who brings sleep to my eyes, and slumber to my eyelids. May it be Your will, Lord my God and God of my ancestors, that I lie down in peace and that I arise in peace. May my sleep be undisturbed by troubling thoughts, bad dreams, or wicked schemes. May I have a night of tranquil slumber. May I awaken to the light of a new day, that my eyes may behold the splendorous glory of Your light. Praised are You, God, whose glory gives light to the entire world.”