The Green Bowl Kind of Love

I didn’t expect to cry over a mixing bowl.

But the moment I stirred batter in my mother’s dark green ceramic bowl, memory flooded in like warm bread rising in the oven.

It’s a simple thing, really—dark green, ceramic, a little heavy in the hands. Chipped in one spot. Uneven in the glaze. But to me? It’s priceless.

I found it while packing up my 90-year-old father’s house before bringing him to live with me. Tucked quietly in the back of a cabinet, it had likely sat untouched for years. But the moment I saw it, I knew—I was bringing it home.

And now, it lives in my kitchen.

I use it for cookie batter, homemade pizza dough, potato salad. And every time I do, something deeper stirs.

I remember.

I remember that my mom worked long hours, alongside my dad, just to keep food on the table. I remember that I was the youngest of six—the baby of the “second set,” spaced 10, 12, 13, and 14 years apart from the first four. By the time I came along, they were worn thin.

She didn’t teach me how to cook. Or clean. Or even how to tie my hair back or wash my face right. She was busy surviving.

But she loved. Tirelessly. Without fanfare.

Dad and my three older brothers were volunteer firefighters—often rushing out the door mid-meal. Life was loud, unpredictable, and full of sacrifice.

And somehow… I was perpetually happy.

I spent hours wandering the land that wrapped around our home, barefoot and sun-warmed, never once questioning whether I was loved—even when I didn’t hear “I love you” until I left for college.

I said it first.
They said it back.
Eventually, it became our rhythm.

But there’s so much I wish I had thanked her for.

At the time, I didn’t know what I was missing. I didn’t know what she was carrying.

But now? I see it in sharp detail. The exhaustion behind her eyes. The cracked hands from too much dish soap. The way she showed up anyway.

She gave her best to all of us, in the small, faithful ways that don’t make headlines—but shape whole families.

And now, with her bowl in my hands, I stir the same kinds of things—food, yes, but also reflection. Gratitude. Grief. And grace.

I want to be that kind of mom.

The kind who shows up even when no one sees.
Who sacrifices in silence.
Who loves without needing recognition.

A green bowl kind of mom.

Maybe someday, one of my daughters will stand in her own kitchen, hands deep in dough, using this same bowl. Maybe she’ll feel something sacred stir—not just the ingredients, but the memory of being loved without needing to earn it.

And maybe—just maybe—she’ll whisper thank you, not just to me… but to the generations of women who loved through service, one quiet meal at a time. And to God, for the best "green bowl love" example of all.

If you’ve got a “green bowl” tucked away somewhere—a dish, a scent, a story—pull it out. Use it. Let it remind you that love isn’t always loud.

Sometimes, it’s ceramic.
Sometimes, it’s chipped.
But always, it’s enough.