The Ministry of the Cookie Lady

My wife, Sandra, and I were caring for Florence, my mother-in-law. I was feeling helpless and frustrated about how to lift Florence out of her increasing depression.

I knew Florence loved baking. So did I. She was known in town as the Cookie Lady, even featured in the local newspaper. She personally delivered her batches of cookies to nursing homes, to children’s hospitals, to small businesses, to neighbors and to shut-ins. But advanced macular degeneration and increasing dementia had robbed her from maneuvering well in the kitchen.

I got an idea. I asked Florence to show me how to make her favorite cookie recipe. She was hesitant but brightened at the suggestion. I assured her I would serve as her sous chef and help her. We struggled a bit with baking soda versus baking powder, but we finished our prep.

As we pulled out the first batch and savored the rich snickerdoodle, Florence started crying. Great, I thought, this was supposed to cheer her up. “We forgot something,” she wailed. I double-checked the recipe. Nope, everything was in that cookie. “I didn’t say a prayer before I put the cookies in the oven,” she said. “And I don’t know who these cookies are for.” I took in a ragged breath and said, “They’re for me.”

For Florence, each batch of cookies was her own personal ministry. An expression of her heart given freely.