Sitting down to my grandmother’s kitchen table for dinner always started the same way. We’d hold hands, bow our heads, and someone would start to pray.
“In the rush of a busy day, oh Lord, we pause to give you thanks. For food, for family ….”
There’s a third for something that’s escaping me now. I haven’t sat at her kitchen table for awhile.
This time warp of Covid and constant vigilance has me dancing between a frantic feeling of trying to pack summer and outdoor safety into a container before the weather again gets cold.
It’s time, again, to pause.
I bow my head. I say a prayer of thanks for these beautiful things.
Slices of melted mozarella cheese squished between fresh pesto and late summer peaches.
A friend who picks up the phone after I text, “Can I call you tonight?”
Tomatoes so juicy their insides drip down your chin, begging to be sopped up with fresh bread.
A persistent daisy poking its way through the soil, against the odds, timelines of shoulds forgotten.
Pink nail polish on tanned toes.
I’ve only got five items today – pushing for more feels like squeezing a tube of toothpaste that’s been clogged for awhile. I’m out of practice. What’s happening in the world right now is overwhelming, perplexing and sad.
If you squeeze your container a little harder in an attempt to extrude the good, what beautiful blobs would emerge?