Come Home, It's Suppertime

We were in Arkansas last week. All of our family, and I mean "all," lives back in the natural state. We saw my parents for a few days and then traveled up to my girlfriend's sister's place to finish up the week. They were good visits. But also hard visits.

I kept realizing how difficult it was for all of us to really listen to one another. Oh, we talked alot, but I'm not sure we "listened." Know what I mean? Nobody was at fault or to blame. No, I believe we all had/have so much going on in our lives that we were pre-occupied. There were already conversations going on within ourselves about ourselves, our lives, our jobs, our kids, our marriages, our health, our happiness, our grief, our future, and our past. And somtimes, it's hard to get in on a conversation that's already started. Know what I mean?

But there were moments of communion and they all revolved around food, both it's preparation and it's consumption. I watched (listened) as my daughter and my mom followed recipies together and found their hands in common ground - chocolate, rising flour, fruit and salad. All the other conversations had to be put on hold while attention (prayer) was given to measuring correctly, greasing where appropriate, and preheating like the book says. My daughter and my mom communed with one another in those moments; it was beautiful to see (hear).

I saw (heard) my girlfriend, her sister, and their mother all focused on what goes in the dressing. All other thoughts were on hold as celery, sage, cornbread, eggs, onions (I must stop there or I'll give away their secrets) were chopped, grated, torn asunder, and lightly beaten. They moved around one another in a kind of dance - the kitchen shuffle. Communion. Being with one another. Maybe as close as possible for right now.

I was given the honors of cutting the bird for one table. Norman Rockwell would not have chosen me as his carving model. I set that pressure aside and stripped the bird, quickly abandoning the knife in favor of the hands. And for a few moments, I was stilled and quiet, pulling away the meat to put on a platter so family could come by and pile their plates with it. My girls like white meat, my dad wants the legs, and me, yeah, nothing like dark meat. The renegade priest handing out the "bread" of communion - "this turkey, broken for you." Amen.

Some folks say we are a people obsessed with food. Maybe. I say that somedays, we're crying out for communion with one another. We love each other so much it hurts, it really does, but we don't know how to approach one another; there are so many conversations already going on. And so, when we can, we wash our hands and don our aprons and crack open the good books and de-lid the cans of broth and step into the grace and wisdom of a child's prayer:

God is great, God is good.
Let us thank Him for this food.

Know what I mean?