Ordinary Life

  Wasn't there always warm welcome,  plenty to go around?  With heads bowed in gratitude,  Here love once was found. 

There's a table, You've prepared for me  in the presence, of my enemies... 2011 Don’t hit back; discover beauty in everyone. If you’ve got it in you, get along with everybody. Don’t insist on getting even; that’s not for you to do. “I’ll do the judging,” says God. “I’ll take care of it.” ~ Rom12 As I walk through this season of mourning, I stop along the way sometimes, wondering if these promise are still true for me, despite my own humanity. I believe that my heart was in the right place, but I am told, too, that hearts are wicked and deceptive above all else.  I hope that I have been obedient.  I hope that the desire for peace and love is not a seed wasted.  Motives are harder to be sure of when denied a share of the harvest.  Still, I will trust. It's all I can do. 

Chapter 1: BiLo  Sometimes her list would require six, but usually, scrawled in blue Bic ink beside 'bananas' was a (7) in parentheses; a week’s supply of potassium until the next shopping day rolled around. I try to remember now who did her shopping before it became our job. Likely an array of her extended network of family and friends, for though she didn't drive, Aunt Nellie June was well-known, and well-liked. She needn't go out, we came to her. And truly, it was our pleasure to help; to just be in her orbit.  So it was, back when we were not just kinfolk but also neighbors, I would take the list she had made after consulting the weekly circular, along with her envelope of carefully counted money, to the Bi-Lo on the corner, and do her weekly shopping.  Her list was quite specific, calculated for maximum savings and minimal waste. Seventy years in one primary location had worn a groove in her routine. Amongst a rotation of seasonal produce and various household prod...

In their homes, and more intimately, their kitchens, I was always warmly welcomed. Warm, probably because there was always something delicious being cooked. Even at a young age, I was offered a helping role, a listening ear and the priceless gift of examples to follow. There are days in those kitchens I wish I could visit again, recipes I wish I had watched more closely, and soft, fleshy old women I wish that I could still glean advice from. This series of short essays and stories is an overdue payment of homage on the investments they made in me, a bank note of gratitude for those who are still, thankfully, with me.