The scent of slow-cooked poor man's meat is the backbone of my childhood memories. Walking in the door after practice, I'd kick off shoes, drop bags, and haul tail up the basement stairs to hang out in the kitchen. My Mama's house smells like love.
We ate her out of house and home. For the life of me, I can't figure out why she never punished us for eating a box of hot pockets, and every snack in the house, in two days. My dear children, who went far too long without lunchbox limits during Covid, get a regular budget lecture from me because we do not have the money, nor the time, for you to eat three cliff bars a day, sons.
We traveled east last weekend to celebrate my brother's wedding. My mom's pantry and fridge were bursting with snacks, chocolates, coffee and chai, eggs, bacon, blood orange Italian soda, cheeses, and meats. On our last night, Mama made a new rub for her roast, baked scalloped potatoes, and whipped some honey butter for the cornbread. We put the boys to bed early, poured glasses of wine, and sat together at the bar for a final meal together. Our baby girl (who will only sleep next to a warm body) pushed a stool in circles around the counter until she grew tired while we ate. The table is good for marking time.
An hour earlier, Cody drove us to the ocean.
We walked the wooden planks, fenced in by reeds and dunes, to stare at the water. The ocean at dusk is big enough to make problems and worries feel small. Creation is like food. It's repetitive and usual until we pay attention. Then we discover the power of presence, the sacredness of ordinary.
Isaiah 42 says, "A bruised reed he will not break, and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out. In faithfulness he will bring forth justice; he will not falter or be discouraged till he establishes justice on Earth. In his teaching the coastlands will put their hope." This entire chapter is stunning, but these two verses come alive for me. It's easy for them to live in my belly as accurate because I grew up watching reeds bend like points on triangles and live to stand up straight again.
I know that seasons and storms bend trees and bare them naked, and I trust that Mother Earth nurtures and repairs. The connection in the metaphor from creation to us is a short bridge for me to cross over. We are not as fragile as we think, to be sure, but when we are bent to the point of breaking, it is difficult to trust that God will be able to lift us from sorrow and anxiousness to joy and freedom. Faithfulness that will not falter from a God who is not weary, discouraged, or passive will establish justice here.Â
But, to tell you the truth, I find him slow, an ordinary keeper and marker of time.Â
Most years, I read through Holy Week in the Bible daily. I have neither the energy nor time this year. Maundy Thursday, though, causes me to reflect and give thanks. It is so human and relatable, connected and true. I can see the disciples gathered at a wooden table to share a last meal, dipping bread, laughing together, listening to Jesus drone on about love and vines and prayer. They carved out a respite from the Roman empire, economic hardship, caring for vulnerable neighbors, and the work, the work, the work, of ministry.Â
Our challenges are unique to us, but the humans were trifling back then - racist, sexist, ableist - all the "ists and isms." And hear me, Earth was really trying it, but it's clear that Jesus recognized that food could fix anything. (Do not try to tell me different. I am eating butter herb salmon at 9:30 pm while I chat with you. Soon, I will eat the last of our chocolate and put myself to bed. Food is medicine.) N.T. Wright said:
"When Jesus wanted to explain what his forthcoming death was all about, he didn't give them a theory. He gave them a meal."
I don't know where you are in your faith right now. But, it is only the ordinary that I trust—waking up, reluctantly putting two feet on the floor, mustering up every ounce of courage to show up honestly in my life, marking time with skylines, trees, flowers, conversations, and food. It is all I know to be true. This is love to me.Â
If that's your best too, I want you to be encouraged that it is enough. You don't have to be a hero or a cheerleader. You don't have to hide, perform, and pretend. You don't have to make things more than what they are. Come to the table. Sit and stay awhile. Listen to the words of Jesus and be rooted in the unfailing love and mercy of God.Â
Our weakness is our strength.Â
You may not have a mother close. That might be a wound too painful to bear. God, our Mother-Father, is close to the brokenhearted. And my friend, Jesus's house smells like love, too.Â
Blessing you after hours,
Ashley
This is beautiful! Thank you!