A God Who Feeds Us

Those of us who choose to find life’s source as a God who out of compassion took human form in Jesus of Nazareth form do not have a lock on certainty.  But we do have, by faith in this particular man as the son of God, a doorway into the warmest memories of our lives, times when we have been fed.

“Oh, Johnny, I made your favorite” my mom would say as I carried my stuff into the house on my visits from college.  She was tiny, five feet-zero and maybe a hundred pounds, but with a huge smile that already imagined my delight with the “favorite” – probably Swedish Meatballs – about which she was for more excited than I was.  I don’t know what gave her the idea that these things were my favorites, but tears come to my eyes when I recall how much she wanted to feed me, to delight me in doing so, to make me feel special.  She was like the father of the Prodigal Son, and Swedish Meatballs was the Fatted Calf.  For years after that visit from college, Swedish Meatballs was one of the entrees at every family celebration.  We would gather around the ping pong table in their basement, my dad’s Polish Palace, all six of us kids, and soon our wives and husbands and soon, too, our kids.  The Thanksgiving after my dad almost died from a heart attack, he wept through his attempt just to say he was thankful to be with us.  This was our “new” old man, who could allow himself to be moved.  Something in him had broken when his heart almost stopped.  It was his shell, the covering over his feelings, his feeling s of love, and of gratitude.  Those of us who were able to, wept with him, but all of us were aware of the holiness of this table around which we were gathered, covered with food prepared by this tiny woman, several entrees, everybody’s “favorites”.  “Amen,” somebody said. “Pass the Swedish Meatballs!”

Denis was grilling chicken in his backyard as Kathy introduced me to her half-sister Mary in San Francisco.  He seemed to know that Mary was the star, the center of this reunion between women who shared the same father but different mothers, mothers who died when they were still children.  As we chatted around the kitchen table, Denis would come in from time to time to check on the food in the oven, the sauce on the top of the stove.  Soon he brought in the chicken, and we all sat at the table with Denis, Mary, and their three kids.  Denis looked at me and said, “I’ve prepared something you might like,” his smile suggesting there was a story.  He opened a serving dish and out came a delightfully fragrant cloud of flavor, of butter and something like lobster.  He sliced the tender white abalone, describing to all of us how he and his son had scuba dived for it, taking their limit before the sea otters got to them.  It was delicious.  The potatoes were passed around, and the steamed broccoli, and the salad.  I filled my plate enthusiastically, following quite literally Denis’s encouragement to do so.  The beautifully barbecued chicken remained piled on a plate in the middle of the table; none of them had even looked at it.  I asked Denis why he did the chicken when the abalone was so good.  “I didn’t know if you would like it, so I did something safe for you.”   I will never forget his thoughtfulness.  In the twenty years since that dinner, Denis has lost his Mary; the otters and his age have deprived him of diving for abalone.  But every time we visit, there is the same warm smile, the twinkling eyes, the beguiling “I’ve prepared something you might like.”

Tomorrow – more about a God who feeds us - My brother Dan the agnostic and his morning coffee rite, and breaking bread with Toni.

 FreeLemonadeStand by John J. Daniels is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.