We Kept the Soup Warm

We Kept the Soup Warm

(“As the Lord had promised through Elijah, the bowl did not run out of flour nor did the jar run out of oil.” 1 Kings 17:16)

It took us so much longer than we planned.
We were ready to feed anyone who showed up
but our shoes were slow in the dusky ground.
Our resources were few,
our words even less,
we counted the heads, and we counted the eagles
that flew above the trees. They could see everything.
They said there could be snow in the morning,
they said it might turn to rain. They did not
push their narrative,
they only mentioned it as a percentage of
weather we saw yesterday.

It was no accident, and we kept the soup warm,
it was no frivolous expense of funds.
We trusted the bread into the hands
of children, we placed bowls and
slices in front of the elders who sang
old songs like echoes in a canyon.

We walked some of them home
along the river where the sun sets like
a bird diving in the water. The rainbows
slept for the night and our noses were cold
by the time we came back inside.

We washed the dishes, emptied the coffee,
wiped the tables, and mopped the floors.
We tried to sing the song we had heard,
the words were scattered across the room.

An Extra Can of Soup

 

An Extra Can of Soup

(“Now He who supplies seed to the sower and supplies bread for your food will also multiply your seed sown and increase the fruits of your righteousness.” 2 Corinthians 9:10)

Please don’t follow me home only to
turn around and leave me
there alone.
I have no money, but an extra can of
soup and an apple or two. Perhaps Spring
will allow us this modest repast
so I have someone to talk to.

I don’t want to be selfish,
I don’t need the attention,
I don’t want the focus on myself,
I don’t need to lengthen your stay
beyond darkening evening.

I need someone to walk up my gravel driveway,
someone I once prayed for,
or
someone I once stayed with
past the shock, past the incongruent murmurs
of friends with no words.
Someone I delayed with
until the tears were rivers,
until the rivers were dry,
until the sentences became only sighs.

I’ve had offers, I admit. And then the trauma insists
I’ll freeze in the sun
the moment anyone
enters my door. Something keeps the words
choking in my throat. I want someone
I can cry with.

Will you do me the kindness,
(and perhaps I can find a loaf of bread)
to wait with me on days when I am tired of
being brave,
when courage is too exhausting,
when I cannot answer with faith or certainty,
when I only want to nap for an eternity.

Will you do me the kindness,
and hand me a handkerchief, please.
I’ve been waiting for seeds to be planted,
for bread to be abundant,
and a place to lay my head.

The Suggestion

The Suggestion

(“The world cannot hate you, but it hates me because I say that what everyone does is evil.” John 7:7)

We are a soup, stew at best, full of spice and
onion,
knifed flesh and potato. On the chilly days
of rain, the darkening moments when pain pulls
the feet from one graveled step to the next, our
aroma fills the senses and covers senseless stains
left on towels and carpet.

If death is in the pot we do not know by the tasting.
No one complains, the stew is plainly satisfying, though
no one noticed the green peels of potatoes left
on the kitchen floor.

Why dampen the home and comfort,
we are full of good eating, and famine is older
than the recipe we have used from grandmother’s
mother and twice over again.

We are stew barely potable; pottage with rich aroma.

We are the best thing on a rainy day, warming toes and bones
and heart and face. But the trace that swirls round
the stewed liquid runs through all our methods of
preparation. We know it so well that we know nothing
else at all.

Until we taste the bouillabaisse prepared, not by a chef,
but by fishermen at the end of a long day of cold air
and freezing hands. Manna, bread of heaven, you
must
understand.

We do not hate you, we barely know you. We
hate the suggestion we have not perfected
our recipes
by now. We compete with contaminated hands,
while you stand by and watch,
but,
just before we would poison it all you salt the stew
with Your own death; tasting it once for everyone.
We barely know you. But there is now life in the stew
where you drank our diseased preparation.

Excuse me, someone is at the door, and, if I am right,
it is the knocking of One who, upon my hearing,
will take the time to sup with us tonight.

"Of Birthrights and Homemade Soup"

“Jacob gave him bread and the stew of lentils. He ate and drank, got up and left. That’s how Esau shrugged off his rights as the firstborn.” Genesis 25:14 (The Message)


My mother was really a pretty good cook, even though my dad used to joke that she didn’t even know how to boil water when they met. I would always look forward to the day after we had mashed potatoes for supper. She would whip up the best potato pancakes from the leftovers; fit for gravy or maple syrup. And her chili always made you think of a mountain cabin on a frosty night with a fire roaring in the fireplace.


But her homemade soup was another story! We had a huge chest freezer that sat in our garage. Every leftover from every meal that could not be immediately recycled was stored there. Containers waited out the freezing conditions filled with peas, carrots, extra ground beef, roast or pork. Frozen corn; canned, fresh or creamed joined the ranks. It didn’t matter if there was only enough for a mouse-size serving, it went into a plastic container and off to the cavernous freezer.

Then, when enough cartons had accumulated, Mom would decide it was time to make homemade soup. I usually found a friend’s house for supper on those occasions. She took everything that had been frozen out of the freezer and into the kitchen. I don’t think she ever labeled anything, either, so it was truly pot “luck”.

Into the pot they would go; the frozen veggies, from month-old lima beans to something that looked like spinach. It didn’t matter what animal it came from, every meat product from previous meals was thawed and thrown into the pot as well. It might have made a bit of difference in the flavor if Mom had used stock, but she started with water right out of the tap and boiled it all together. And it was horrid!

It always had little circles of oil collecting on the surface and no flavor was immediately distinct. It tasted like, well, what your whole meal would taste like if you just mashed it all together, poured hot water on it and spooned it up. It really was not fit for human consumption. But, Mom and Dad were raised to save everything, and they did just that. It taught me a bit of gastronomical discrimination!

That is the sort of meal that Esau gave his birthright away for. He was the elder of two twins and legally was heir to their father’s entire estate. But he was hungry. Instead of waiting, or at least trying to find a more palatable meal, he gave away his entire future for homemade soup.

It occurred to me that we often do the same. We are each born with a “birthright”. By birth, God has fitted each of us with talents, abilities and potential. Sometimes we must wait, and sometimes we must pass up lesser opportunities, but, given time and focus, we can develop our God-given birthright into something significant.

But we are often much too hungry now to develop the good thing God has for us. And, furthermore, we are also willing to accept the “lesser value” others put on us. “You aren’t worth any more than this bit of lentil soup”, we hear from others, and we begin to believe it.

Instead of listening to Father God and believing that we do, indeed, possess the birthright, we believe the “little lie” and give in to negative thinking about ourselves. We settle for unhappiness when we could have the joy of knowing we have an inheritance given us by God. We settle for momentary pleasure when we could have the fulfillment of knowing we are being used for something greater than ourselves.

Even apart from being born again, every single human being has a birthright. Every person born on this planet is heir to the gifts granted by God. For those who follow Christ, this birthright extends to eternity.

We are heirs to something greater than mere talents or human accomplishments. When we are “born the second time”, as Jesus describes it, we are invested with a birthright that takes us into the very heart of God. We are given a treasure chest of God’s best, a veritable inheritance of love, joy, peace and the rest of the outcome of being part of God’s family.

But, like Esau, we sometimes are hungry and let that hunger dictate our destiny. Esau must have thought his birthright had very little value at all to trade it for homemade soup. Perhaps he didn’t value himself at all.

If we would only learn to take upon ourselves the value with which God has measured us, we would live boldly and proudly for Him. Knowing the birthright we have as sons and daughters of God, why wouldn’t we let the gifts He has given us leap out and affect a world that is so often devalued?

We are the ones who can stand up and say, “You are not useless. Your life does have meaning. Don’t listen to those who call you stupid, puny or incapable. Turn a deaf ear to those who say your failure penalizes your future. You have a future, You have a birthright. Go, in the name of the One who gave His life and make a difference with His gifts working within you.”

Me, I still won’t touch Mom’s homemade soup, but I’m grateful to be raised by someone who knew the value of a person. What I found in Christ I saw exhibited in my mother first. God has made you for something. Your worth is proven by the price God paid for you. Stop undervaluing your place in God’s plan and get busy with the birthright promised by Your Heavenly Father.