Love and Anger in a Plate
I walked back quietly to my fortress,
the weather still knocking me down,
yet determined not to give in
to needing any help.
Then, after a short while of quiet reflection,
the door was flung open,
and a tray of something unfamiliar and irritating
was carefully placed down, then turned back.
At first look at what was on it,
I felt like fighting, a quiet voice underneath
seemed to say, “Do not touch this.”
Then I remembered a vow I made thirty years ago,
and my face changed for the better.
Eba and stew, like a hungry man
who will grab at anything in sight
this was more than I could understand.
At that moment, I let the food speak to me.
This plate was given in love, as duty required,
yet it also spoke of the frustration
of not wanting to do it at all.
I understood the message right away,
like the shared fault of an overpampered,
sickly weakling who will eat now
and complain later.
As I sank the fork into the soul of the eba
and wrapped it around the aromatic stew,
the moment it touched my tongue,
something betrayed me, unplanned but irresistible.
A familiar feeling opened up,
my mind travelling back four decades,
turning it into a truly delicious meal,
destroying any power to complain.
How can a served plate cut so deep,
speaking many languages at once?
Love that serves, anger that disappoints
a weapon that disarms,
turning complaint
into thanks and praise.
For in the mind of Christ,
this was never just a plate of food,
but a message:
always pause,
and think again.
©TheVillageBoy.
(The Figure Man Who Loves Alphabets)
