The tables were not always tables, but in the trueness of symbolism they were ever abundant. Last week I had the joy of eating with Micha and her family, Elora and hers. What passed between filled glasses and cheese plates, abundantly warm entrees and gently crafted delights was the binding word of sacramental life, love that fills all the spaces and pauses between, that makes old laughter out of new friends and gives in the fullness of time the harvest of memories that are life and food, as Wordsworth said, for the years to come.
Now I sit in cool of the afternoon outside the coffee shop, watching a world of wonder slowly ravel into evening. I am tired, draining my coffee cup with a thirsty spirit, taking in small bites of the Word to rest in. The night before was spent joyously, but laboriously, pulling up the freshly milled wheat and giving over what I had to be nourishment for those in need. Hours spent at tables, offering of the self with a delighted abandon. That day I had been blessed with enough wheat to give–that is the cosmic humor, that loaves and fishes are always in abundance, though the store cupboard seems ever uncertain. But I had given much, happy as I was to give it, and I am left here in the afternoon feeling joyously depleted.
Is this not love?
In the darker parts of my soul, which I am from time to time misfortunate enough to expose to others not to mention myself, I have to confess that my ability to love with such abandon often feels like a curse. Should not everyone give all the time, should not everyone be driven to serve, feed, bless? I sit back in the fullness of my storehouse, ready to distribute, but am often quick to wonder when someone shall come pass me by and offer something of the abundance that I have once given them. When shall be my feast? Where is my prize?
It is a terrible thing to love, for only in love can we be disappointed. Expectations, true expectations, do not exist outside of love. And our expectations can sometimes be damage, old scars, entitlement, or even the innocent delusion which supposes that everyone else must be like we are, must feel as we do, be as we find ourselves being.
But I have come to understand–at least in mind, slowly seeping into heart–that people love out of the capacity with which they are able to love.
Our storehouses are not the same, not in size or in design. We each love out of the fullness that we have to do so, give out of that which we are crafted and created. Shall I begrudge those who do not have such full stocks with which to work or even think that I myself have not failed in some way to provide for someone who has consider the same with regard to me?
What were those words Tamara spoke into my soul those months ago? We all haunt someone’s grace limit. (Words that had been first spoken into her by Carlos Whittaker.) Yes. And in harmony with that, I like to foolishly believe that more people intend good than ill and are less selfish than we may suppose. If these things may be true, perhaps we’re all loving as best we can, imperfectly, and the rest is in that–delighting in that, treasuring that, as a commitment to the vocation of our calling, our dance in the wanderings with Him.
© 2011, Preston. All rights reserved.
