I live at the end of the world now.
Small seaside town on the North Sea, which you can look out over and never see beyond the ineffable grey somewhere miles, miles away from where you stand. Does the water spill over here, cascade into space and then into the beyond, Lewis’s Dawn Treader hedging the circle of our existence?
The butcher in town knows me by name. Or, perhaps, knows me by cut. I walk in and he points out what’s new; I report what was good since the last time. The green grocer is the same, the fish monger, the cheese shop staff. We have come to understand one another in laughter and in commune.
We love food. It’s a language all its own.
I ask them if there’s something I can pray for when I prepare the meal with the food they provided me. More often than not, I’m asking God to make their tables as abundant as my own.