I spent this rainy afternoon with women gathered around a table.
We watched and listened as our hostess demonstrated chopping and cooking techniques to create a soup meant to feed a crowd.
What is it about sitting in the presence of someone cooking a fresh meal that soothes? The steady rhythm of chopping, the steam from the pot, the aroma of onions and spices sauteed in butter? Is it that the cook does not skip a beat as she makes the meal just for you? While you watch. While you wait and listen. Comfort. This is comfort.
Thou preparest a table before me . . .
A hot bowl of red savory soup in the grayness of a stormy day, in a weekend of sadness. The world around is chaos. But here, in the corner of a dim sanctuary, we are breaking bread.
A scattered hum of words is spoken.
Just the sorts of conversations women who are grandmothers, great aunties, daughters, mothers of grown children have when they sit separated only by a full bowl, a full cup, a full plate. The stuff of life that fills novels and movies. Only real. Real people. Real tears. Real joys. Real life.
When the meal has ended and we prepare to go to our homes, we work together: washing dishes, collapsing and hauling away tables, setting the church to rights, loading the car with all the preparations and leftover food.
The motions are second nature. Each of us does exactly what we would alone, only there in harmony, in God’s house, working side by side.
We have been bonding over the work since time began.
Gathered at wells drawing water, gathered in fields harvesting grain, gathered at wine presses trampling grapes, gathered around rivers washing clothes.
In the common work of living and surviving we have always leaned on each other even as we do in this hour: Carrying heavy pots, folded tables, boxes of kitchen tools side by side by side. Wiping counter tops. Covering leftover food.
We are comforted, refreshed, encouraged. Ready to face the storm again.
Because of a simple bowl of soup, shared work, and living this season together.