I went to lunch today with my friend Karen. We ordered at the counter, and when the woman who took our order asked for a name, I said, “Karen,” then added, “the Magnificent.” We didn’t think she heard the last bit, but as we walked to our table with the name holder the woman had give us, I looked at the index card tucked into the holder. It did indeed read Karen the Magnificent.
The Magnificent Karen and I sat outside, savoring the beautiful day along with our lunch. We talked of the things that are giving shape to our lives these days, of the work that energizes us and the mundane tasks that drain us, of ongoing efforts to find a workable rhythm, and of how it can be a challenge to find breathing space when the truth is that we love what we do and find it difficult to pull ourselves away from it.
The past became present at our lunchtime table. Somehow we got to talking about orange blossoms—the scent from the orange tree outside my bedroom window has infused the past couple of weeks—and shared memories we each have of growing up amidst citrus groves: riding down the highway with the windows rolled down and smelling the blossoms, the calls that came on freezing nights to say it was time to fire the groves, the final firing on a bitter night in the mid-1980s when the heaters could not save the trees.
Karen and I talked of pets we’ve had, and of what we learned in taking care of them—things we never imagined needing to know (learning how to express the bladder of a paraplegic kitten was at the top of my list). I told her about Sam, the splendid mutt who was a dirty, abused mess of a dog when my mom found him at the animal shelter one day when I was in middle school. Mom spotted something in him that initially eluded me when I came home that afternoon and thought a stray dog had wandered up to our house. As Sam settled into our family, had a bath or two, and began to unlearn his fear, it didn’t take long to see that—as Mom had suspected—he was a gem.
The memories that a meal can stir . . .
There is something in the breaking of bread that calls forth stories and creates new ones. Now my recollections of orange blossoms and of animals I have known are linked with a meal I savored today with Karen the Magnificent, and each of these is now part of a story I have shared with you. And perhaps this story will tug at threads of memories that you carry, and you will spin them in turn at a table with a magnificent friend. And the telling will become part of the tale. And the tale, and the table, will become a sanctuary.
As the story of the daughter of Jephthah continues, we find her and her companions at a meal, remembering . . .
Saturday
Evenings were, by a common unspoken agreement, truce times. These were the times that enabled us to survive the journey. After the evening meal, we would linger around the fire. As the stars came out, we would tell stories that our mothers and grandmothers had passed down to us, stories of women who had survived journeys of their own. Each night as the moon rose and danced its arc across the sky, we would sing. All of us. And occasionally, just occasionally, between the songs I could hear a rushing wind, and the words seemed to come not from within us but from somewhere else, and I could physically feel them passing through me.
The nights passed quickly, and the days as well. All too soon we found ourselves, at Miriam’s leading, circling back toward Mizpah. Before long, we knew we were within a day’s journey of the town. Most of that day passed in silence as each of us contemplated what the return would be like—for Miriam, for ourselves, for we who had lived as a community for nearly two months’ time and who had found in one another’s hearts our true home.
We ate the evening meal in silence. When we had finished the meal and the moon had begun to rise, Miriam pulled a wineskin and some bread from her sack. She served the bread to each of us, and she said, “We are like this bread. We have sustained one another on this journey as bread enables a body to live. We are different from one another, yet together we are whole. When you break bread with one another, remember what we have shared. When you do this, I will be there with you.”
Miriam served the wine to each of us, and she said, “We are like this wine. We have poured ourselves out to one another on this journey, satisfying one another’s thirst in the way that wine can both bite and be sweet. We are different from one another, yet the blood of sisters flows through us. When you drink wine with one another, remember what we have shared. When you do this, I will be there with you.”
We ate and we drank. We told stories of a foremother who had helped lead her people to freedom, who had been bold and fiery and spirited, who had not reached the promised land. We sang Mother Miriam’s song, and we danced her dance. We huddled together, comfortingly, under the stars. That night I dreamed of passing through a great river, of turning around to see my friend Miriam behind me, of watching the waters pass over her as I touched the dry ground. I screamed, and she held me, silent, knowing.
Questions for reflection
What meals are embedded in your memory? What tables hold your tale? Is there a time you shared a final meal with someone, and knew it was the last time? What sounds, smells, tastes, touches, sights, words do you remember?
From Sacred Journeys © Jan Richardson
