Monday, March 4, 2013

{Soup For Your Soul}

Dark spills through the door, chased by sharp air, laced with prickly frost crystals as I let the dogs outside for their morning routine.

It is 5:30 A.M. on a Saturday morning. I'm already too aware  I should have been up before now to get done what the day demands.

My un-caffeinated mind slogs through the motions of gathering a few simple ingredients.

Large yellow egg yolks  plop into the glass bowl with a splash. It makes the milk pool around the outer edge. 

As I'm whipping eggs and milk my soul is churning over my friend.

Well, I consider her my friend.

She really doesn't know me.

But she trusts me with the keys to her home and to care for all that she loves.

At best she thinks I'm a nice person. 

Or worse she thinks I'm religious. 

And she isn't interested in the religion some have tried to shove down her throat.

Folks who quote large blocks of scripture. Words strung tight together that sound like a foreign language which need to be decoded for her ears. People who thump their finger at her, plus a list of do-not-do's.

Ya, she doesn't want to hear it.

She is not feeling well.

I don't know what to do, so I do what I know. 

I cook.

As I push my fists into the dough, thoughts press on my mind of how silly this is.

 -To make soup to comfort someone's pain. 

And this offering thin broth. Broth made by boiling bones from a carcass. That this will somehow help a persons frame heal?

Soup can be a soul-salve?

It just doesn't make sense really.

For the years that I spent wandering and wondering.

Would soup have made a difference?

As I cut ribbons of noodles I'm carving out words in my head to say to her. 

What I want to do is lean close and whisper to her, you are amazing. You are important. I'd tell her that I like her just the way she is and that I care about her pain. 

I'd tell her that I believe, Who I have believed in, enough to live it instead of preach it.

That I understand how true friendship is risky and that grasping the truths of an unseen God isn't easy.

The soup is a rolling boil and the rich aroma drifts down the stairs to my office where I sit and tap out a few lines that feel flat.

But these simple ingredients are my offering.

Combined with love and prayer. 

Extended with hope and acceptance.

Hand crafted noodles in soup is good.

Loving on people is better.

Jesus giving up His life on the cross for every soul...

  that is the best gift I know of. 

Does chicken noodle soup really matter?

I don't know.

But this I believe.

Loving matters.

Because every soul has some heart-hunger.
And every heart needs some soul-healing.

Try your hand at homemade noodles?

post signature


Post a Comment

I love hearing from you! Thank you for stopping by.

© Rhonda Quaney