As I eased into consciousness this morning, a lovely plate of plastic corn and plastic chicken appeared at my elbow. It was served by my four-year old nephew, wearing football pjs and a smile that nearly split his face. He demonstrated that the chicken needed to be eaten with both hands, because when you eat it that way, you can turn it to see the teeth marks that signify your progress.
But because I was on the phone, and not quite ready for breakfast, I couldn’t partake immediately. I whispered that I would eat it all soon, and wandered to the dining room where I could hear better.
Shortly afterward, the plate appeared by my side again, this time with the addition of a teacup and teapot, but still served cheerfully by my humming, pajamaed waiter.
For the next forty minutes, wherever I settled in the house – upstairs bedroom, downstairs bedroom, kitchen table – the same inviting plate showed up.
After a while my relentlessly cheerful, endlessly patient nephew upped the ante – he put the plate, teacup and teapot on a tray and, with the newly expanded space, extended his offerings to include luscious plastic strawberries and a rather daunting plastic croissant. And he added another teacup and teapot so he could join me, humming mightily by my side as he waited for me to enjoy all he had prepared.
He’s been a picture to me of intentional, pursuing love. Wherever I’ve gone, he’s gone. Whatever he’s offered has been his best, what he’s invested himself in. It’s all been cooked up and arranged with love and creativity. Just like God has been with me, just as you have been with me, he has been today.
Thank you for being where I go. Thank you for deliberately intersecting your days with mine. I know your football pjs may not fit you anymore, and you may have misplaced your recipe for plastic chicken, but you have cheered me nevertheless, and sustained me as fully as one fine, still humming, four-year old nephew.
Well, I guess it’s time for lunch. Hm, should I start with the corn first or the chicken?