Christ’s Keeping

We make this life together,
our own dusty prints over the road;
our own hands making up
and turning down the beds;
our own mouths tasting
the bitter and the sweet, the salty and the sour;
like Rumi’s chick pea and cook,
we are each other’s teacher,
hitting each other with the skimming spoon,
boiling in our passions and in our sufferings,
in our mysteries and in our unknowings.
And these baby chick peas
we think we are cooking; they are
cooking us, the little gurus, the little lights,
the little creatures bedazzling our tapestry,
its bedraggled edges torn through sleeplessness
and sorrows.  We are all jumping in and out
of this blessing pot together, our understanding
deepened and flavored, our love seasoned and spiced.
Our beds warmed and cooled; you are my blanket,
I am your pillow; they our comforters, we their bed.
Our footprints pressing deep and creating distinction.
We carry each other over the road, through the joys.
Christ within us, keeping together.

I sweep the onion from the cutting board

I sweep the onion from the cutting board
into the hot pan; the slices quickly sizzle in the golden oil.
Peppers, garlic next. The air fills with sweet steam
and everyone wonders what’s happening in the kitchen.

Next, the chicken, cayenne pepper, coriander,
sea salt, black pepper. Diced tomatoes deglaze
the pan and make the sauce.

“What’s that good smell?” asks the little one.
“Quinoa and chicken” I say.
“Mmmm, like the kind I liked last time, but different?”
“Yes. Like last time, but different.”

“Quinoa,” says the big one as he passes by. “Hm.”
“Quinoa?” questions the littlest one
with a wrinkled-up nose and squinty eyes, “Quinoa?”

And the babe tugs on my pant leg for a hug.
He doesn’t say anything, but he gobbles it up.