| Sunny Side Up Jan. 18, 2006 �2006, Kathleen Gibson My sacrifice of praise I don't drink much coffee - only decaf, and even that, rarely. But early this morning I shuffled to the kitchen and put on a pot. Irish Cream, decaf. In the living room, I plugged in the Christmas tree, still standing halfway into January; turned on the fireplace, and lit six candles. I needed something to push back the darkness and soften the harshness of electric lights on eyes newly wakened. Besides, our son's three-day visit would be over within the hour, and I wanted him to remember home this way. Full of light and warmth and the fragrance of great coffee. While we waited for his roommates to pick him up to begin the journey back over the prairies to the mountain community they now call home, we sat in the glow of those candles, sipped coffee, ate oranges and biscotti, and talked. He couldn't come home for Christmas this year. The Preacher and I understood. But joy has no license to sit on one calendar square only, and the bow on my Christmas package arrived two weeks late, in the tangle of Anthony's long arms and mine knotted into one super-sized hug. His three days home contained something we'd rather have omitted. The Preacher, as I write, lies in the hospital. His old nemesis, kidney stones, have struck again. It was up to me to farewell our boy today. As most moms of growing boys, I was no perfect parent. Like most children of growing parents, he was no perfect son. He left home, and we both grew up. Which is why today I resonate with a strange desire to do something I've never wanted to do before. Like the mothers of ancient Israel, I would gather my best offering; a lamb or a dove, even a calf, and go to the temple of Almighty God and make a sacrifice. Or two. I must. I have no more room in my heart to hold my praise, and it seems right somehow to spill it out on a holy altar. But I'm a modern woman. Christian, not Jewish. Besides, I wouldn't know what to sacrifice if it flew into my window. So where does a mother go, what does a mother do, to thank the Highest Being in the Universe for the gift of something she's prayed for for years? A prodigal mother and son reunited. A right relationship restored. Son, mom, God, all where they should be - loving each other. And so I lit six candles. Drank Irish Cream decaf coffee and ate biscotti for breakfast with my son. Prayed aloud in a room made holy with love and light, for angels to accompany him and his friends. A sacrifice of praise to our God of grace for his perfect parenting, his patience and protection for prodigals, and his promises to guide us all the way home. Then I hugged Anthony good-bye, waved him off, and blew out the candles. Outside, dawn opened up the dark. Respond Home |
 |