Manna

After PawPaw's funeral, 25 or so of my family members went to the Southern Baptist church that many of them attend. Sad, teary-eyed, and weary, we walked in. I was warmly greeted by a man I did not know, telling me in the Kentucky accent my grandfather shared, that, "The food ain't gonna eat itself." Along two sides of the large room were plastic folding tables holding a cavalcade of Crock Pots and Tupperware containing homemade noodles, potatoes, beans, fried chicken, and a myriad of sweets: simple food, "hillbilly" food, my favorite food.

As I walked the buffet filling my plate, I could picture the women of this church preparing the food, for I'd seen my MawMaw do the same many times. I knew what their intent was. So, as I ate (and ate), I felt better, less sad, and along with a to-go box of food insisted upon me, I left with a smile.

It wasn't until the next day, when I was eating a piece of cake from that to-go box, that it hit me. This food is love--made from kindness, served with compassion, wanting nothing in return. I swear to you that with each bite I took, my soul was touched; by the time I'd polished it off, I felt downright happy.