Wednesday, June 12, 2013

Little Prayers

Four over-ripe bananas sit in the fruit basket. Their yellow peels are speckled with deep brown spots. And so you say,

"We should make banana bread" because their perfect-meant-to-be-baked-bananas. You can already almost taste it.

But it has been a long week and your mother sighs do-we-really-need-to? You look at her, worn down and remember how much she has always already-done-for-you. It starts at birth and ends with cleaning the dishes from yesterdays party. We're always indebted to the mothers who already do-so-much.

"It just seems like a lot of work," she says, "and it's hot and that would mean turning on the oven"

It is hot. Sweltering.

"Alright" you say and smile. And it really is alright.

But then you hear a knocking on the door. A small tap, tap, tap. And a loud little voice calls out "I hear the t.v. on, I know they're there. Why aren't they answering?"

Mattie's mother calls out to him from their yard to stop, come back later.

You open the door. He smiles up at you from the 3 feet 6 inches of himself, a big grin. "This is from Beverley," he says, handing you a package all wrapped up in a clear plastic film.He runs back out into his yard.

It's a loaf of banana bread. From the neighbors.

and also from God.

2 comments:

  1. :) Beautiful writing, beautiful neighbors.

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  2. I'm crying--and the banana bread tasted like heaven too.

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