Vigils.
Bowl on counter. Page 119 of the recipe book. Milk, flour, sugar, melted butter, egg and, of course, raspberries go into the circles in the pan and the warmth of fire.
Hot water from the pot over Irish breakfast tea steeps in a simple teapot under a celtic cozy. Sugar, milk, spoon in the mugs that sit next to my mother's plates.
After yoga, I wake the boys. "Good morning sweet boys," I speak into darkness. A grunt. A man sized body turns over under the covers. I lean into the bottom bunk and find Roddy buried in the down. "There are raspberry muffins on the table for you," I whisper.
He throws back the blanket and bursts out of bed. "Hooray!"
Lauds.
At the far end of the table, he carefully places two warm muffins on Ian's plate. "How many do you want mom?" He sets them aside.
The rest are his. He peels back the paper. Steam dances before his face. Eyes closed, he begins to eat. His delight the only gratitude I need.
"If they served raspberry muffins in church, everyone would come," he reflects.
"What do you think this is?" I ponder in my heart.
Eucharist - Thanksgiving.
