I am on the tail end of a very bad virus and have been reflecting, over the course of this nasty bug, how I have been comforted. How those around me, who love and support me, have offered their sacrifices of time and talent at the altar of my needs.
Phone calls, emails and cards from several friends and family members, with concerns for my well-being, now grace my soul with words of comfort. But the most sacred act of all came from my husband.
After I spent a couple of days in fevered sleep, he awoke me with a steaming bowl of home made chicken soup. I could see the love, concern and pride in his eyes as he handed me the bowl, warning me to be careful, as it was hot. He waited while I ate several spoonfuls and then asked me if it was okay. I have to admit I was a little chocked up over the fact that he took the time to do this for me. Not to say that he doesn't cook for me, he does quite often, but there is just something about someone taking the time to shop for chicken, gather the vegetable from our garden, wash and chopped and simmer and season the soup and then offer it up as if it were the most heavenly food in all the universe. Which I have to say, at that time, was the most heavenly food in the universe.
So, is it the making and the giving, or is it the receiving and consuming that makes chicken soup a sacred thing. I like to think it is sacred on all accounts. To take the time and talent and create something that will bring comfort to another soul is sacred. To receive a gift in love from the hands of another human being and be warmed and healed by the very act of giving and receiving is a sacred moment.
Ahh! Chicken soup!
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