If you went to my mama’s on Sunday, there was always cake.
There might be roast beef, butterbeans, corn and biscuits.
There would be mashed potatoes, thick and creamy, with a little place where the butter sat in a little hollowed out center.
Some gravy on top and sweet, glazy carrots, onions.
We’d eat together and we’d talk. Maybe walk to the pond or nap.
Waiting for time for a piece of cake.
Maybe caramel, coconut, pound or “thin layer” chocolate.
The one with the yellow softness of 16 or so tiny layers, thin and spongy.
Striated like zebra, chocolate, layer, chocolate, layer, chocolate….
The dark, dark sweet chocolate cooked stovetop and then poured on top of layer, one by one, smoothed with big, flat knife…slowly, gingerly.
Layers baked on the old black griddle and then eased onto a towel spread on kitchen counter.
Easy talk about life as I watched my mama bake, so lovingly and at peace.
She’d gently take the layers, one by one, placing carefully on a pretty cake plate as she added the rich, chocolate, shiny icing, still warm from the pot.
Chocolate icing so thick with sugar, melting like warm grains of sand on the tongue.
This past Sunday, we talked about the bread of life.
How we all try to fill ourselves up, seeking to be content.
Jobs, cars, clothes, burgers, fries, recognition, acclaim and appearance.
I thought this morning of the insatiable seeking for more, for better, for as good as him, as attractive as her. Wondered if joy were measurable, if contentment could be calculated, would it even be a ripple in the sea of our heart’s deepest desires.
To never have cake again on Sunday at mama’s is just a tiny little longing.
My heart knows the scene, holds the image, keeps safe the memory. It’s just as sweet, sweeter maybe.
To never be famous, have my art only on the walls of friends and family is unimportant, really.
As long as my heart knows the abandonment of paint covered hands and the chance to step back to gaze for a long time at an image known by my soul alone.
To write on this little blog, almost 300 times now… yet, never place a book of my words in the hands of my children.
Is not so tragic as long as my words get to come together occasionally in a way that reflects my soul.
My heart…that’s contentment.
Because your love is better than life,
my lips will glorify you.
I will praise you as long as I live,
and in your name I will lift up my hands.
I will be fully satisfied as with the richest of foods;
with singing lips my mouth will praise you. Psalm 63:5
Linking up to Tell His Story with Jennifer Dukes Lee