Thoughts over Breakfast

This morning is chilly, but the heat from the charcoal fire warms us while we wait for the sun to greet us. The long night of working has spilled over and I feel the ache. It seems my clothes will always be damp. What else am I supposed to do, though?

I though it was all over, that he was gone for good to a place that I couldn't follow. Don't get me wrong, I am overjoyed that he came back, but what am I supposed to do? I will just go back to work and do what I know to do. It feels good to work with my hands and see immediate gratification of an immediate response. Though I am weary, the work feels good.

But, even work seems different now that he is here. It is not...I don't know..."enough." The fire is attracting, warm, welcoming, but I do not want to merely sit. That doesn't feel like enough either.

He made breakfast, though. He made us breakfast! It doesn't seem right.

Sitting here enjoying a filing meal after a long night I am both at rest and, at the same time, wanting to move. (If I get up and go will he leave?) It seems like my world has changed and I don't fit in it anymore.

Stirring the fire as he cooks, we talk. We sit in the silence of the dawn, contemplating the newness of the day. This feels like a home I always longed for but never understood. Hope energizes me even in the most mundane of his words, but only through hearing more than what is comfortable. But, that is nothing new.

Oh, for more meals like this one!

Then, he looks at me with a fierceness and tenderness that I cannot run from. I have seen this look before.  He is a master at this. What is he about to say? Whatever it is I probably can't handle it. he always asks for more than I have, but in a strange way I welcome it. When he asks a question it always reorients my world.

“Simon, son of John, do you love me...?"

His words reorient the whole world.