The Zen of Chicken Soup

I went back to St. Teresa's this morning, for the third time in a week. This time, Nguyen and the kids came with me. The boys were wiggly during the service. I found myself remembering why Sunday school was amoung the priorities at our new church.

I didn't cry as much this time. Just teared up a tiny bit.

The Gospel was very challenging... the one about the man who throws a wedding feast and no one shows up. They are all too busy. So he sends his servants out to grab whoever they can find. The servants manage to fill the place, but one of the guests isn't wearing wedding clothes. He is promptly bound up and thrown into the street.

Fr. Ray didn't discuss this particular passage during his homily, focusing instead on the much easier to manage Isaiah.

All the way home, the kids kept asking why we couldn't go to Bell Street anymore. They miss it. I do too, actually. Especially today. I found myself wondering why I left. Why I am forcing us to go through all this uncertainty and discombubulation. All this time as strangers in strange churches... never feeling at home. Missing our home. I know this is the desert experience. I know I long for what is familiar, even though it wasn't the right place for us. (That I am sure of.)

So, I made chicken soup. I stood at the counter and chopped onions and carrots and celery. (The Trinity of French cooking!) I pulled cooked chicken off the carcasses and cut it into bite sized pieces. I simmered the bones with water and salt and pepper and thyme and bay. I added the broth to the meat and the vegetables and some pasta. I listened to the Messiah.

I did laundry.

I wrote this post.

I am going to take a nap.