Tray in hand

This morning's sunrise.

Tuesday was cold, gray. The sky wept constantly. Those tiny little soft raindrops that never really stick, only create little dots on the concrete. But I have a whole story to tell about Tuesday, so I’ll wait ‘til I have a bit more time. I woke up late this morning, but early enough to come in here. Sip my coffee. Read the loving comments left by loving friends who understand. The man who gives the most helpful advice. I read his letter and smiled. Felt warm. Was so happy he asked me not to disappear, because I had thought I might, just walk slowly into that water ala Jeff Buckley, except fewer people (times a million) would care, and I'd never get famous because of it.

Poor Jeff Buckley.

While out at the lake, I was eating French Fries and thinking of how people eat in restaurants, looking out the window, and why don’t they just get their food to go? Eat outside too, but if they’ve paid for the all you can eat buffet, then no, they’re stuck at the table. And how life could be compared to lunch breaks, and all you can eat...

You pay once, and He hands you your tray. An empty plate, a cup, and small bowl. Dirty silverware wrapped in a napkin.

You carry it with wide eyes, thinking of all the wonderful things you'll find as you reach the long line of people waiting for food warmed by lights overhead, hooded and humming, the ceiling fans spinning, the smoking section filled with coffee and fog. The kids crying for soft served ice cream, with sprinkles and chocolate and cherries on top. Mommy, I want it! And Mommy says no, grabs the kids by the arm, and yanks 'em away, as Daddy stares out the window.

You finally reach the front of the line, and everything's half empty. The potatoes have lumps. The chicken's pink.

What the hell is that yellow stuff supposed to be?

You think of the germs on the handles of the spoons and giant forks as you fill up your plate with the less questionable offerings you thought would be worth the price of admission, but now you're wishing you had bought an actual meal.

The full plate on the table before you. You unwrap your silverware. You take a deep breath, and take your first bite.

It's not nearly as good as you thought it would be. And all this food? All you can eat. The promise He made, and you took it, with a heavy plate, and only an hour to eat. The lunch break, the time inbetween walking into this place and being forced to leave...He takes your tray, and says, I hope your happy with the choices you made.

You say, I'm not. I would have rather had something from the kitchen, then the same old mundane choices like potatoes and chicken. I don't want to sit and eat all I can eat with too much to eat and no time to eat it. I thought I was getting the best deal...the most I could fit on my plate would mean more life, but it only means less time and space for the more important things. Like ice cream with sprinkles and chocolates and cherries.

Sweetness with fruit, sugar, and color.

He nods, knowing you've realized living like a child will bring you happiness, for as an adult, there's no one to tell you no. No father to ignore you.

You stand up and smile, and He hands you your tray. You march to the trashcan before it's too late.

You empty that plate that was too full of things, some good and some bad, and fill up your bowl with nothing but great! Place it in the center of your tray. Balancing is easier as you make your way back to your seat.

The empty chairs remind you of those who aren't there, but of those you wish would surround you for always. The people you love and the ones you hold dear. You hope they have full lives, but light trays for the brightest of days and nights.

Ice cream for everyone!

All you can eat...

All the time.