I almost feel I owe the good folks who find time to read my little essays an explanation.  I always write something the week of Christmas.  But, it didn’t happen this year.

So somehow, in this week of in-between—between that joyous celebration and the new year—I wonder if this will do.

My loved one in the hospital was released to go home two days before Christmas, the occasion one for rejoicing.  It did mean there would be some vigilance necessary on my part—making sure there was food, and walks, and incision care until the surgeon could release her.

But, it meant there was a light ahead—the end of the tunnel in sight.

Until the next day—Christmas Eve—when symptoms led me to take a home test.

Covid.

Not the dread diagnosis it once was, I was certain I would weather it just fine.  But, there were house guests to protect.  And, our patient.

How could I care for her?

You know, there is always light.  The Lovely Lady was not positive for the pesky virus.  She agreed to take my place as caregiver for a few days.

It is not so dark here as I thought.

But, the Lovely Lady acquired a different virus.

Do you sense a pattern here?

Ah, but the Lovely Lady has a daughter—herself a Lovely Lady in her own right.  She stepped in and care continued.

Light conquers.  It does. Sometimes, it seems dim, but it’s still there—winning out.

Except…There’s this one thing that happened.

Near the end of last week, feeling better, I decided it was time to eat a cinnamon roll from a big batch one of our houseguests had made for the celebrations.  It was beautiful!  Blonde colored with brown sprinkles of cinnamon all over.  Just the right amount of browning from the oven.  Even a perfect quantity of glaze covering the entire roll.  Gooey, but not soggy.

Perfection.

I bit into the lovely concoction and waited for the explosion of flavors—light dough, spicy cinnamon, and sugar.  Especially sugar.

Nothing.  Absolutely nothing.

No taste whatsoever!

None.

I can’t taste my food.  My coffee.  My cough medicine.  Well, that last one might be counted a blessing.  But, still.

I’m sitting here in the dark again.  Poor, poor pitiful me.  I’m not sure life is worth living if I can’t taste my food.

Darkness comes in so many forms.

Some of you are laughing.  Others of you are nodding your heads.  You know what it’s like to be beset from every side, with every possible disaster or semi-disaster.  And, then there is the one that breaks your spirit—the straw that breaks the metaphorical camel’s back.

I’ve been thinking about tasting a lot the last few days.  Oh, I’m pretty sure I’ll taste my food again.  Although, I may never get over the memory that someone quipped this week that I have no taste.

But, I’m wondering how many of us have lost our sense of taste when it comes to the goodness and blessing of our God.

Church leaves a bad taste in our mouths sometimes.  Someone said something cruel.  The committee overlooked us in their list of volunteers to thank publicly.  The worship team didn’t sing the Christmas carol we wanted to sing more than any of the other junk—sorry, I mean songs—they prepared.

We prayed, but the prayer wasn’t answered.  There’s not enough money for the things we want.  Our relationship is damaged beyond salvaging.  You didn’t get that promotion you were promised.

For the last couple of days, I haven’t been able to get King David’s words out of my head.  David, the man who had just barely escaped with his life from an enemy king—and then only by pretending to be insane. 

And still, he wrote the timeless words.

“Oh, taste that the Lord is good..  And, see that the Lord is good.” (from Psalm 34:8, my paraphrase)

Taste.  See.  Experience it fully.

I sat down to a meal last night with our house guests, the serving dishes full of food prepared for us by my sister-in-law.  I was sure it was a wasted effort on her part—for me, anyway.  I wouldn’t taste a thing.

But, as I bit into the first delicious-looking forkful of beef stroganoff, I felt the giving texture of the pasta, cooked to perfection.  Then I noticed the just-right, almost squeaky, crunch of the onions.  And I couldn’t taste it, but the salt in the dish—just right, most there agreed—gave off a tiny bit of physical heat to the top of my tongue.

It was good!  I promise you, it was good.

I wonder if that’s the reason the former shepherd-turned-king told us to taste, as well as to see.  So we would experience our God fully.

Sometimes in the black of night, when it’s too dark to see, we perhaps can only feel—or hear—or reach out and touch Him.

I’m pretty sure it’s enough.

I may not have any taste, I mean, I may not be able to taste my food, but I still know that, in the middle of the darkest night, His Word is still a light for my path, a lamp I can hold near my feet to see the road just ahead.

And, it’s good. 

Really.  Good.

 

“I like reality.  It tastes like bread.”
(Jean Anouilh)

“Your words were found, and I ate them, And Your word was to me the joy and rejoicing of my heart; For I am called by Your name, O Lord God of hosts.” (Jeremiah 15:16, NJKV)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2024. All Rights Reserved.