The Miracle Meal
Early in our married life my husband and I did a lot of hand-to-mouth living. The restraint this required would occasionally inspire a kind of internal tantrum wherein I needed to go out and buy something frivolous, just to prove that I could.
On one such occasion, I went to our smalltown mall, and found a beautiful barrette that would have looked lovely in my long hair. A shiny rose-colored rectangle with purple swirls in it. It cost $7. I stared and pondered and fingered—and put it back. Can’t afford it.
I returned to the mall two days later, still wanting the barrette. But it was gone. I didn’t know whether to feel relief or to kick myself for not having bought it.
Days later, my husband gave me a present. Yes—it was the barrette. I hadn’t said a word to him about it. But he saw it in the store, and knew it was meant for me. While not quite the same, that incident always reminded me of O. Henry’s 1905 depiction of love in the story “The Gift of the Magi,” wherein the wife cuts and sells her long hair to buy her beloved husband a platinum chain for his watch. The husband sells his watch to buy his wife decorative combs for her hair.
Well, I had a similar experience last week. Since my darling’s demise, I have been attending the Widows & Widowers Support Group at the Methodist Church. It was difficult for me to join this group because I felt too grief-stricken to actually be with people. Especially people who were able to laugh and revel in each other’s company. How could they understand my grief? But I kept going—because I needed help,
Last Thursday, a contingent of this group boarded a church van and drove about 40 days and 40 nights to a tiny Arkansas bend in the road called Low Gap. Our mission was to have lunch.
The café resembled an old trading post in the American Southwest, like the one where I used to get my mail when I worked at a Native American boarding school in rural New Mexico. A couple of old guys sitting out front. Deer heads and stuffed birds on the walls. But oh, my heaven! The food! Absolutely gourmet! Whether you had meat or seafood or a vegetarian dish, you would have sworn you were in a world class city, eating in a 5-star restaurant.
Except that you were glad you weren’t. You were in Arkansas. Surrounded by magnificent mountain scenery. And the people sharing your table were laughing and smiling and not worried about putting on airs. It was worth every winding mile that made me carsick on the way there.
I had a serving of shrimp scampi so succulent I wanted to lick the bowl! And while my palate frolicked in the promised land, I thought how much Kirk would have loved this place. How I wish we had discovered it during our backwoods road trips.
Then I realized—Kirk’s passing steered me to the Widows & Widowers group. In turn, the group introduced me to a culinary miracle in the middle of the wilderness. So, in effect, my sumptuous meal, and the company of these wonderful people who do understand my grief, was a gift from my beloved husband. It feels odd to say so, but a comfort, as well. I cherish the hugs I exchanged with the widows upon our return to Eureka.
And I still have the aforementioned barrette.