Number 140: Every Day a Feast (no. 6)

You may have noticed that, for the last week, I haven’t been feasting. Or, at least, I haven’t been writing about it. I have an explanation, sort of. It involves my father eating cereal and also my car.

Every morning of my childhood, my father ate cereal. And drank coffee. And read the bible and wrote in his journal. Then he tidied the kitchen. Then he walked me to school. Then he walked to work, and at 5:00 he walked home again. If I had had a watch at age seven and worried about setting it, I probably could have set my watch by my father’s routines. He was (and remained until his death) a creature of habit. 

I am also a creature of habit. Knowing absolutely nothing about genetics, I’m going to say it’s genetic. In my DNA. I eat a banana every morning. If, for some reason, I run out of bananas, I become anxious. I have been known to drive to the store at 11pm just to procure the morning plantain. (Note: I never buy plantains. I buy bananas. “Plantain” is in there simply and only for syntactical variety. Accidentally buying plantains would throw me off). Eleven pm trips to the grocery store also throw me off. I have a bedtime, which is significantly before 11pm. And once that goes amiss, well — ! Let’s just say I try never to run out of bananas. 

So when my car began making an odd whining noise on Interstate 69 heading home from church last Sunday, I thought, “This is not in my routine.” Don (new boyfriend, lives in Toledo, will be making appearances in these blog posts from time to time) was driving. He said, 

“Something’s wrong with your car.” 

I said, “Maybe it’s just the heat.” 

I turned off the heat.

Don said, “We’re losing speed.” 

We were losing speed. 

We cut off the highway, and I called a friend of mine who lived in the town there to ask if any repair shops were open. There were no repair shops open. We went to the Walmart Auto Center. The Walmart Auto Center Desk Lady said, “Oh…we don’t do that kind of work.” I thought, “I was supposed to be home by 1pm. This is…oh. Dear. Not routine.” 

“Everything will be fine,” I said. 

We limped home on a back road. Don had to go back to Ohio, and I, contemplating a week of (metaphorically speaking) no bananas, crawled into bed and fell into a deep sleep for something like three hours, wreaking havoc on my bedtime. 

But every day’s a feast, whether you write about it or not. 

I began this series with an essay about screaming at a red light on an empty, snowy street in downtown Fort Wayne because I was late for church — an essay, about, really, the tension that comes when you can’t control the universe but also can’t quit trying. 

This week, it was easy to quit trying, and the peace that came was, every day, a table set before me. There were issues at work and issues at home. The temperature wavered between 4 and 10 degrees; I had to rely on rides to and from work; the garage had to order a part; the repair was delayed; and every day was a feast. 

I was grateful for the rides and the recommendation of the mechanic. I was grateful that the repair, when it was finished, didn’t cost more; that the problems, as they came weren’t as bad as they could have been; grateful for the grace to stay present, even in the midst of them.  

Still, though, it was a week without bananas. The routine was off; I wasn’t writing, and I felt guilty about it. 

You know how guilt works: 

“I’m late to church; I might as well just not go.” 

“I didn’t write one day, so, since I’ve failed, what’s the point in trying now?” 

Then this morning, letting the dogs out in the dark, I saw the moon (orange and impersonating the morning sun) held in the splayed fingers of a naked winter tree.  I thought of feasting. Thought how we are all guests at this table, invited to take whatever it offers up. Sometimes the comfort of routine; sometimes the humility that comes with failure; sometimes the glory of a new thing — rides in the morning, the kindness of strangers, unasked for conflict, unexpected peace. 

I thought I should write, and so I did. But not before eating a banana which, yes, was the first thing I drove to buy when the car was fixed.