Lord, I hate all this

his ball cap, he paused to scan the room.

Mary and her two teenaged daughters sat mid-room. Millard, still sick from his latest chemo treatment, had stayed home. She looked plum tuckered, Mary did.

Oliver, the nursery guy, sat alone. A plow wind had demolished three of his greenhouses a week earlier. Wouldn’t have been so bad if he’d kept up his insurance payments.

Sandy and Buck, near the back, had tried to sell their home for a year, lowering their asking price four times. They’d accepted an offer three days ago. The deal fell through yesterday.

Manoj and Nandita,

Sunny Side Up

worry lining both faces, sat under the Queen’s portrait. Anxiety over their long-overdue immigration application consumed them. Nandita’s baby was due any day now and Manoj’s work permit as a truck driver would soon expire.

Nearest to George sat the youngsters who’d purchased the former Murphy property five years ago. Fresh from ag college, they’d had high hopes of nurturing a profitable organic farm. Those hopes had dimmed. Possible bankruptcy hovered. There were others, too. Staunch rural people with heavy hearts and light wallets. George fidgeted with his cap. Rotated it once. Then he bowed his head and shut his eyes. Every guest did likewise.

“Father in Heaven,” he began, “ya know how awful much I hate buttermilk. Curdles my innards, it does.”

A few heads popped up, eyes wide. George kept going. “And lard… oh, Lordy, don’t get me started on the nasty taste of that greasy stuff.”

People cleared their throats. Chuckled. Ignoring them, George told the Almighty how much he hated the taste of raw flour. “Gums up terrible in the mouth. Spittin’s the only way to get rid of it.”

The president of the organizing committee stood up. Sat down again. George kept on. “Jesus, this very mor- ning, some of these ladies took all those things I hate, stirred ‘em up, then popped ‘em in a hot oven. Then they waited, and out came biscuits that taste like your angels themselves made ‘em.

“Now, Father, this here room’s full of people who love you. But they’ve had to stomach lots of stuff they don’t like. Me too, truth be told. But I’ve walked with you long enough to know you can stir all that into something that, sooner or later, comes out good. Just…help us be patient while your oven does its work.

“Well, that’s all I wanted to say, Lord. Except this—thanks for the biscuits. Amen.”