"Broken" by Klaaske deKoning
After a week as cook at Rehoboth, “an open broad space, a place of flourishing”
His words remain tangled
in cobwebbed cells of
mixed and loose connections.
There seems to be no straight line from what he sees to what he says.
And yet we can have this conversation again this morning.
“What’s you makin’?”
“I’m working on breakfast for you guys.”
“What’s for breakfast?”
“French toast. Fruit. Looks good, eh?”
“Is that for lunch? Can we start eating?”
“No. You can grab a coffee till it’s time.”
“OK. I like French toast. What’s for breakfast today?”
He seems unable to reach the regions of
I know that already, I’ve asked that before, I have another idea.
Food is important, tangible, familiar.
It’s what we share in common and I can talk about it and
I feel like our shared humanity is all that matters this morning.
“Can you sign my book?” she asks.
“Sure, I’d love to,” I answer again and give her a hug.
She’s holding a baby doll that she’s named and dressed and soothed.
She’s a collector of names. Treasures them. Traces over them.
“You are part of my life now,” she says, as she sees me write my name for the second time.
“And my baby is happy this morning.”
We are all the broken ones.
He, the pacer in front of the kitchen window;
she, the mother and collector of signatures randomly kept in a treasured book;
I, in my cook’s apron, enjoying food preparation and comfortable conversations.
We all need someone to say our name, touch us, and extend the words
that we matter today.
We are all the broken ones, here for a while, for each other.