I can see it in my mind’s eye. The small square table off to the side in the bright country kitchen with 4 chairs covered in green vinyl. The metal bottoms of the chair legs scrape against the golden-yellow flower pattern of the linoleum floor. I can still hear the sound of the scraping on the floor as my Papa moves his chair in toward the table. And then I hear his voice. The dinner prayer always starts the same……”Dear heavenly Father……” Whenever I hear those words it’s as if they should not be spoken without first the scraping of the chair. On the table is a round silver canister that holds a cake of piping hot corn bread. In front of my papa is a bowl of butter milk just waiting for some corn bread to be dunked into it’s rich creaminess.
When I think of my Papa I remember these two things: Corn bread and milk and how he prayed.
And tonight he is enjoying a feast in heaven and no longer needs prayer to communicate with his heavenly Father.
House of Smooches 