A Grape Musing

Of course, I don't remember it. But as I brush back wisps of hair fallen onto my damp forehead while I labour in my steamy kitchen, I sense a remembrance of the lingering summer humidity and sweet grape scent of September days in another kitchen long ago.

Of course, I can't remember it. I was only nine months old. And yet, a story often heard is a life remembered.

The process was different then. Not today's shiny, stainless steel evaporator and rubber hoses spanning grape pulp and pure grape juice, flowing evenly into clean glass jars. Efficient and sterile.

Then, a snowy-white cotton bag hung on an open cupboard door. It imprisoned the bursting blue globes, so recently hanging free on living vines. And slowly the dripping life stained the cotton blood-purple.

The kitchen was quiet. Only the steady intravenous drip, drip into clean, white, granite basin below. And I, captivated even then by the quiet, the solitude and the richness of the colour purple, sat patiently beside the miracle.

And gradually, I began to splash. Slowly at first but with rising abandon and glee. Some of the juice spattered on my recently soaped and starched cotton dress and on the circle of floor around me. When I put my hands in my mouth - ah- the discovery stopped the splashing and all was quiet again.

My mother, unnoticed by me, had been watching, waiting, allowing. Now she scooped my up and both laughing, she carried me upstairs to a splashing bath and fresh, starched cotton.

Now, in those quiet moments when I hold the communion cup in remembrance of blood-bought life, I ponder God's watching, waiting, allowing, and I revel in our joy as I am carried to restored life and a fresh start.

by Loretta Snider