After I wrote the blog entry below, I decided “I gotta get out of this hotel room . . . how ‘bout some lunch? Chicken soup would be good.”
So I headed toward a couple nearby restaurants. But almost everything was closed. Its Labor Day here.
About the only place open was a little hole-in-the-wall chicken place. They have a diverse menu—whole chickens, half chickens, white meat quarters and dark meat quarters. Plus white starch to round out your plate: potatoes, rice or spaghetti. But no chicken soup.
So maybe that’s what got me thinking about chicken soup.
Anyway, this picture came to mind of God making this big kettle of chicken soup. He’s like my Grandma Bess, who never used a recipe. She poured stuff in her palm, or sprinkle spices in the pot, because she knew exactly what was needed and how much.
God doesn’t use a recipe because He’s so creative and knows exactly what He wants it to taste like, and what’s needed to get that taste. Plus every batch is different.
We’re not the chef of what’s going on, He is. We’re ingredients He uses. He decides if He wants the oregano or rosemary or thyme or peppercorns or cloves or broccoli or ginger. If we’re ready and available, He may put us in this or that batch of soup He’s got cooking. Or not. If we crumble or rot or split open or fall on the ground, He may pick something else that day. Or not. He decides.
Things definitely are cooking in Bolivia. And it sure smells good.
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