first Saturday

Mm, I'm starting to feel better. I joyfully overdid this weekend, and then Sunday evening, when I had planned to rest, Tim wanted to go to a movie, because that's how he rests, and so I said no, which he accepted, but then yes because I wanted to see him rest. Which he did. So then I worked Monday and Tuesday (Monday night going to bed at 6:00 p.m., I kid you not), and today I've only needed one extra nap so far.

But, wait. I said I joyfully overdid this weekend. Is this me? The woman of exceeding small energy, who can see coming those times of activity which will be too much, and who bows out graciously, or if she can't, goes ahead and overdoes, all the while grumbling and griping inside, knowing the difficult recovery time looms?

But I wanted to do the first Saturday breakfast again. When I went last time, in February, energy higher and my weekend not filled, I discovered the wonder of weathered faces. Men and women, whom I sort of helped serve, but who were truly served by the regular crew, who the day before had set long tables, with flowers in vases, tableware wrapped in white napkins. The people filed in, laying down backpacks, removing coarse gloves. They were waited on. They were treated to an egg/cheese/meat dish called Strata. Not super fancy, but sustaining. They were asked if they'd like seconds, and they were waited on again.

I helped that time in the kitchen, keeping sweet potato hash in a pan stirred, while Ella dished fresh plates for eager servers and asked me to taste and see if her previously-cooked concoction (from ingredients bought and some donated) was thawed enough. Amazing flavor, even for me who often passes on sweet potatoes.

This time for the March breakfast, I felt the tailwind of teens who'd shown up to serve, who were at the elbows of our attendees the moment they sat down. I settled in to a patrol of tables, watching for those needing seconds, listening to an experienced woman on the crew ask, "Sir, would you like some juice? Another helping?" I ran for tabasco sauce upon request. Despite my never having waitressed well (fired after one week back at age 19), I kind of caught the drift of how this art is supposed to bloom. I visited briefly with people. I lifted folding chairs.

Sunday I lifted chairs, too, after the lunch we were in charge of after church, and my body complained, but only with accompanying gratefulness, surprising me. I sensed I was headed for recovery days, and therefore I was supposed to be finding fault with reality, blaming anyone close enough to somehow qualify. Yet, as harmonized birds hopped between walnut branches above when I made at last for our car, I didn't mind shuffling like a 90-year-old.

Probably the 90-year-olds who help with such serving as these breakfasts rarely shuffle at all.