Cold Cereal as a Sacrament (Mid-week message)

 

Cold Cereal as a Sacrament

Fr. Tony’s Midweek Message

November 16, 2021

 

“Almighty God, to you all hearts are open, all desires known, 

and from you no secrets are hid…” (BCP p. 355)

 

When I was about ten years old, my father took me camping in the snow near Squilchuck State Park not far from Snoqualmie Pass.  Well, it was not camping really—we stayed in a large cabin and not a tent.  And it wasn’t just us two.  He was serving as a scoutmaster in an Explorer Post sponsored by our church, and he was taking his 16-to-18-year-old charges sledding and snow tubing for the weekend and brought me along.

  

I am embarrassed to say why.   I was always a somewhat prissy kid, overly dramatic and willing to play to an adult audience, but one that had real problems making friends among my peers.  I had at the time only two or three pals that I could call friends, nerdy boys (before “nerd” was even a word) who were equally “smarty-pants,” “creative,” and on the margins of group acceptance as I was. I tried so hard to be acceptable to myself and others, but just didn’t seem to be able to succeed.  I was extremely envious of my dad’s extroverted ease at getting along with others, and became jealous of the attentions he paid to the older boys in his Explorer Post. I had written an angry letter about it to him, never intending it to be read, complaining about what a wretched excuse of a father he was in neglecting me, his own flesh and blood. As I said, I was a prissy kid.  I had thrown the letter into the trash can, making sure that it was at the top where it was sure to be seen and read.  When my dad read it, he took me aside and explained how he didn’t intend to neglect me, and invited me to come along on the trip that had been planned for months.  “It’ll be fun,” he said.  

 

When we got there, it was kind of fun.  The older boys went out of their way to be nice to me, and I loved the thrill of snow-tubing. Then we settled in for the night, in sleeping bags in the large cabin warmed by a central fireplace, at least until the fire burned out in the middle of the night.  When we woke in the morning, it was cold enough that ice had formed on the inside of the windows.  It took a while before the boys got the fire started and we warmed up again.  Then we all ate our breakfasts we had brought.  I was expecting a great camp-fire-side feast of bacon and eggs and hot cocoa. My dad made sure there was hot cocoa for all (Swiss Miss, I think it was).  But, concerned with all the details in making the trip successful for all, he had gone into full zen mode for our own breakfast.  He pulled out cold cereal and milk.  This show, once again, of “how little he cared for me” made me angry, and I went off to a corner to sulk and eat my “wretched fare.”  My dad looked hurt, did not say anything, and proceeded with the day’s activities, which warmed me up and brought me out of my blue funk.  

We never talked about it. I realized how hard he was trying, and how difficult I was making it for him.  And so I started making an effort to be less a prima donna, or as my mother would say, a “fuss budget.”  That cold cereal started me on trying to connect with others and be less hard on myself.  I only later realized that part of my dad’s work with the older boys was to help them be more self-reliant, and modeling a bare bones cold breakfast for them was a way of teaching them that they were adequate to the job of being grown-ups, that it was O.K. to not be so hard on yourself.    Many years later, when I did raise the story with him to express how badly I felt I had behaved, he looked puzzled and said that he remembered the fun weekend with me and his explorers sledding and snow-tubing, but had no recollection at all of me being difficult about breakfast. 

 

Why do I tell this story?  This morning I had Froot Loops for breakfast.  As I ate I remembered my father and how much he served and loved, and how much he tried to teach me that when all is said and done, love is all that really matters.  One thing I have learned in being a parish priest is that we can only do what we can do.  One thing I have learned in care-giving for Elena is that we never are perfect in caregiving, but only can try our best.  And that is enough, if done with love.  So my cold cereal breakfast this morning brought this all to mind, and served, I think, as a kind of sacrament linking me to my dad, now dead so many years from Alzheimer’s. 

 

Grace and peace.

Fr. Tony+