Serving Love for Lunch

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I wrote the poem “Lunch” in 1977 after hearing a man speak at our church about increasing love within families. In his talk, he referred to my husband David and said, “I know he goes home for lunch every day, and I know it’s not for the food—they always eat peanut butter sandwiches for lunch!”

I laughed and thought to myself, “No, my sweet husband doesn’t come home for the food—he comes home for the love.”

Lunch

Home for a few moments. . .

Just long enough to
throw the kids in
the air a few
times and grab a
quick bite to eat.

They are all there. . .

Alison dashes in from
outside, her blond hair
still blowing from the
breeze, stopping barely out
of her daddy’s reach,
trying to act coy.

Jonathan prances around the
room like a young,
frolicking colt kicking up
his heels and dancing
in circles happily vying
for his daddy’s attention.

Andrew toddles over as
fast as his two
chubby legs can carry
him yelling, “Da-Da, Da-Da”
until two strong arms
lovingly pick him up.

Benjamin is nestled in
his mother’s arms as
he comes to say
hello with his soft
new-born skin against
his daddy’s warm cheek.

Now gathering around the
table a blessing is
asked and, for a
moment, there is silence.
Then milk is poured
by the parents and
spilled by the children,
sandwiches are passed around
and dropped to the
floor and the apples
are rolled around the
small table like baseballs. 

Such serenity. . .

Adult conversation is squeezed
in here and there
between injunctions to the
children as the morning’s
 events are quickly rehearsed
 until lunch is finished.

Then there is a
quick kiss for the
wife (no time to
linger now) and a
dash around the table
to appeal to the
demands for kisses by
Alison and Jonathan as
they quickly swallow their
food so they don’t
miss out on their
share of Daddy’s affection.

Still in his mother’s
arms, a kiss is
planted on top of
Benjamin’s head as he
continues to quietly nurse.
Then, being so close
once again, another kiss
 is shared by husband
and wife (this one
 a little longer—who
knows when there will
ever be more time?)

Looking angelic amidst the
peanut butter smeared on
his face, Andrew waits
patiently in the high
chair with his head
tilted up and lips
already puckered. He finally
gets his long-awaited
kiss and his little
face becomes all smiles.

Removing the peanut butter
from his own lips
with a hurried wipe
of his handkerchief, David
opens the front door
and starts the car.

Back to business. . .