As I eat my chicken sandwich, I reminded of a time when it was my job to make lunches for the family. I’m not talking about yesterday or even last week. I am referring to my 14th year on this earth. My parents owned a ceramic shop where they taught, made and sold all things ceramic. It was my job to make lunches for them and myself each night before work and school. (My brother made his own lunch, maybe that was a blessing). Unprepared, and making sandwiches at the last minute I would often have to spread frozen butter on soft bread, put too much mustard, or forget to cut them in half. Surprizingly, no one complained. One day my mom told me about my poor dad’s mishaps at lunch. She began her story by telling me how hard he worked, and how much he looked forward to his lunch break. He opened up his lunch bag and unwrapped his sandwich. One of the corners on the bread was hard because it had not been properly wrapped. He picked up the ‘uncut’ sandwich and chunks of sandwich spread dropped out the bottom and out the middle where there were holes from my attempts to spread frozen butter. His sandwich was in pieces all over his lap. I blushed as she finished her story. Somehow it had not occured to me that someone would actually be eating this sandwich.
Today, I opened the lunch that was lovingly prepared by my 15yr old son. Between the squished bread were huge chunks of chicken, too big for me to bite easily. As I picked up the ‘uncut’ sandwich, several large chunks of meat fell out onto my desk….and I smiled.