One word (ponder). Five minutes (write).
How To Find Fullness On A Can Of Beans
Grandpa liked pork and beans straight from the can with a big spoon. As a little girl, I thought this one of the grossest things ever. Cold beans. Yuck. But Grandpa, a remnant of the Great Depression, thought them one of the finest treats on Earth.
When I got a little older, and Grandpa still smiled over a can of pork and beans, I asked him about his strange fancy of such icky things. He told me they satisfied him, made him full.
Grandpa went on to tell me about how he and his pop followed the new railways being laid but they didn’t always get work, didn’t always have money for food, but when they did, they bought a can of pork and beans and a loaf of bread. Together he and his pop ate those beans straight from the can with their pocket-knives, soaking up any remaining juices with a slice of bread. At the end of those days, they felt lucky, a darn sight luckier than most and they were grateful.
I asked him why he still ate them since the Depression was long gone and nowadays he had money in his pocket. He could eat anything he wanted. Steak, even. Roasted baby potatoes. A fine green salad.
“Nothing fills the belly like beans,” he said. “Beans satisfy me. They remind me how lucky I am.”
“These beans remind me to be grateful.”
I was still a bit too young to understand Grandpa’s deeper meaning then, but I somehow knew those beans were more than food to him. I sensed they filled him up in more ways than I could grasp.
Older now, more privy to those aches in the soul, I can see how Grandpa’s hunger ran deeper than a belly-full, and how all those years later those beans still filled him.
How priceless is your unfailing love, O God!
People take refuge in the shadow of your wings.
They feast on the abundance of your house;
you give them drink from your river of delights.
For with you is the fountain of life;
in your light we see light.
(Psalm 36:7-9 NIV)
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