She awakens and stretches, enjoying a few more moments in the warm safety of her cozy bed before kicking back the covers. Optimism peeks through sun-slitted blinds, and she almost skips into the new day. She knows breakfast is ready, but before she gets that far she spies her toys, each a gift from her father who lavishes her with all she needs and so much more.
He waits for her at the table. She knows that, but the shiny baubles strewn around the room are hard to ignore. Maybe just a few minutes of play.
He calls her name. She hears, but she isn’t listening. He will wait. It’s not a conscious thought, but even so, it’s as sure as morning. She knows he will wait.
The aroma of fresh bread beckons, and the tiniest rumble reminds her she’s hungry. With one last regretful glance at her playthings, she enters the dining room. “How clever of me to leave my toys and spend some time at my father’s table,” she thinks. “How wise I am. My father must be proud.”
A feast is spread before her. She takes a bite and closes her eyes to savor the subtle nuances of flavor. She wonders at the way a single taste of this bread imparts strength. Then her eyes are opened, and she sees.
The table is his. The food is his. The invitation, the welcome . . . all from him. Is a child clever and wise when she finally slows down long enough to receive what her loving father has prepared not only for her enjoyment, but for the sustenance of her life?
Ashamed she raises humbled eyes to his face, but is amazed to see no disappointment there. He smiles.
And then he speaks.
* * *
Have a beautiful weekend, my friends. Enjoy the feast.