A Eucharistic Chore, Trash Bags In Hand

Yesterday I cleaned out the refrigerator. Rarely is this a pleasant chore, and yesterday was no exception. For I found all sorts of things I would rather not find; and there were a few smells that were anything but harbingers of spring. I also discovered that what I uncovered was a set of bad investments, a terrible waste of money. But most importantly I discovered a chest full of metaphors.

For on the back of the top shelf, I found two gallons of confidence, now grown moldy, thick with putrescence. Next to them, in a tightly closed jar, I found several pickles of bad memories, soured beyond the palate's care. Next, I found several dozen rotten eggs of resentment, and a half-dozen kernels of canned jealousy decaying beneath loose plastic. Under a tin of anxieties, I found one pound of unsliced unforgiveness and two pounds of gratitude. And then there was a cracked dish, leaking Time.

On the middle shelf I found three cans of sins of omission and four of commission; under them rested a clouded bag filled with tortillas of tortured dreams. There was one can of whipped fury; another of unopened desires. There was a zip-lock bag of good intentions; and several bottles of half-used faith and un-used hope. And there was an uncorked bottle of merlot, the red wine of forgotten birthdays, anniversaries and thank-you notes, now little more than vinegar and gall.

In the bottom drawers I found once-ripe talents now shrunken to shriveled pith or, in some cases, grown in size, with tumorous fungi rendering them unknowable. On the doors there were countless fermented wishlists; there was one large bottle jammed with the beginnings of myriad projects; in a bottle of beer, I found a dry twig of mirth. In the cheese drawer I found the rancid butter of regrettable words; on the butter tray I found the grease of temptation and lust. In the cold-cuts bin I found bloated promises that should have been burned on an altar, or nailed to a Cross. And there, in the bin's back reaches, I found an unopened carton of forgiveness.

In the freezer I found a box of frozen grace, which was very heavy to lift. Adjacent was another little dish, half-filled with more Time. Beneath an air-tight plastic container full of procrastination, were several slices of joy, wrapped in aluminum foil. Next to them, in the ice tray, I found cubes of blood mixed with water, carelessly placed beside a loaf of brittle unleavened bread. Lastly, in the corner, I found an open box of baking soda, with Arms and Hands on its label raised in prayer, now stiffened from absorbing too much neglect.

Today, I continue to try to throw out the bad and thaw out the good, leaving the doors to the fridge wide open. I promise to clean out the old No-Name refrigerator more than once every 44 years. And I promise to thaw the cubes of wine, and receive the bread, with something approaching thanksgiving. Or so I pray.

Peace.

©Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.

tagged:Christianity