The Aroma of Peace

My little short legs have just been a-pumping the past few days.  Everywhere I walk, it is with purpose and a task in mind. 

We had a weather event (who comes up with these phrases?) last week and The Church House was closed on Thursday afternoon and Friday.  So, last week was a short week.

Next week would be a short week, with a Monday holiday, but mine is really short.  I’m adding 2 vacation days to that to spend a few days with my absent husband who is at the _______ in _______!  (I’m not saying because people seem to hate me when I say where I’m going. )

I’ve spent all week catching up so I can get ahead, if that makes sense. 

That doesn’t even account for the fact that there was an earthquake in Haiti and The Church House is buzzing with activity regarding aid for Haiti.

It seems like the world is just out of kilter, you know? 

Oh, did I mention that I sang at a funeral on Monday and am singing at a funeral this afternoon?  Quite the bookends for my work week.

Anyway, I rushed into the kitchen to grab a cup of coffee (and wouldn’t you know that I had to make it myself).  While impatiently waiting for it to drip on through and tapping my little size 6 foot and thinking of the 949 things that I needed to be doing, I took a deep breath.



I inhaled the wonderful aroma of cinnamon baking.  Today is Friday.  Every Friday morning, the children in the daycare get ½ slice of cinnamon toast for their morning snack. 

I closed my eyes and was instantly transported into a very warm kitchen, sitting as close to the radiator as I could get, reading a book out loud to my Mother, who was at the kitchen sink.  Snow was blowing outside the window, but it was so cozy and safe in that kitchen.  Mother would help me with whatever word I might be struggling with, without even looking - which I always thought was some sort of magic. (Several years later, as I practiced the piano, she could walk through and look at me and say, "B flat, Molli".  I didn’t figure out how she could do that, either, until my own was practicing the piano.  Then, I knew.)

Many, many cold afternoons of my childhood, and there were more than a few - we lived in Iowa and Missouri when I was a child - were spent in the kitchen with my dear Mother, sipping hot tea and eating cinnamon toast.  The aroma of cinnamon toast brings me a sense of safety, of comfort, of knowing that Daddy would be coming home and that everything really was going to be okay.

And, you know what?  When I opened my eyes and found that I was still in a world that has seemingly gone completely mad, I felt the sweetest peace.  As long as there is cinnamon toast to be made and children to eat it, as long as there are so many people who genuinely care about the victims of poverty and disaster, as long as I trust that God is in control and know that He will meet my needs…everything really is going to be all right.  Even if I don’t know or can’t grasp those things, it really is going to be okay.

Sometimes, it just takes the right aroma to make me remember.

Thank you, Heavenly Father, for the gift of music that seems to comfort those who are mourning, for the outpouring of compassion and giving that I have seen first-hand this week, for allowing me to go to _______ to see my Rocket Man and for a so many wonderful fragrances in Your world and our ability to inhale them and find peace.