Memories in a bowl of soup

My girlfriend is at home tonight cooking a pot of soup. Which makes me kinda sad because she's in Ontario and I'm here in Newfoundland. Who would think that sharing a simple bowl of soup could stir up such emotion. But then, soup isn't simply that. It is a blending of tradition; of remembering all the times friends gathered around to share, of all the times you smelled the soup and heard mom in the kitchen singing, of the times grandma served up her soup and sat with you for lunch, of all the times you felt bad and had someone lay a hand on your shoulder and offer you a warm mug. A bowl of soup contains all the ingredients of love, of kindness, and of healing deep inside your soul.

Over Christmas I had gone to visit my Dad, something I had not done very much of over the years because I wasn't ready to face my own shadows. Well, this Christmas, I felt ready. He served me up a bowl of his homemade soup and it instantly transported me back to when I was maybe 10 years old. Dad was known for the concoctions he would toss together and create these amazing pots of soup. Every spoonful I ate now reminded me of memories of years gone by; memories that I had pushed out of my mind but now wanted to hold close and cherish. It wasn't just about the soup. It was about the loving care being shown. Offering someone a bowl of soup is to offer them a hand, a pat on the shoulder, and warming their very soul. This is what I feel in a bowl of soup.

So tonight, as my girlfriend lovingly stirs up her famous minestrone, I feel a longing in my heart and in my belly to partake in the exchange of that sharing of a bowl of soup and knowing the truth in the heart which serves it up.