midnight snacking

I realized something just now.

I was sitting on an empty bed in the corner of the ward. The flashlight swinging from the IV hook above me illuminated the purple and pink plastic bowls sitting on the chair between Alfred and me. Heads bent close, voices hushed to a whisper and hands carefully washed, I was swallowing fufu with my friend. It's become something of a nightly ritual for the two of us; once everyone is in bed and meds have been given, he treats me to his aunt's most recent creation. This evening, it was simple fish and chicken foot, with enough fufu for both of us to eat our fill. Alfred decided early on in tonight's game that twenty four years are long enough to go without eating chicken foot. I protested weakly, but my excuses couldn't hold up to his pleadings.

It was when the pale, rubbery foot was halfway to my mouth, while I was steeling myself to crunch off a few toes (bones, nails and all) that it somehow came to me: God has actually given me my heart's desire. I am here doing exactly what He created me to do, and, for once in my life, I'm living firmly embedded in the center of His will.

How many people can say that? How often do we get to look at our lives and think, Wow. This is right. I've got the package deal and there's nothing I'd rather be doing. Granted, as I crunched the unfortunate bird's foot between my admittedly unwilling teeth, I wasn't feeling terribly fulfilled. But once the pieces had slid their way down to settle like a rock with the rest of my late-night meal, I looked up at my little friend and caught his eye. He grinned at me.

You're almost African. Next time don't make a face.

I'll keep trying. For as long as it takes.