A Table Set in the Dust

I remember the smell of an old wood stove in a kitchen that had seen too many winters, the way the grease pooled in the iron skillet like dark gold. My grandmother would be humming a hymn, her hands knotted with arthritis but steady as they broke the bread. She did not pray for the noise of the world outside, the hunger or the malice, to vanish. She simply set the table. She understood, in a way that stripped the fear from her bones, that the Source does not wait for the storm to break before serving the meal. The table is not hidden in a closet or locked behind a veil. It is planted right in the dirt of the struggle, right where the shadows sharpen their teeth. You think you must conquer the terrain before you can feast. You think the grace is a prize for the end of the battle. Look at the oil glistening on the callouses of your own hands. You have been walking through the fray, yet the cup remains full, tipped not by your own effort but by the hand of the Sustainer who refuses to let you go thirsty while the noise rages. There is a quiet audacity in eating while the world screams. It is the ultimate act of alignment to pull up a chair, to breathe, and to acknowledge that even here, beneath the weight of everything you fear, the Source has provided a place to rest. The fire is still warm, the bread is still broken, and the memory of that kitchen light remains, a stubborn ember in the chest that tells you that you are home even when you are still on the road.