My mother brought home donuts from Worcester today. She carried in her carry on a plastic container that was a vessel of her love: a love that encompasses her whole regard for family and stranger.
The donuts were relics of my past. A chocolate cake donut with chocolate icing and the key ingredient, chocolate jimmies that seem as natural part of a donut as freckles on a redhead.
She had been searching for a place that still sold those donuts since the original place that made them closed down about 10 years ago. I thought she had given up. I had.
So, in the midst of her journey to visit old family and wounds, she would continue to search for some hope for me. She only visited 4 or 5 shops this time asking around, " if anyone recalled Cottage Donuts."
Well, today faith answered back. She received not just an affirmation, but she found the original owner's new small shop. Faith rewarded she did of course eat one there, but she brought 6 back to me on the plane and they tasted like caked joy.
At my nadir she kept searching for it waiting with the knowledge that God would reward her and in effect me for not giving up on people and family.
I am happy.
