The Casserole

The tears stream down my face. The pain is immense. Between sobs I hear a gentle tapping on the door. Who could it be at this hour? Am I hearing things? A light rumble of thunder. The gentle rain continues. Another knock.

I open the door and there he stands. Such gentle, caring eyes; such concern on his face. I can’t believe he’s standing in my doorway on a rainy, dark night such as this. Then I see the glass baking pan in his hands. It’s covered with foil.

“When was the last time you had a good meal?” He asks me. I shrug, not recalling the last time I had anything to eat. The pain, the sorrow—too much to remember much of anything. He extends the casserole toward me and tells me to take it and eat. The gentle smile. The love in his eyes. I take the pan and feel its warmth in my hands.

I invite him in, but he declines, giving me some story about having to see others. I ask him how many casseroles he has in his car. He tells me this is the only one—made just for me. Another rumble of thunder. The rain now falls harder. “

“Why don’t you come in?” I offer.

He declines again. “I just want you to know you’re not forgotten. You’re not alone.”

Tears stream down my face. He embraces me—the warmth of the casserole pan between us. Then he departs and I watch him disappear into the night. I close the door behind me and stand in the entryway a moment. I close my eyes and let the warmth of the casserole permeate my body.

Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction so that we will be able to comfort those who are in any affliction with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God. – 2 Corinthians 1:3-4 (NASB)