I would frown as I watch my father pour the liquid. The thick soup would pool and glisten as it sat in the spoon....
...waiting to torture my tastebuds.
The fishy smell, the aspiriny taste, the slimy gooey texture coated my tongue and made me gag.
Afterwards, I'd always have to kill the aftertaste.
A mug of fruit punch.
A couple of bites from a chocolate bar.
A handful of mini-Twizzlers.
The sweetness would soak my mouth and make me forget about the past nastiness.
This week was like that.
At the beginning of the seven days, a moment in a slice of a minute bothered me.
Bothered me to a point where it shifted my mood. My usual placid self felt stretched.
My mind became a jungle of threads, each thought a different colored cord that curled and tangled.
That night, I opened my mouth to pray but couldn't say a word.
I didn't know what to say.
I just knew the heavy sick unsure feeling that I was sitting in.
Yet it's so amazing how God answers those prayers you never even speak.
In the center of the week, a good friend poured some things into me that truly caused a lift.
Sprinkles of sugar crystals
"You're beautiful."
Pearls of caramel and chocolate.
"You're cool and comfortable."
A dollop of buttercream frosting.
"And I mean it."
His words made me smile and marvel at how God could know exactly what I needed.
