Thoughts On A Citrus Pork Chop
The sun is rising, staining the horizon with a pink-orange smudge. There are erratic clouds crayoned across the sky, like the scribblings of a sugar-ingesting three-year old on a living room wall.
Dark morning. Dark mood. Probably because of breakfast.
I tried something new for breakfast. And I now realize that new things should be tried at dinner when you can still run out and get a burger, not in the predawn hours.
There was a pork chop in the 'fridge and a bottle of oriental citrus splash-type stuff in the cabinet when I reached for the salt'n'pepper. My sister had donated the strange concoction to our family before she and the Bro-In-Law moved south to Nashville.
The bottle was almost full. And now I know why.
I don't know what came over me. Sleep deprivation probably. A decision made in a pre-Elixir of Knowledge, early morning situation. Like the decision Christian comedian Ken Davis made that became the title for one of his books:
"I Don't Remember Dropping The Skunk But I Do Remember Trying To Breathe"
Okay. Maybe not that bad. But close to the same aroma.
Being raised a good Iowa pork-feed boy, I wasn't going to waste a chop. Even if it smelled like skunk.
So I ate it. And another decision made before adequate Elixir consumption.
Note to self: Prayer and coffee first. Decision making second.
I am now on my 4th cup of the Elixir of Knowledge. My palate is slowly returning to its normal halitosis as the Elixir scrubs my internal systems free of citrus stuff.
Heckuva way to start the day.
But it's not the poisoned pork chops fault. Some days you just wake up, stagger out into the day, and fall flat on your face for a close-up view of the mud of life.
It's during those mud-staring times when the brilliantly glowing "Prime of Life" seems decades removed. Things hurt and ache. Tedium and routine cloy at the mind like cold fog. Mistakes and regrets reach out with gnarled and dirty fingers, pulling my face deeper into the mud.
Man. That pork chop's pushed me down the stairs and now I'm in the basement diggin' holes.
I look up to toss back the dregs of my 5th cup of the Elixir. (It's okay - they're little cups. Sorta.)
And I'm looking out the window.
The horizon is now a thick shining band of gold. The crayon scribbles of clouds are now glowing with vibrant pinks, purples, and reds. It's a beautiful scene.
And it hits me.
The difference is the Light.
The clouds are the same. It's The Light that makes them shine, that gives them that different, eye-catching hue.
"All things work together for good to those..."
Life can get pretty scribbled. And darkly clouded.
But His Light makes it all something breathtaking. Something brilliant.
Scribbles become art. Smudges become reflections of grace and beauty.
Which, I've found, is a much more positive transformation than what oriental citrus splash does to a breakfast pork chop.