Rice Pudding Epiphany

Spooning food into an open mouth—so natural, yet so strange.

It was so natural to spoon nourishment into the mouth of a toddler. It was so strange to spoon food into the mouth of a 90-year-old man. One, my granddaughter. The other, my father—the great-grandfather of my granddaughter.

Each was needy in his or her own way.

Two-year-old Ava was ascending into life—bursting with energy, filled with curiosity, soaking in new information and experiences like a sponge, and spontaneously displaying varying emotions, tears, and laughter. Yet she was unaware of her vulnerability and dependence on adults.

My dad was descending into increasing powerlessness—easily tired by too much stimulus and sometimes lacking clarity in thought or speech. Yet he was aware, from time to time, of losses piled upon losses.

A proximity of two, three, or more events can at times offer a heightened spiritual clarity—an aha moment where a person sees or experiences a deeply personal connection she has never considered as intensely before, when a biblical truth she has encountered through the years comes into sharper relief.

Several years ago I experienced such a juxtaposition of two events that took place a few days apart with two 113-gram plastic containers of rice pudding. Let me explain.

My elderly dad was living at home, unable to walk, incapable of feeding himself, and confined to a hospital bed in his living room. My husband, Rinke, and I stayed with him for a few days so his wife could have a break and visit her children. One evening, rice pudding was on the menu for dessert. After peeling off the container’s lid and stirring the contents, I spooned out a bite and put the rice pudding into my dad’s open mouth. Delicious! He hadn’t lost his sweet tooth and obviously enjoyed it.

About a week later, Rinke and I took care of Ava for a day. During lunch, Ava sat in her highchair and I helped her finish the main meal. A dessert of rice pudding was next. I peeled off the container’s lid and stirred the contents. I dipped in the spoon. I put the rice pudding into Ava’s open mouth. Yummy! She clearly relished it.

I stopped—oh!—and looked at Rinke. It hit me—a rice pudding epiphany. God was teaching me through my dad and Ava, each in his or her own way, to “number my days” so that I would “gain a heart of wisdom” (Ps. 90:12). My dad and Ava were precious in God’s sight, no matter their capabilities, no matter whether they were ascending into life or descending into bodily death with the hope of eternal life.

I reflected on the fact that decades ago, I was a toddler sitting in a high chair being spoon-fed when I couldn’t yet feed myself. If I grow old enough, I will become frail and possibly need to be spoon-fed. Not the easiest thought to digest. But encouragement and hope took root when I considered the perspective of God’s never-failing love and care displayed through the years, from high chair to hospital bed. Just as God graciously cared for Ava and my dad, his love held and still holds me from the beginning to the end through people who cared for me in my childhood weakness and others who will be by my side in my future elderly vulnerability.