Breakfast Saturday Morning.

A knock on the door mid-morning Saturday.  The eight-year-old lad and his 70-year-old grandmother giggle over some unknown joke as they hurry through the front gate, past the Doberman, and into the house looking for their favorite 7-month-old brown eyed boy. 

The come bearing gifts of sweet bread and vanilla flavored wafers.  I turn on the coffee pot, scramble eggs, and warm up tortillas. Tita sits to rest from their 20 minute walk, and the lad asks for the dishes and sets the table for four.  And has there ever been a group of four so unique?  The third grade man.  The 75 pound, angle on earth grandma.  The white, funny talking young mama.  And of course the beloved babe. 

We sit to eat and thank God for His unfailing provision.  We laugh at the boys, talk of Christmas and school breaks, entertain the babe, but he really entertains us.  We speak of the future, of God’s goodness and our regrets.  Tears fall and hugs are given.  The boy slips out doors, the babe goes down for a nap.  We linger over the last bit of coffee, dunking in the wafers to soften them up.  Dishes are cleared and washed.  Counters are wiped and the floors are swept. 

Soon the babe is up from his catnap looking to play.  We all go out to look at the chicks, gather eggs, and cleanup the chicken pen.  We end up nailing down chicken wire in the areas that the dog had attempted to get his head through.  We discuss plans for the garden come spring and this that and the other. 

It’s nearing noon and appointments and commitments bed for our attention and the morning comes to and end all too soon.  But as long as there are days and weeks, there will be Saturdays and, Lord willing, breakfast for these four.  A unique group?  Yes.  No questions about it. But somehow over the months of Saturdays we have become the best of friends.