Two Widows, Two Temples
She looks in her cupboards; they are bare.
Her stomach rattles with hunger.
She sees in the distance the glow of the fires of the temple.
She asks her neighbor for a ride.
She sometimes wonders why she is allowed to enter the temple; she is small, a nobody, poor. Her children don't honor (enrich) her. They married foreign wives and moved to the city.
But she converted to the Hebrew nation and faith when she was 30, trying to find a good community for her family, and she never looked back to her old life in the pagan nations.
She loves the Kingdom of YHWH with her whole heart, and her heart is all that is required to enter into the holy sanctuary.
Inside, she smells fresh perfumes and incense, freshly beaten from spices and exotic oils;
The smoke of the incense dances in the warm glow of the solid-gold olive-oil lamps and candles on the tables.
She sits down at the handcrafted wood table, in a chair made for kings, that feels like it was made just to soothe her aching back.
Circulation begins to warm her legs because of the expert ergonomic design of the beautiful chair.
The light, fresh scent of pure lemon-oil wafts up from the impeccably-clean table and floor.
Up walks her server, a priest, young, clean, bright, muscular man, towel on his arm, smile on his joyous face.
He asks her what she wants, 'nothing to be spared,' but she is too humble to ask for anything.
He hugs her neck and rushes off, returning with solid-gold platter loaded with a 16-ounce cut of the finest lamb steak, dripping with juices, cooked to perfection with pure sea-salt, royal spices, and the finest extra virgin olive oil.
The steak is from the best animal, without blemish, fit for the King's own table.
She says, "No, save that good plate for the important people. I'll be happy with anything."
He says, "You are the important people, Ruthie! You're who all this is for."
Others at the table, her fellow Hebrews who love her like family, smile warmly and squeeze her hand.
All smile, enjoying the finest possible giant cuts of goat, beef, and clean birds, all cooked to perfection, dripping in succulent spices and oils.
There is not a speck of animal fat or any un-healthy meat on any plate on any table in the entire room.
She knows any parts of the animal that might contain toxins or parasites, like the fat and intestines has been burned up by the priests, not mixed in with the ground-meat like the pagan chefs do to raise their profit margins.
She knows that the steak's dark color is from quality, not because the butchers left the blood in the meat to make it look healthy, like the pagan butchers do;
the blood has been poured out to re-fertilize the ground, which is part of why the vegetables have such an incredibly rich and varied taste.
She drinks 150-year-old wine, or fresh squeezed juice, as she wishes, from solid-gold goblets, refilled by young priests from solid-gold pitchers.
She lifts her hand to grab half a loaf of fresh whole-wheat flatbread from another golden plate, dips the bread in the olive oil, butter, spices, intoxicated by the delights.
Vitality fills her old bones like the golden nectar of life.
She realizes this meal would cost her a month's wages if she could ever find an equal restaraunt, which she couldn't.
She dips from another golden plate filled with bright, rich, colorful vegetables and fruits, tomatoes, root plants (that look something like potatoes but taste of another planet of culinary delights,) mangoes, bananas, salads, macadamia nuts, all the bounty of the best of the land flowing with milk and honey, grown on fields that rest every seven years, from trees that are not picked until after they are 3 years old.
Everything has been prepared that same day; nothing of it will be left 24 hours from now.
There is no fresher, cleaner, healthier, or more delicious food anywhere on earth.
She drops the golden fork in her hand and picks up some food with her fingers... too good not to dig right in... her friends laugh and follow suit.. this is the real meaning of "finger-licking good!"
The musicians and singers begin to sing, a new song of rejoicing to YHWH.
It is the most beautiful music she has ever heard.
The expert dancers begin to leap about the room; the common people and rich alike join in the dance as well.
She asks if anyone will be offering any insights into the instructions of YHWH tonight.
They say, "Maybe, but there is no agenda, just as the Spirit leads."
Every once in a while a priest stands up and offers from his heart some helpful insight into the loving instructions of the Creator.
Now and again a man or woman stands up and tells why they are so grateful to YHWH for saving them from a problem, a debt, a sickness. A child sings a happy song.
And the music resumes, loud and wonderful.
She leans back in the handcrafted chair, soaking in the music, singing, dancing, children.
A priest, seeing her rubbing her knees, comes to her and asks if she is suffering any health problems.
He can see in her eyes the pain, and his gentle eyes tell her he knows how to fix it.
He lays his big muscular hands on her back;
the pain she has been suffering from for months evaporates.
Her eyes fill with tears of joy.
He hugs her, says, 'It's my pleasure to serve, come back any time. You can ask for me, but anyone here can help you. YHWH healed you, not me."
He explains that he and his brothers learned healing-touch from their Fathers, the elder Levites.
The healing wisdom based on the instructions of YHWH has been passed down for centuries.
He has served in the healing, music, and food work in the temple beside his Father since he was able to walk.
He asks if she has any other needs.
She explains that she needs a water pipe fixed in her shack, and she has no wheat.
The priest pays for her ride home, and gives the driver two ounces of silver to get her water-pipe fixed, and gives the driver the 100-pound sack of the finest fresh wheat, 3 gallons of olive oil, and a big sack of spices.
She asks if she can pay; she only has a speck of silver in her pocket, but she is willing to pay over time.
The priest lifts her into the passenger seat, absolutely refusing to take anything from her, kisses her on the cheek, and gives her a warm hug.
"We love you, Ruthie, come back tomorrow," he says.
The driver pulls out to take her home, and she reclines, a smile of joy filling her heart.
She has a people, a place, a family, a nation, and a Law of Love from her Creator, who she will soon meet face to face.
Janie is an old American widow.
She has no food in the house.
Overdue bills cover her kitchen table.
She goes to her pastor to ask for a can of soup.
He says, "Sorry, Janie, we had to shut down the food bank; no one wanted to volunteer anymore, and donations were down because of the economy... The church board cut my salary for the 2nd year in a row, it's a wonder you even caught me here in the church building in mid-week."
The preacher gives her the address and number of the local welfare office. He says, "Just show them your Social Security card and your I.D., and they can give you food stamps."
At the local welfare office, she stands in line.
After about a half an hour, they say they can't help her because her I.D. is expired.
She says, "But it always worked before. "
The social worker says, "There's been a lot of fraud; people using fake identities to take more than their share; and the state cut back on welfare benefits."
She starts to cry, and the social worker says, "We can give you some coupons for McDonalds; they're right down the street."
The door at McDonalds says, "No Shirt, No Shoes, No service."
As she enters, she smells the car-exhaust coming in through the drive-in window.
She hands a coupon to the acne-ridden 17 year-old clerk.
He doesn't know what it is.
The manager says, "Welfare coupons."
She feels everyone looking at her.
She says, "I'd like one of those chicken deluxes with tomato and lettuce, and a salad, and a fruit salad and an orange juice if possible. I have a bag here, and I'd like to take some of it home to eat tomorrow. I have 3 coupons."
The clerk says, "With your welfare coupon, you can only get a hamburger and a small bag of fries and a cup water. One coupon per visit. Your order is number 366, just wait 'til your number is called."
She hobbles over to find a seat. The seats are dirty.
She finds a clean table. The smell of clorox makes her head ache.
She eases into the plastic bench.
Finally they call her number.
She feels all eyes on her as she hobbles up to the counter to get her meal.
She waddles back to her chair, looking down at the plastic tray, hoping the teenage workers washed their hands after going to the restroom, like the sign in the bathroom says.
She picks up the white-bread bun: no bran, grown with genetically modified wheat on poor fields using pesticides, herbicides, and fungicides on dead land propped up by chemical fertilizers.
She remembers when she used to make real whole wheat bread from her father's field.
She looks at the meat, with the pickle on top.
She knows McDonalds buys the oldest, sickest, tumor-ridden, antibiotic-fed, factory-farmed lame cows, then mixes the fat back into the meat. The burger is 40% fat.
She remembers the pastor's wife saying, "if you pray over your food with thanksgiving, the poisons won't hurt you."
She hopes that came from the Bible but she can't think of where.
She pours on the ketchup, "Maybe the ketchup has some nutrition; it's made from tomatoes."
But it just tastes like red sugar.
The mustard has a bit of a kick, tastes almost real; there are so many chemicals in the mayonnaise that she puts the packet down.
She always said, "If you can't pronounce the ingredients, don't eat it!"
She thinks, "Maybe the french fries." But they're cold, and they have the texture of foam soaked in lard.
She remembers her Doctor telling her how bad pig fat is for her heart.
She glances up at the wall; it lists the ingredients in each item on the plastic menu.
Each item has about 100 ingredients; lots of names she can't pronounce, excito-toxins, preservatives, colorings, stabilizers, chemical flavorings, protein-bypass. She wonders how many of these cause cancer.
She wants to wash her mouth out with the water. The water is clear, but it reeks of chlorine. One drop on her tongue and she knows it will give her a headache, so she puts it down.
The television flickers in her face. Images of war, violence, conflict.
She looks around, lovely, isolated, no one she knows. All eyes avoiding hers.
Muzak plays some old tune about a broken romance.
She feels a pain in her knees, but knows no one here will help her.
They'll say to to get welfare benefits and go to the doctor.
But the welfare doctors just push narcotics; and she doesn't want to be an addict.
She just wants to feel better.
She sticks her plastic fork into the pickle, gags it down, and puts the styrofoam boxes in her purse, and hobbles to the door.
Night is falling.
Maybe this food will taste better tomorrow.
As she struggles home, she says, "There must be a better way."
