Clouds, Coffee, and Contentment
I began my last day at sea by going out on deck to watch the sun come up over the horizon. The air was thick with a salty mist, and the ship moved ever so gently with the rhythm of the waves. On a clear day, the sunrise can be quite dramatic, a burst of fire-orange spilling across the endless blue. But this morning, the skies were far from clear. Heavy clouds hung low, casting the sea in shades of gray.
A break in the wall of clouds allowed the sun to make a radiant cameo appearance before it disappeared again, leaving behind only a pale reflection shimmering on the water. At least it didn’t rain on me.
A Quiet Presence
For a moment, I stood there taking it all in-the hushed sound of waves, the occasional scraping sound from a crew member straightening a lounger, and the gentle voice of the wind. An older couple shuffled past me, hand in hand, their faces creased with years of shared laughter and perhaps a few shared sorrows. Their simple, quiet presence brought a smile to my face, a reminder of the beauty in growing old together. It occurred to me that to many people on this cruise, Becky and I were the older couple holding hands and showing a love of life together. I hope that’s the kind of love and joy people see in us.
I went back to the room where Becky was trying to catch a little extra sleep, her hair tousled on the pillow, looking as pretty as the morning itself. I tiptoed around, not wanting to disturb her peaceful rest. Soon, room service arrived with our morning coffee, and Becky sat up, groggily rubbing her eyes before taking that first, glorious sip. There’s something perfect about that ritual-just the two of us, savoring the quiet and the aroma of strong coffee before the day fully starts.
The Temporary Rockefellers
After our coffee, we dressed and made our way down to the last Seaday Brunch of the cruise. For our breakfast appetizers, I ordered Carnival’s exceptional Flamin’ Tomato Soup, and Becky chose a selection of fresh fruits. Using the phrase “breakfast appetizer” would have once been laughable, but here we are, throwing around terms like that as if we were Rockefellers. My soup arrived with flair. An empty porcelain bowl was set before me, and the waiter poured a small pitcher of deep red goodness in a smooth 360-degree arc, creating an elegant swirl. Becky’s fruit was presented as a playful stack of Jenga blocks.
Admiring the construction, I mused on the likelihood of being able to dislodge a center pineapple spear without causing the honeydew to collapse. Was that the way the idle rich thought after finishing their breakfast appetizers? Ah, the thoughts that go through your head when you’re living like royalty on a cruise ship.
For our main course we had a filet mignon with eggs, home fries and a grilled tomato. The presentation of the food was really neat. Every item on the plate rested upon some kind of throne.
The steak sat on top of a bed of steamed spinach, the eggs on a platform of thinly sliced grilled potatoes, and the tomato rested on a toasted wedge of French bread. The home fries, presented in a paper cone, towered above the rest of the magnificent breakfast. The entire plate felt like a masterpiece, each item carefully placed as though it belonged in a gallery.
And yet, there was that tomato-my old nemesis. I’ve loved tomatoes in almost any form except this one-chopped in half, grilled, and sprinkled with some kind of green garnish. The sight of it triggered a memory from childhood, of Chinaberry trees and the heavy green pollen that blanketed everything, making my allergies flare up. With a wrinkled nose, I left the tomato untouched on its toasted throne, an unwilling relic of a memory best forgotten.
The bernaise sauce sat in a small cup, gleaming with a buttery sheen. “What do we even do with this?” I asked Becky, who laughed. “I think we’re supposed to dip something in it.” We grew up with the kind of mothers who knew one sauce-a skillet scraping gravy they made at least twice a week. We had no place for fancy French sauces then, and we still don’t.
Joy in the Simple
As we ate, we talked about our first steak and eggs breakfast in 1980, our first morning as husband and wife. We were young and broke, and steak was the rarest of indulgences. For the next twenty years, we raised kids, bought diapers and jars of Gerber baby food, and found joy in simple things like homemade pancakes topped with the cheap Blackburn’s syrup we both grew up on. Traditional comfort food served with love and laughter was more than enough.
I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances. I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation. Philippians 4:11-13
