I recently published a piece about A Fly in My Soup. I’ll be the first to admit it was a weird sort of post so why I’m writing a second part to it is beyond my comprehension, but I’m going to anyway.
The post was about a dream, and in the dream I had a bowl of tomato soup. In the soup was a fly struggling to stay above the broth. Upon closer inspection, I realized the fly was my husband (Weird? Yep, but I told you that already!) I was amazed at how he was tossed about so easily at any little ripple in the movement of the soup. I was amazed at his anger when no one had placed him in the soup; he had gotten in there by his own doing. He could also get out if he wanted, but that would take hard work. I was amazed at how insignificant this man who had shared so much of my life, my hopes, my dreams, my love, and my plans for our future had become.
He was literally a fly in my soup, annoying and a bit gross, but that’s about it.
I wondered how that was possible? How could I have moved on while he still seemed so caught up in anger and revenge when he was the one who had wanted to move on? How could he, whom I had thought was larger than life for so many years, have become this shriveled speck that I pitied even more than I disliked? How is it that generally the person causing the divorce still has so much anger so long after getting what he or she wanted?
I thought about the soup analogy and my understanding of how I could send that soup back and order a new one, a better bowl, and why that was true. What gave me the confidence that I would have better waiting for me?
In a restaurant, we are greeted by the host, the maitre-de. It occurred to me that in my life Jesus is my maitre de; He opened the door, showed me to my table, a table He’d prepared knowing I’d enjoy the view even when I wasn’t yet ready to look up yet, even when I was still slurping on soup from some other restaurant, a restaurant that serves flies because its patrons don’t realize there are other places to go with better Food.
Every restaurant has a chef, and in my dream, the Father is my chef. He is the one who creates new meals and cooks up new recipes. He is the one who isn’t afraid to mix together ingredients I would never have thought of combining. He is the one who can take remnants of past meals and make them savory and enviable. He is the one creating the food we crave several times throughout the day.
But how do I tell the chef I’d like a different bowl? How does the chef deliver that food to me or give me the openness to try a dish that looks foreign and strange and just way far out of my comfort zone, especially when my mouth has been burned in the past?
It is the waiter that goes back and forth. He delivers the food. He gives compliments to the chef. He groans with volumes and noises beyond what my limited language can deliver when I allow a fly in my soup and then blame the chef for putting it there.
There is only one who can do that. The Holy Spirit is my waiter. He is with me through every bite of my meal, hovering in the shadows, waiting to be called for whatever purpose I call Him. He never gets tired of being summoned and always offers more,
“Would you like dessert, coffee, another glass of water, perhaps some Bread and Wine?”
The fly in my soup bowl reminds me that, when I’ve finally had enough of eating around the flies in my bowl, I can call the power of the Holy Spirit to help me work through my mess. It means when I hand Him the corrupted soup and ask for a new serving to be brought to me, He will run my request to the Father, and together they will groan over the most recent fly in my soup, forgetting all the flies I’ve foolishly placed there myself. It means when I turn over my bowl to Him, I don’t have to clean up my mess single-handedly; He will help.
I’m not a big eater of tomato soup. I like it, but I’d rather have lentil or ministrone or pasta fagioli (I hope some Italian can help me with that spelling! My spelling is horrendous, but the soup is superb! “fagioli” CORRECTED Thanks to Sheri!!! 🙂 )
Why tomato soup?
And then I saw it, the fly that was my husband, struggling, bobbing, first above and then below the surface, drowning bit by bit in the red liquid. The red liquid that maybe wasn’t soup at all, but the Blood of Christ. In denying his sins, my ex had shrunken himself and placed himself alone at the Mercy of Christ, to be washed by His Blood – just as I had been not too long ago.
I saw myself as the fly in the soup, knowing I too had needed help, a lift up, and dousing in the Blood of Christ to make me realize how I had gotten into that restaurant in the first place (Still do!)
My lip still curls at the thought of that husband-headed fly in my soup, but I pity him even more too, not realizing he is drowning, not realizing what a gift the liquid that consumes him is. I pick up my efforts to pray for his healing and a lifting of him to where he belongs at the Lord’s Table, and I commit to stop placing my spoon in the bowl, watching ripples toss this poor creature about.
Will you do the same for your ex?
SUBSCRIBE to Single Mom Smiling’s monthly newsletter and follow here to catch every post!
And, as always, thanks for commenting, liking, following, and sharing!