Last night, as a finish to the dinner simmering away in the pan on the stovetop, I squeezed juice from a lemon, drizzling it over the steaming food, letting it drip through my fingers and permeate my hand with the scent of lemon. The oils from the lemon rind make the astringent juices into a softer thing. I toss the depleted rind into the bowl of trimmings, and before I rinse my hands, I rub them together as if with the most expensive hand lotion. Water washes off the excess juice, and all that is left is the heady scent of that lemon. My hands smell like all that is fresh and wonderful in the world. I cup them at my face and inhale deeply, and thank God for making such a world.
A little while before these final dinner preparations, I had been saying Evening Prayer. Before I start the daily prayer offices, morning and evening, I light a pure beeswax candle that I purchased for the purpose. I keep it on the shelf with the icons, under the Coptic cross that was given to us as a wedding present by a friend from Ethiopia. The icons were gifts, as well. The shelf and wall hold the love of friends and the great cloud of witnesses, the communion of the Saints. The softly golden light from the flame and the honey-colored candle spreads out into that place of love, and I go back across the room to my prayerbook, Bible, and beads.
The beads, too, were a gift. Father Seraphim strung them, prayed over each one as it went onto the rope, and (I will have to ask him about this) must have had oily hands while he worked. There is a scent of incense and olive oil on the simple wooden beads, and as I recite a decade of the Jesus Prayer, the beads warm in my hands. I cross myself with them. It seems that I can breathe the scent into my heart as well as into my head and lungs. My palms still smell like my prayer beads, an hour later.
When I have entered the office through the beads, and then prayed the office using the calendar for Psalms and readings, the Rule of Ss. Mary and Martha for additional prayers, the intercessions and thanksgivings, the twice-daily attempt to be better at remaining in the prayer and inclining my heart and mind to God, I extinguish my candle.
The room is infused with the scent of prayer from the candle’s smoke. This is what it smells like in my pew at church. This is the sweet smell, ascending to God, and I can inhale this. God made me so that I can inhale the scent of lemon, the deeply rubbed incense and oil of wooden prayer beads, and the beeswax candle. I see the icons and the ornate, pounded brass cross. I speak and hear my prayers.
This is the glory of the Incarnation. This is the sanctification of time and sense and humanity. This is the sacramental faith. I can hold it in my hands and breathe it.
Thanks, Missy. The one scenario doesn’t eliminate the other … if evolution is how we got here, then that’s how God did it. That God did it is still a beautiful thing, regardless of the means – and it is a sacramental window – and an embodied path. Nearly knocked me silly today. It’s not always that immersing for me – but it was today.
Although it takes faith to believe your senses (smell, feel, taste and touch) were due to a deliberate act of God for you to enjoy (and not an evolutionary trait developed by necessity to ensure survival), it sure sounds wonderful and this was a great example of your ability to write descriptively – I could almost smell the lemon and the prayer beads!