We have a very old cat. Some of her great-grandchildren have died because of age-related disease. Other cats have come and been taken by the coyotes, bobcats, or owls. Yet on this remarkable adopted stray persists.
One day I brought her a can of tuna (which decidedly shouldn’t have been bought in the first place) because there was no cat food. She ate it happily on top of the very wide fence immediately in front of our house, but didn’t greedily finish it. As they are inclined, yellow wasps soon thereafter thronged about the remnants. A result of poor stewardship of the earth became a gift for the little mother, and that turned into an incidental blessing for the wasps, and all was well.
But then, for days and weeks after, the crowd of wasps gathered about the spot. The tuna had long ago vanished, yet still they returned and waited for hours upon hours.
I was merely a channel and the wasps were merely sharers of the unfolding. The blessing was about the worthy cat, bestowed by He who made me, the tuna, the wasps, and the cat herself.
How often do we gather out of the same instinct that the wasps gathered to wait for tuna? How often are we incidental sharers seeking again and again after the form of a vanished message of love?
When the gift for the cat came, it was brought on a plate and offered with petting and happy little sounds.
Surely we can tell the difference between the overflow of blessings and those things meant for us? Surely we can tell, on those days we are ourselves gifts offered for consumption, for whom and what we are intended?
Let us not gather as wasps for tuna, or start imagining that we are tuna for wasps.