It was a bit difficult for me to tell people that my husband and I were going to Las Vegas for a weekend with our best friends. I felt like it could never be said in just one sentence. It had to be a “it’s not going to be that kind of trip” speech. At the risk of sounding “oh, come on” corny, I wanted this trip to be full of with lessons and intention.
I was determined to find God in Sin City.
In place of gluttony, I aimed to savour. And how do you do that in a city that my uncle said had steak and egg breakfasts for 55 cents in the 90's and where every hotel has an award-winning buffet? Self-talk, that's how. Before I stepped into a buffet I told myself, this is not an all-you-can-eat, not a get-a-bit-of-everything, but an offering-of-options, all of which I didn't have to devour to get my money's worth and then feel like I just displaced six of my organs. We invested in dinners at a couple of higher-end restaurants, where I absorbed the waiters' articulation and observed the immaculately-mannered staff. When our food arrived, I admired the care so obviously taken to prepare it, allowed my palate the time it needed to understand what it was experiencing, chewed slowly, and even closed my eyes a couple of times. For those few moments, I was in a sublime vacuum, offered an uninterrupted opportunity to enjoy the fruits of one's labour who saw it as a craft. Who put love into the preparation and respected the ingredients. And while I am now nursing away a cold that emerged right at the tail end of the trip (which means Mommy has no energy to cook anything decent just yet) I have a reborn appreciation for food. What to eat, how to treat it and how to enjoy it as the loving provision God has ever-faithfully laid into our hands daily.