Holding the whisk, and given a frightening warhorse or Clydesdale, I would be a terrifying sight, towering all in white above heads of disorderly peasants, dangerous, like I could breathe fire. On closer inspection, you would see that my victorious white clothing is actually a lab-coat-like apron, my wild locks held in place by a white hair cap, and the mace actually a lightweight whisk that only looks dangerous, but the Clydesdale would still be intimidating.
We all have jobs at Taizé, and mine is brandishing a dangerous whisk and a giant wooden paddle (or spoon) as I stir your dinner with my German and Romanian comrades. We eat simply, from French bread, a pad of butter, and two sticks of chocolate for breakfast; to the couscous, pasta, and basic etceteras of lunch and dinner, the latter of which I stir in giant vats that I could easily curl up inside.
And yes, after two-and-a-half months of serving with the elderly, I can’t help but notice there are a lot of attractive young ladies here; I’m not saying I’m interested, I’m just saying that God is an artist and I’ve been away from this period of art for a while.
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