Potato Soup

In case you were directed right to this story and did not see the name of the folder - this is one of my past lives. Some parts are somewhat beyond belief but this is an accurate account of what I 'saw'. Also it is not meant to be historically correct according to present day history books.

Potato Soup
Kindness Is Its Own Reward

        I had a secret, the only one in the world who knew it and the only one who ever would. Every evening when the clocks in the clock shop struck five I walked into a certain alley. It was a dark dirty alley like so many others in London but this particular one was the source of my secret.  I knocked on the big wooden door. The door opened and a very tall man came out and said, “Hello Annie, how are you today? Are you ready for your potato soup?” Of course I was. Without the bowl of potato soup and the chunk of bread the man gave me, I might starve like many other children on the streets did every day. I smiled my biggest, brightest smile and nodded my head up and down enthusiastically. I could never get used to the fact that this man and his wife were my friends.

        I could not remember my parents. I did remember an aunt and a house where she used to live but that was a very long time ago. I was six years old now and for as long as I could remember, I lived on the streets of London. Many of the children were even younger than I was. I had learned very quickly that some secrets were never shared; if they were I might be hurt or even killed. Friendships were tentative and often short lived. Competition was fierce among the children. The bigger ones often used violence to get a scrap of bread, a fruit or even bits of food from the slop heaps. So it was that I never told anyone about the potato soup and bread. If the other children learned about it they would come and ask the man for soup too and that would spoil it for me.

        I found this lifesaving generosity when I was just about four years old. I was in a back alley looking for food in the slop heaps behind a pub when I found a little dog that was sick and crying. I knew when street kids knocked on doors sometimes they were kicked or hit and sent away. Worse still, sometimes people would call the police and the children would be put in jail. I had heard terrible stories about jails, especially for little girls.

              I was afraid and trembling but I screwed up my courage and knocked on the big wooden door I could not let this little dog suffer. The door opened and there stood the tallest man I had ever seen. Of course, he was standing at the top of two big steps, and I was standing on the ground so he seemed much taller than he really was.

        I was shaking with fear but my first thought was for the dog. I stood back from the door so that he could not kick me and with a quiet small voice, I timidly asked the man, “Is this your dog Mister? He is sick and he looks hungry.”

        The man came down the steps to look at the dog. I backed still further away. I was ready to run as fast as my skinny little legs could go if he turned on me. But he looked friendly and my courage returned just a little bit.

        “I think he is just hungry child. You look hungry too. Would you like a bowl of potato soup?” asked the man.

        My mouth fell open, I could hardly believe my ears; he was asking me if I wanted food. No one ever asked street kids if they wanted something. I was so hungry and so overwhelmed that I could not speak. I just nodded my head hoping that I had understood the man correctly.

        “You wait here,” said the man “I’ll get you some potato soup and I think the dog could use some too.”

        He went back into the pub and as the big door closed behind him, I was sure I would never see him again but I waited. I was delighted beyond words when he came back out with two bowls of potato soup and a thick chunk of fresh warm bread. Behind the open door I saw a large woman wearing a white apron. She was stirring a huge pot of soup with a big wooden paddle. The smells of roasting meat and baking bread filled the alleyway. She looked out at me and smiled. Hesitatingly I sat down on the step and began to eat what to me was the best meal I had ever tasted. The dog enjoyed his soup also and then he ran off. The man watched me eat, when I was finished and had dug out the last small drop and licked the big wooden spoon clean; he asked me what my name was.

              “Annie,” I said in a very quiet voice. I was still shocked that a pub owner would even speak to me. He took the empty bowl and spoon, and then he told me to come back every day when the clocks in the clock shop next door struck five. I was to knock on the door. He told me his name was Frank and his wife, Meg, always had potato soup ready for the customers in the pub at that time.

        I could hardly believe my good fortune. The soup had filled my small tummy and made me feel warm all over. Kindness was something I was totally unfamiliar with. It took me a long time to accept that Frank and Meg were willing to feed me every day. I was so hungry the next day, I went back and knocked on the door. He was true to his word. I gladly accepted the hot soup and fresh warm bread. When I had eaten the soup, I left the empty bowl and spoon on the top step and went away.

                I learned to hide my bread in my tattered coat pocket to save some for my breakfast. But it was so good when it was warm and freshly baked that I would pinch off small pieces of the crusty loaf throughout the day when I was sure no one was looking. When the bread was gone, I would dig out some small crumbs from the bottom of my pocket. Sometimes I would trade a piece of my bread for an apple from the fruit vender. The best days were when Meg put a bit of ham or carrot in the soup. I thought I was in heaven. This was my secret and I never shared it with anyone or let other street kids follow me when I went into my special alley.

*************

        Frank and Meg fed little Annie every day until she was about twelve years old. One cold, damp December evening just before Christmas, they waited for the familiar quiet knock on the door. But it never came. Frank opened the door to the alley just after five o’clock. Annie had never been late, not even a minute, but this evening she was not there. Annie did not show up for her potato soup that day or ever again. The night had been too cold and Annie’s coat not warm enough.

              Life on the streets of London was very difficult for children; it was not unusual to find those who had not survived the cold winter nights.

Fast Forward to the Present

         I was Annie in this story

         Frank and Meg owned a Pub in London in this lifetime too. One day I received a call from a British friend. She told me her father and his wife were in Canada for a visit, and her father had become ill. She asked if I would do a healing on them. They came to my home that evening and I was able to help them both. Meg had suffered for many years from an ailment that doctors in Britain had not been able to identify. She found relief after my healing. Frank suffered from a heart problem that had been exacerbated while he was visiting his daughter. He also found relief.

It is always a divine pleasure when we can help someone who has assisted us in the past. Frank and Meg had sustained me for eight years in those early days in London. Frank lived eight years after he came to me for healing in Canada. 


Word count: 1257
One of my series of stories from “Twelve Lives I have Lived”.