Our God
Who Comes to Dinner
Most families have some event or activity that
develops into a full-fledged tradition.
In my family it was Thanksgiving.
We always got up early and drove to my grandparent’s
house. Gram did the cooking because she was the best at it and her
preparations began long in advance. No detail was spontaneous. Nothing
was ever omitted.
One year we attempted to have it at our house; it was
a disaster. The turkey was over-done. The pies were under-done. And
everything that was done, wasn’t done at the same time. No one suggested
we ever move it again.
There were two prerequisites for the meal: dress up
in church clothes, and don’t eat anything until the appetizers are
served. It was an unpardonable sin to arrive for Thanksgiving at Gram’s
and not be hungry.
When we gathered around the table, our stories
represented the sacred fabric of our family history. Repetition never
lessened their value. Through replication, laughter, and sometimes
tears, we consoled failures, celebrated triumphs, and spoke grace into
one another.
Then Thanksgiving changed forever.
I’ll never forget. We already knew that Gram had lung
cancer. She was dying. “A
few more months…” is all the doctors could tell us. On some level I knew
she would never lie about such a thing, but I didn’t want to believe
her. Perhaps the doctors
were mistaken. How could
this happen?
Then in October, Grandpa had a fatal stroke while
putting on his golf shoes to go “play a few holes” with his friends.
Even though she was shocked and grieving, Gram insisted that we all have
one last Thanksgiving at her house. We knew it would be our last. My
mother and I helped more than we usually did. Gram was already short of
breath and very tired, and of course she cried throughout the day.
The menu stayed the same: turkey, stuffing with onion
and celery—nothing weird like cornbread or shellfish—the same side
dishes and pies. This meal had everything. We worked very hard to
capture the sameness of years past. But we couldn’t.
Gram insisted that we set a place for Grandpa at the
head of the table.
I wonder about the first “family” meal the disciples
had after Jesus’ resurrection and ascension. Did they remember with joy
the times He had spent with them? Did they linger in regret, realizing
all the questions they wished they had asked while he was present? Was
the table set with one extra place, just in case…? Did any of them ever
say, “Let me tell you about that last Passover meal we had with him. It
was in a room just like this one…”
Were there apostles who-- like my family that year--
missed his physical presence so deeply that after the food was brought
to the table, they could not eat at all.
On our last traditional Thanksgiving we sat silently
in our places, diligently inspecting our plates so we wouldn’t have to
see the chair that was empty. Then, we all stood and left the table.
My family’s Thanksgiving and the Lord’s Supper both
hold elements of mystery for me. They represent perfect meals served to
those of us who are far from perfect. In some inexplicable way, it is
our imperfections that make them perfect. We are invited to come
authentically to both tables with no attempt to hide our secrets and
flaws.
On Thanksgiving Husband and I gratefully remember the
friends and family who have touched our lives. At the Lord’s Supper we
remember who sent them.
“Do this in remembrance of me…” (Luke 22:19)
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