It Must Be Tuesday Night

Think of the bright future waiting for all the families of honest, innocent, and peace-loving people. Psalm 37:37

So family dinner was last night.  Family dinners started so many years ago, as a birthday present for me.  One meal a week.  A shrewd solution to the modern schedule choked with basketball practice, swim meets and too much homework.  Heather of course is standing in front of the fireplace, one leg kicked up, chatting incidentals with Scott.  Igor plots something on the couch with Dustin.  Dustin looks dubious; he will not be so easily swayed.  The very nice Mennonite man with the Mennonite beard probes thoughtfully into Frederic’s experiences, while mom sits at the end of the couch with a quiet smile.  I snag another chunk of cheese; my mom has discovered Trader Joe’s.  My dad holds two glasses in his hands, searching for someone who would like a little wine, before he gathers us together to partake of his hospitality.  The words, albeit well-formed and powerful, are not exactly clear, but the intent is crystal.  We serve a gracious God and it is indeed a privilege.  Welcome and enjoy His bounty and speak of His goodness.

We offer grace several times.  Perhaps my dad longs to enter into His presence. There isn’t quite enough room around the table, but that is just fine.  My dad wonders aloud if there will be enough food; there is always enough food.  Dustin asks me to pass the “Haa-uum” with two syllables, while Heather eyes the mashed potatoes happily.  Igor is nervous; will there be any left for him?  And the bread.  Every night it’s the same, yet different.  Tonight I pile it high with chutney, made especial for me because mom knows it’s my favorite. Oh, you just chop up a few apples. It’s easy.   Even the green beans are yummy, sprinkled with toasted almonds.  Who could ever guess?  Mom has taken to internet surfing, scouring the world for new twists on old favorites. The dinners are no longer framed by enchilada suisa.  Those are roasted garlic mashed potatoes mind you.  We are each tired.  It has been a long day.  Joy explains her plans to have Fred visit her in Bisbee to guest on her radio show.  The Mennonites continue to ask great questions, and Scott settles back into his seat, content. 

And then the magic moment.  The clearing of the table for the finale.  My mom likes to try new desserts and this is something special- banana creme with vanilla wafers smothered in a chocolate caramel.  Dustin and Heather don’t even share; everyone wants his own plate and silver fork.  Frederick ran five miles yesterday.  Tom and Jenny are coming soon and Scott is planning a man date to repair the cabin shutters, just him and Tom.  Heather’s study on Hispanics and their understanding of autism was statistically significant so that is a good thing.  Mom gets called back to the table.  We could all hear her “straightening up a few things.”  That’s for later.  The conversation has drifted from parent/teacher conferences at Tucson High and Igor’s dreary but spot-on imitation of Virginia Wolfe to The New Year’s Eve Party, and the request floats up for Scott to do his rendition of “Dry Bones.”  He hesitates.  It’s been two years.  The poem he wrote is somewhere on his computer.  We get into a minor discussion of whether it is really forty minutes long and does Heather ever exaggerate.  She primes the pump: 

Mr. Teodoro Luna in his later years had taken to kissing his wife 

Not so much with his lips as with his brows.

and Frederick rolls through   

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.

He got extra credit today in class for going early with his PowerPoint explanation.  

Scott rumbles in his seat.  Clears his throat and rubs his temples.  The chair wobbles with his indecision.  At last he stands and moves to the head of the table, his rough hair rumpled forward. 

Beat by beat the tale unfolds.  Nothing but dry bones heaped up in a death valley.  No hope.  No nothing.  Until the voice spoke.  The femur and the tibia click into place behind the patella.  The wind sweeps through and the heart begins to pulse afresh.  And the dry bones take a step forward in faith to follow Him.  There are a few dramatic pauses, but word by word hope takes shape and marches on.

Just before we return to the fireplace (Igor, could you please get some more wood?) my father once again gathers his thoughts. Thank you for coming.  We are indeed blessed.  Indeed.