the church-ladies visit
background noise: Paperback Writer on the kitchen CD player
Friend #12 and kids sparring over dishes
Hum of the laptop
Friend #32 and I made a dinner-delivery to a new member of the church today. She underwent surgery earlier this week, and we thought she'd like a meal. Our preparation for this delivery involved getting together an hour early so so we could kayak.
Oh yeah. Kayaking in the autumn is a glorious thing. The water (the Raquette) was clear and cold, the foliage was near peak, and the company unrivaled.
But back to the meal-on-wheels. We were warned that the husband of aforementioned dinner-recipient was a bit skittish of "church people." I squirmed uncomfortably in the front seat of my PT. How can two of us show up with a casserole and not look like "church ladies"? I gave myself the once-over: messy hair, rolled up old jeans with ground-in mud at the knees, no makeup, and post-kayaking smell. (We really had gotten a workout.) By appearance alone, I could break the ladies-aid mold into a thousand pieces. Good so far.
We pulled into the gravel drive, and Mr. No-Likey-Church-Too-Much was doing yardwork. He waved. We pulled out our baskets and ambled over uncertainly. After introductions, we went inside to unload our goodies. In the driveway before departing, we were held captive by the Mister. He told us all about his family, his dreams to be a farmer, the miracle of his daughter's birth, the powerful prayer of a priest, a miraculous escape from serious injury, his experience with prayer in the deserts of Operation Desert Storm, raising homing pidgeons, his difficulty in finding work, his hopes for their new lives here, and more. It was like he had kept his story bottled up for us, knowing we would listen. We listened, all the while trying not to look too churchy.
All this time, mom and daughter peeked through the doorway and around windowpanes with concern and disbelief on their faces. #32 and I finally piled into the car with waves and farewells.
"I would really like to get to know you," Mr. Farmer-Dreamer said emphatically. And we knew that he meant the plural-you. You know: all you church people. We answered back: we would really like that. And speaking in the royal-we, meant it with all of our hearts.
For the nominal price of a casserole, anybody could reap the hope that comes with an golden conversation like that. Plus, I expect my pyrex dish to be returned.
Eventually.
Friend #12 and kids sparring over dishes
Hum of the laptop
Friend #32 and I made a dinner-delivery to a new member of the church today. She underwent surgery earlier this week, and we thought she'd like a meal. Our preparation for this delivery involved getting together an hour early so so we could kayak.
Oh yeah. Kayaking in the autumn is a glorious thing. The water (the Raquette) was clear and cold, the foliage was near peak, and the company unrivaled.
But back to the meal-on-wheels. We were warned that the husband of aforementioned dinner-recipient was a bit skittish of "church people." I squirmed uncomfortably in the front seat of my PT. How can two of us show up with a casserole and not look like "church ladies"? I gave myself the once-over: messy hair, rolled up old jeans with ground-in mud at the knees, no makeup, and post-kayaking smell. (We really had gotten a workout.) By appearance alone, I could break the ladies-aid mold into a thousand pieces. Good so far.
We pulled into the gravel drive, and Mr. No-Likey-Church-Too-Much was doing yardwork. He waved. We pulled out our baskets and ambled over uncertainly. After introductions, we went inside to unload our goodies. In the driveway before departing, we were held captive by the Mister. He told us all about his family, his dreams to be a farmer, the miracle of his daughter's birth, the powerful prayer of a priest, a miraculous escape from serious injury, his experience with prayer in the deserts of Operation Desert Storm, raising homing pidgeons, his difficulty in finding work, his hopes for their new lives here, and more. It was like he had kept his story bottled up for us, knowing we would listen. We listened, all the while trying not to look too churchy.
All this time, mom and daughter peeked through the doorway and around windowpanes with concern and disbelief on their faces. #32 and I finally piled into the car with waves and farewells.
"I would really like to get to know you," Mr. Farmer-Dreamer said emphatically. And we knew that he meant the plural-you. You know: all you church people. We answered back: we would really like that. And speaking in the royal-we, meant it with all of our hearts.
For the nominal price of a casserole, anybody could reap the hope that comes with an golden conversation like that. Plus, I expect my pyrex dish to be returned.
Eventually.
posted by thisrequiresthought at 7:09 PM
6 Comments:
Hope you put your name on it....:)
Great testimony of how simple it can be! People respond to love. It's just plain powerful. Thanks for reaching out on behalf of all of us "church people".
sparring? huh. =)
spar(v): to bandy words, dispute.
please may i come out of tennessee now? i promise i won't ever complain about anything ever again. can i just come home? for a little while?
lore: of course you can. as soon as Christmas rolls around.
Thanks for the kayaking trip.
Perhaps we should go pick up your dishes and have more conversations with Mr. Farmer-Dreamer.
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