the ladies who lunch
"Everybody greet Mrs. Hull!" she exclaimed as I entered the kitchen. Two little men dropped their glue sticks, red & pink construction paper, and valentine trappings to make eye contact with me and dole out hugs. Their teen-aged sister smiled widely in greeting as she, too, clipped, stamped, and gussied up scraps of paper. This is home-schooling at its best. Within the hour, a seven-year old stood by my side and read aloud to me.
"A chapter book," he emphasized as I nodded knowingly.
"Congratulations," I added to his mom, "on your son learning to read."
"It wasn't my doing," she explained with a gesture toward the other end of the table. "It was hers." And my admiration for his big sister grew a few more inches. It was pretty big already, actually.
As I settled in to a cup o' tea, I surveyed my surroundings. Official Rescue Hero certificates camouflaged the fridge. The spoils of another "rescue hero" dotted the room: a few bright yellow wooden chairs that she found roadside. (Friend #88b is a junkster of the highest pedigree; only dust-bins of the purest quality for her.) The windows sparkled with the winter sun which coasted across the kitchen and warmed the delft-blue walls. Friendly faces vied for my attention. Four equally valuable conversation-lines were thrown out in my direction at five-second intervals for the next lovely hour.
The morning sun became afternoon sun. The boys retired to schoolwork and a video. The saxophone-playing teen-aged girl (who taught her little brother to read) expertly drove herself to concert band rehearsal. #88b and I were left to consume our "bistro lunch". On the menu ? Sauteed Portabello over a bed of baby spinach and red onion served with a slice of whole-grain bread . A hint of pan-fried garlic and a dousing with Asian sesame dressing completed this picture. The short-order cook (#88b herself ) made this entree up on the spot.
Art, entertainment, food, and ambience. You may think by now that I had gotten my money's worth for this trip to Malone. But no. What came next, dear reader, was the treasure trove. Over pink clippings and shreds of paper doily, we uncorked the subject of God's goodness to us, the high rewards of serving Him in this crooked world, and the incredulous fact that we almost weren't friends at all. Only a twisting (perhaps arighting?) of fates had brought us (Friend #88b and myself) to the crossroads of friendship after years of being somewhat acquainted.
If one could add together the heap of things we almost lost, one could excuse the tears that spilled unchecked over bread-wiped plates and scattered valentines. Of the many dear names for God that come to mind, Redeemer, Savior, and Friend are neck-and-neck for a three-way tie.
Any way you shake it, God wins again.
"A chapter book," he emphasized as I nodded knowingly.
"Congratulations," I added to his mom, "on your son learning to read."
"It wasn't my doing," she explained with a gesture toward the other end of the table. "It was hers." And my admiration for his big sister grew a few more inches. It was pretty big already, actually.
As I settled in to a cup o' tea, I surveyed my surroundings. Official Rescue Hero certificates camouflaged the fridge. The spoils of another "rescue hero" dotted the room: a few bright yellow wooden chairs that she found roadside. (Friend #88b is a junkster of the highest pedigree; only dust-bins of the purest quality for her.) The windows sparkled with the winter sun which coasted across the kitchen and warmed the delft-blue walls. Friendly faces vied for my attention. Four equally valuable conversation-lines were thrown out in my direction at five-second intervals for the next lovely hour.
The morning sun became afternoon sun. The boys retired to schoolwork and a video. The saxophone-playing teen-aged girl (who taught her little brother to read) expertly drove herself to concert band rehearsal. #88b and I were left to consume our "bistro lunch". On the menu ? Sauteed Portabello over a bed of baby spinach and red onion served with a slice of whole-grain bread . A hint of pan-fried garlic and a dousing with Asian sesame dressing completed this picture. The short-order cook (#88b herself ) made this entree up on the spot.
Art, entertainment, food, and ambience. You may think by now that I had gotten my money's worth for this trip to Malone. But no. What came next, dear reader, was the treasure trove. Over pink clippings and shreds of paper doily, we uncorked the subject of God's goodness to us, the high rewards of serving Him in this crooked world, and the incredulous fact that we almost weren't friends at all. Only a twisting (perhaps arighting?) of fates had brought us (Friend #88b and myself) to the crossroads of friendship after years of being somewhat acquainted.
If one could add together the heap of things we almost lost, one could excuse the tears that spilled unchecked over bread-wiped plates and scattered valentines. Of the many dear names for God that come to mind, Redeemer, Savior, and Friend are neck-and-neck for a three-way tie.
Any way you shake it, God wins again.
posted by thisrequiresthought at 8:23 AM
4 Comments:
God's goodness is plentiful!
I'm glad that I have you and friend #88 as my friends too. We all need to go kayaking together this summer.
Wonderful writing. Wonderful telling of His great goodness. Thanks for taking us there!
Boy, word of my menu gets around "quick, fast and in a hurry"!
The pleasure was mine, though and it should be mentioned that this was the only time I have ever seen our friend number A-ONE-UNO sit in the kitchen; she is usually engaged in wallpapering or some other selfless, creative act when visiting.
88 aka 88a
ps - Sondheim would love it - maybe you should send it his way!
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