Mike lived in a great neighborhood for kids. It seemed every house had youngsters our age. As soon as we stepped off his bus, a basketball game spontaneously erupted in his driveway. It was the first time I had stayed overnight with a friend from school, and I’ll never forget. I was in the fifth grade.
“Come on in, dinner is ready!” His mother announced through the back door screen. Still intimidated by this strange, new environment, I timidly followed my friend into the kitchen, keeping lockstep with him, conscious that I needed a guide. I was glad I did, because he marched right past the dinner table and into the bathroom to wash up. I would have gone directly to the dinner table. I imitated his every move, doing my best “yeah-I-always-wash-up-before-dinner-at-my-house-too” impersonation.
But then the most peculiar thing greeted me as I sat down: there was no dinner plate! There was a fork, a knife and a spoon. There was a drinking glass with the familiar daisy pattern just like the ones we had at home. You remember? The free ones you got at Clark’s Gas Station with every five gallon purchase? But there were no dinner plates!
At my house, Mom placed the food in serving dishes and sat them in the center of the table. Then Dad, his voice intoned with respect, would recite a simple prayer and began passing each item to the left. Although it was always the same prayer, it never lost its meaning. “Thank you Lord for the food we are about to receive; strengthen it to our bodies to serve you better. Amen.” On special occasions like a birthday or a health emergency he might add a PS–speaking blessing over that person.
But here, at Mike’s house, things were different. No dinner plate. Then, like an alien space ship, Mike’s mother floated a plate full of food in front of me! I was caught completely off guard. I was even more confounded when the others began eating and no one had said grace! Bewildered, I stared at my plate like a calf staring at a new gate. Suddenly I blurted out something I wished I could have taken back. Like steam from a boiling teapot, I demanded, “What’s this?”
My gracious hostess, herself caught off guard, turned her head to one side, and said, “What’s what, Ron? Don’t you like spaghetti?”
I responded indignantly, “This isn’t how my mom does it!” It was only then I realized the entire family had frozen in stop-motion, their eyes on me.
Aware of my impertinence, heat began to build just below my collar, crept up my face and threatened to erupt like a volcano through the tips of my ears! Believe me, I had been well schooled in good manners, but here, in my first real “at bat,” I had swung awkwardly and missed.
I wish I could say I recovered gracefully… even graciously, but I didn’t. I sat with my head down, humiliated and embarrassed. But then I sensed I was the only one feeling uncomfortable. As quickly as the family had paused, they resumed their lively banter and the tense atmosphere melted into gracious acceptance. They choose to simply overlook my offense, as though it never occurred.
Looking back, there were a lot of differences in how our families operated. They didn’t say grace and they didn’t pass the serving bowls to the left. But they certainly exemplified grace and passed over my impertinence with forgiveness, which perhaps might be the most powerful type of prayer.
Our experience with the Heavenly Father is just like that. We don’t merit His graciousness and we certainly can’t do anything to earn His forgiveness. Like that awkward eleven year old, we can only bow our heads in embarrassment and allow the grace of His forgiveness to flow over us.
It occurs to me that I wasn’t just a rude kid sitting at that their table. I was their son’s guest, and from that relationship forgiveness flowed naturally. When we accept the Son’s invitation to sit at the Father’s table, He serves up never-ending forgiveness.
Listen as Jesus himself, speaking from Heaven, extends the invitation.
“Look at me. I stand at the door. I knock. If you hear me call and open the door, I’ll come right in and sit down to supper with you.” Revelation 3:20
That’s how His family does it!
Read Ron’s column, Simple Faith, each Saturday on the Faith Page (page 3) of the Lancaster Eagle Gazette, or visit www.lancastereaglegazette.com.