We try to make Fridays our date-night—you know, dinner and a movie. After we agreed there were no new movies that interested us, we discussed restaurant choices. Marilyn and her sister had recently enjoyed their visit to a roadside restaurant near Hebron and she suggested we give it a try.
The Sunset Inn is a tiny family-owned establishment just east of State Route 37 on old 40. The parking lot is always crowded on Friday nights and, quite frankly, the clientele ranges from, “Darn right, I can still jog!” to “Where the heck am I supposed to put this walker?” There is no salad bar and the term California Medley has never made the menu that proudly states, “All Our Food is Home Cooked.”
We greeted several old friends as we were led to a small table in the corner. Fresh-cut flowers smiled at us from a tiny vase (I touched them to make sure they were real). The room was well-lit and the din of conversation created a cozy blanket of privacy as we talked about one thing and then the other. Marilyn, who is so incredibly relational, regaled me with encouraging reports from on-going conversations with our friends and family. I enjoy listening as she demonstrates how important people are to her. It makes me wish I could be more organically relational—I’m an alpha male and I generally limit my conversations to problem solving. I try to reprogram, particularly on Date Night, downshifting into a slower gear and dialing back my propensity to bottom line everything. I try to elevate my conversation to meet the ebb and flow of life itself.
Marilyn’s blue eyes flash with delight as she describes how Morgan, Connie’s new granddaughter, burbles and giggles through her fat cheeks framed by auburn hair. I weigh in, attempting to connect, “Morgan, yea, that’s her name…I have trouble remembering her name…” as I awkwardly fumble for a reply that might float on Marilyn’s deep river of relational conversation.
I ordered the ham loaf and Marilyn ordered the fresh trout. Healthy, even welcomed, silences pace our conversation. The guy at the table next to us unintentionally lobs his loud conversation into the center of our space. Nice enough guy, I’m sure, but he has obviously long ago forgotten the importance of using an “inside voice.” Marilyn and I smile knowingly at one another and enjoy our dinner.
In the midst of our meal, a welcomed interruption occurs: Marilyn points out a pleasant lady in her seventies, floating from table to table quietly introducing herself to the patrons. Marilyn whispers, “Her family owns this restaurant and she does this every evening. She spoke with Connie and I when we were here last week. She’s very sweet.” Soon she graced our corner table, smiled, and asked if we were enjoying our evening. We discovered her name was Donna and she spoke of how much she enjoyed meeting the guests. As I introduced Marilyn, she brightened, “You were over in that booth with your sister last week, weren’t you?” She placed her hand ever so gently on my shoulder, thanked us for being there and wished us well as she moved on.
We felt like celebrities. Even as Donna continued to work her way around the dining room, I somehow felt she thought we were special. And that made us feel special. Our dinner was good, but that wasn’t the best thing on the menu—it was Donna’s personal touch. It didn’t feel contrived or patronizing and served as a rich dessert.
God often does the same thing. He comes to us in the middle of ordinary experiences, places his warm hand on our shoulder and asks, “How are you?” I often get so hurried that I fail to recognize the importance of His casual visits. God doesn’t always come BIG, He often comes gently and quietly, demur and polite. He leans into our space and speaks welcoming peace using His inside voice.
“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.” John 14:27
Read Ron’s column, Simple Faith, each Saturday on the Faith Page (page 3) of the Lancaster Eagle Gazette, or visit www.lancastereaglegazette.com.