Thanksgiving in August

The weather was not conducive for a full-fledged Thanksgiving dinner but, I was excited to pull it off despite a muggy August Sunday afternoon. I was anxious and giddy inside, having stayed up until early morning the night before preparing a yellow squash and herb *both from the garden* dressing to compliment the bird. I poured my heart into the dishes as I prepared them. I peeled, diced, boiled and whipped potatoes while whispering longings that could only come from the heart of God.

"Lord, let them taste and see that you are good."

The plan was to pick them all up for Sunday morning service and then bring them back to my house for a beautiful banquet around our dining room table, family-style. I had everything ready *but for the gravy* and had already exhausted myself in prayer before 9am. I was hopeful, not having to ask them to come to church with me but instead, they asked me if I would bring them. I thought to myself, 'The fish are practically jumping into the net!' But, this was not my first time entering into this sort of story. I had already written my own with many similar scenes, different characters. I understood the endless internal ache to not do what I despised while feeling entirely powerless to change myself. I knew what it meant to be 'stuck' in my own grime and quicksand. This allowed my arms to reach out and in though I knew they would get very dirty, perhaps even broken.

I was right on time *unusual* and I knocked timid at the door, hoping that I would hear the scurry of bodies anxious to greet me. I heard a dog bark and snarl. I heard a voice I recognized growl louder than the dog. I gave a stout knock and it all repeated itself. Heart sinking, I walked down the dingy corridor with prayers said under breath.

Next stop was to pick up the other family that I was happy and blessed to serve. Needed a fresh start, fled a life of dark shadows but brought their demons with them. I was not afraid, the darkness still having the faintest hint of familiarity. Reminded of how much I loved the light, I found my way to the hotel door which opened before I could knock. Out came an excitable little girl whom I had instantly loved. She jumped up and embraced me, professed openly her heart's thoughts, 'I love you, Tabbitha! I love you so much! I'm so excited to go to church with you!' She was sporting her new haircut, the one I gave in hopes of eliminating at least half of the lice nits. Mom looked confused, eyes glazed over, scratching her head, she led me into her excuse as to why only the two older children could come with me that morning. I nodded my head, happy to have somebody, anybody to carry off to church with me. She said it was one thing but I knew it was another. I knew too well. I was not offended but I felt a sadness settling into me straight away.

On the short ride over to the church the little guy, four short years of who knows what, flipped over my back seat at least 10 times. In the blurry week I had known him, I had yet to accomplish restraining him in a moving vehicle. I tried not to think too long about the lice we were bringing to church. I prayed for grace and confinement. I had tried to rid them of it but it would require a supernatural force working along with us.

I'm sure service was wonderful but I wouldn't remember. I spent most of the morning trying to lure little guy out from underneath the seat of the couple in front of us. He found a small roll of dollar bills and helped himself. Knowing it was some body's offering, I had to convince him somehow to put it back where he had found it. In between what seemed like talking to the floor to the people behind me, I habitually motioned to my girls to not put their heads together while whispering in church. It was all to no avail. We ended up with lice, too. I confess, my skin crawls at the thought of it but I am certain that it is considered 'suffering' for Christ. And how little I have suffered for Him as most of my suffering has been self-inflicted.

After church I try again to extend an invitation to dinner. I had literally cooked for a community. The thought of eating this feast with empty seats intended for the very ones I thought of while preparing it, made tears settle in my jaw. I was pleasantly surprised to find there was one who is willing to come. Having to make a couple of accommodations to do so, we finally make it home where the turkey aroma has taken up every room. Oddly enough, my appetite was now lacking. Tim and the children helped me serve our guest as I began to strike up curious conversation about her life, wondering what she might share with us. It was as I thought, a kind but broken soul in need of direction, in need of divine intervention. How I remember sitting in that very chair, searching for that very thing. I offered myself, again and again. I was anxious to help, eager to serve her and her new family. But I was mostly sad, the symptoms of a fallen world so blatant before me. My heart was perplexed. It grew heavier and heavier as our time carried on.

I eventually closed the door on the day and found a number of things that really stunk, for lack of a better word. One of those things being my vacuum but I would not know this until a week later when we attempted to use it and the room swelled with the smell of urine. Little guy somehow confused the vacuum with the toilet. But what stunk the most was that my home was bursting at the seams with fragrance; the fragrance of food and only a few of the hungry were willing to come and partake. Later that evening the Lord would graciously instruct my heart which was deeply grieved but looking for hope.

He began to speak to me, in my own voice inside my heart and head, about feasts and banquets and suppers. I was reminded of a dinner he shared with some risky men which included the washing of filthy feet, the breaking of humble bread and the pouring out of costly wine. He already knew the knife was at his back but he gave his thanks and shared his food, communion nonetheless. My heart began to understand, barely. He brought to mind the feast to come, the wedding supper of the Lamb. The one you don't want to miss for the world. Oh, my pallet is yet to taste such delicacy! And I picture Him, as the Father of the Bride and Groom, preparing a feast that my finite mind cannot contain. My spirit begins to lift at the mere mention of it. And then...the punchline. The kicker. The painful punt in my gut.

"All are invited but few will come."

I almost instantly feel sick at the thought of it, at the very idea of such a grossly wasted opportunity. There are no practical comparables. Throwing money out the window...casting pearls before swine...selling my birthright for a bowl of stew...nothing can touch the foolishness of refusing to come and eat, to come and partake of what has been freely given. I am cut to the core and begin to weep. Oh God, if we only knew how good you really are. If only we could taste and rightly see. More tears collect on my lap.

All that ache, that sorrow I had felt, the fellowship of his suffering. To know the hurt in his heart when the one does not come to dine, to feast on the bread of life, to drink of living water. Indescribable agony. To know, scarcely, what he has prepared for us and to imagine that one would refuse. The starving, the desolate, the depraved who roam this earth searching, scavenging for nourishment, and yet we choose to eat slop. I remember what slop tastes like. I pray I won't soon forget.

This secret of his heart, not so secret. He cries aloud for the children to come, for the weary to come, for the thirsty to come and for the hungry to dine. It was a holy lesson, the fragrance of Christ, that I pray lingers all the days of my life. Oh, taste and see!