Grace at the Table

     What are the words that have grown clearer in your mind as you’ve matured? What are the thoughts expressed that anchor your soul in times of need? How is it that certain words can become so impactful in your life? Do you even have such words?

     I do. And if you have a moment, let me tell you about one in the only way I know how, through a story.

     When I was a boy growing up in my mother and father’s household, I, like most kids, had chores. I gathered the trash and put it out on Thursdays. I made my bed almost daily (under duress). I carried my clothes up the stairs to my room and put them away, sometimes even where they belonged. And I was the official lawn boy, charged with keeping the grass mowed, all a quarter of an acre of it. Along with those simple tasks, I watered and fed the chickens daily and gathered their eggs. As I grew older and more mature, farm work became part of my expected routine.

     My sisters, having their own chores, offered little help with mine. And I was fully aware of theirs. One of their responsibilities was cleaning the kitchen after meals. I was responsible for taking my plate to the sink after I ate, as each person was, but that was the extent of my requirement. The only exceptions to this practice were if you were a guest dining with us or were my dad. Usually, my mother collected his plate; occasionally, my older sister Gwen would. I never questioned it. That was simply the way things were done.    

    One weekend, my dad’s older sister Velma came to visit and stay with us. I was probably around ten or eleven, though my exact age escapes me. What I do remember vividly is the impact her visit had on my growing understanding.

     My Dad and Aunt Velma had a special relationship, more than just siblings. When he was born in 1922, he was so large that his birth nearly killed his mother. She was bedridden for nearly two years afterward. During that time, Velma, then a teenager, took care of him. Baby Walter, all twelve-plus pounds of him, stayed close to her both day and night, only lying beside his mother to nurse. Their bond grew stronger with time. Dad would go on to be there for Aunt Velma and her children whenever they were in need. But this visit wasn’t about needs. It was about fellowship, family, and lots of laughter.

     Saturday evening after our meal, we sat around visiting. Daddy and Aunt Velma told story after story of their childhood together. It was fascinating, so intriguing that it captivated my imagination. None of us kids wanted to be excused from the table, especially me. Sitting there, soaking it all in, I could see the love that flowed between them. When I close my eyes and remember, I can still hear my mother’s laughter, most dominant, as my dad told his tales.

     Sometime in the middle of it all, my father stood up and did something I don’t remember him doing before. He waited on Aunt Velma. Taking her plate along with his own, he placed them in the sink before pouring more tea in her glass. Then he sat back down and continued his story.

     It struck me. It struck me hard.

     My father, the head of the house, the one who had worked hard to make this meal possible, paused his story to wait on his sister. What? I had to ponder that for a while.

     Later that night, after I went to bed, I heard him talking. At first, I couldn’t make out the words. Then I realized he was in his room praying. I heard love. I heard thanks. I heard grace received. But mostly, I heard joy.

     The next morning before breakfast and church services, I asked Dad about waiting on Aunt Velma. He told me that when he was helpless, she was there. She was his comfort and strength when he was in need. And his love for her compelled him to be gracious toward her.

     If you knew my father, you’d know he extended that same grace to everyone. The reason he did so was simple: Christ, and what Jesus had done for him. It has taken me years to understand the depth of that truth, that grace goes beyond what is required and anchors us to one another.

     That morning, much to my mother’s and sisters’ surprise, when I was excused from the table, I took their plates to the sink. Not because I was required to, but because I wanted to show my Father I understood. He smiled at me.

     For me, grace is the word that has grown more important as I run my race.

     The way I embrace it is simple: Grace is perfect love manifested. And since only our Creator’s love is perfect, it is His grace that flows upon us and through us. Grace thrives when we use it. It is the perfect expression of His heart toward us. Mercy is that grace in action, aligning our hope in His love.

     If there’s one word to let settle deep in your soul today, let it be this: Grace.