| Sunny Side Up Jan.25-06 �2006, Kathleen Gibson When strangers stay strangers We've shared our dinner table with many people over the years, the Preacher and I. We're richer for it. Frequently guests have entered our home as strangers; left as friends. But once� The Preacher had met him first, through one of his community involvements. "Hon, let's have this guy over for a meal." He'd added, "I don't think he has many friends." I spent the whole afternoon cooking on that day. Asian, I'd decided. I fussed, anticipating an evening of warm conversation and mutual discovery; the kind we've had with so many other strangers. Come at five-thirty, my husband had told our guest. The food turned out perfectly, and the man arrived at five-thirty on the dot. But from thereon in, everything scampered downhill, Tigger-like, in giant bounds. He questioned my linens. He ate huge amounts of food, rather impolitely. He pawed through the serving plates, took the choicest pieces of meat. Partway through the meal, he gave his nose a hefty blow, crumpled his tissue, then placed it, almost reverently, in the middle of the table. Over many dinners over many years, I've overlooked all sorts of indiscretions in both conversation and manners, some far worse than the above. I could have overlooked that. But the man also brought to the table an attitude and ego as big as Everest. Our anticipated conversation? Never happened. All evening we listened to a monologue on how poorly he'd been treated in past organizations and relationships. The problems were everyone else's fault, introduced by the classic lie, "I know I'm not perfect but�." A few times (while he was swallowing) we offered tidbits of information the man could have used to start an actual conversation. He didn't bite, clearly preferring his rants undiluted. All night, he directed his conversation almost entirely at the Preacher, barely acknowledging my presence. The evening droned on like a dry sermon on a sunny Sabbath. I thought it would never end. When we shut the door behind our guest, the clock struck midnight. I've never been able to laugh about that evening. I felt so sad for that man. He had no idea what he was really telling us about himself, and no clue what he missed by not letting us share ourselves with him. I learned an invaluable lesson about my relationship with God that night. Eager for close friendship, God invites me to his table; spread thickly with blessing. My response? Tuck in and start complaining. Seldom do I take responsibility for my part in the problems I face outside our circle of two. Seldom do I offer more than token gratitude. Worst of all, too frequently I show no interest in the things that matter to God or ask him what he's up to around me. Then, because I haven't really learned to know him, to love the sound of his voice, I leave the table and face my midnight with the sense that I am utterly alone. Pity. Respond Home |
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