Brenda, there’s a non-Adventist woman here at church who has asked if she could spend the day with us. She has a little girl. I told her I would need to call my friends first. Would you mind if they came with us for lunch?”
“No, that would be fine. It will be a tight squeeze, but bring them along.”
In earlier days I would have bristled a bit at this disruption of my well-laid plans, but God had been at work, and now I actually looked forward to what He would do as I left everything up to Him. Who was this woman, anyway? Someone I could comfort and encourage? A new friend? A possible Bible study?
Instead of 10, we would now crowd the maximum 12 around our small dining table. The night before, I’d chosen my satiny deep-green tablecloth as a contrast with the stunning bouquet of white and burgundy carnations my husband had brought me to welcome the Sabbath, his tradition since our marriage years ago. Then I had placed our ivory wedding china, good silver, and soft lavender and green napkins at their places. But now the beauty of the table setting would be marred by extra unmatched plates and silverware. “Lord, I want to sacrifice beauty and order for the people You love,” I prayed.
One of my friends and I rushed around before the others arrived, moving more chairs into place, making the appropriate rearrangements, and completing the salads. Everything was ready. The house was clean, the food was prepared, my heart was right. And then they arrived.
Charity Tested
With my friends, a ponderous woman carrying a half-empty bag of chips and holding on to a lively 4-year-old girl emerged from the van. As the woman hobbled along, I noted her drooping eyelids and pouty mouth, her dirty, disheveled clothing. Not quite what I had expected.
I hugged them all with a warm welcome and ushered them into the living room. The woman chose the loveseat for the girl and herself, plopping heavily into the cushions and crunching noisily on the chips. Did she not know we were about to eat a gourmet potluck? I wondered.
Everything was ready. The house was clean, the food
was prepared, my heart was right. And then they arrived.
Shortly thereafter we gathered around the table and sang our Sabbath blessing. I tried to imagine what the woman was thinking. Now at last she could set aside the cheap chips for the nutritious and colorful food the rest of us had contributed. I anticipated her reaction and thanked God that we could share something worthwhile that she would probably never get to eat where she came from.
But with sorrow (and some disgust) I saw her bypass many delicious dishes in favor of juice and bread. The little she did take was pushed around her plate. I’d opened a special jar of vegetable spread for the bread. “Do you have any butter?” she called out. “That’s not lasagna!” she exclaimed unhappily at the vegetable version served. The apricot dessert was equally unacceptable because there was no ice cream involved. Nevertheless, we treated her with polite respect, attempting to include her in our conversations, occasionally managing to move her from her passivity. Several times when we brought God into the spotlight, she bellowed out a question that had nothing to do with the subject at hand, interrupting the speaker of the moment and polluting the spiritual atmosphere with the mundane.
“Lord,” I breathed, now unhappy myself, “how am I supposed to treat this woman like Christ when she acts like anything but Him! She makes no expressions of delight at being included in our group, no compliments or thanks for the meal.” When we moved back to the living room after everyone (almost everyone) was fully satisfied, she took her place, like a misplaced lump, on the loveseat, and resumed crunching her chips. My Christian charity was failing rapidly.
What of You?
Even though I gave her another unreciprocated warm hug when they left, there was nothing to make me think that this afternoon for her was anything but a break in her routine. While washing the dishes later, I pondered our brief time together. “Lord, You have something to tell me, don’t You?” Then He “spoke”:
“Ushered into the warmth of a Sabbath family gathering, this woman had no response of joy or gratitude. How is it when you come to My house?
“Offered a feast, she chose a famine. Do you feast on My love and promises—or go without, attempting to solve your own problems, dissatisfied with My ways?
“In the midst of sacred words, she blurted out her own comments as if she didn’t hear what was going on at all. Are you oblivious to My voice as I seek to deepen our relationship?”
In that moment at the kitchen sink I saw myself in that woman, blasé about the privilege of knowing Christ, crunching on the crumbs of my substitute delights, putting my ideas out there regardless of who is speaking. Strangely enough, I now saw Someone Else in her as well, and I got the message.
“Whatever form You have to take in order to reach me, Lord, be my guest!”