"Would you like to stay for lunch?" She asked me.
I've always politely turned down the offer many times before. I am ashamed to
say that it was for all the wrong reasons.
I would stop to check on this elderly friend of mine. Her home was simple, often
times in disarray. Not necessarily dirty, but a reflection of her own disheveled
appearance.
The thought of having a meal at her home wasn't very appealing. But that day, I
heard that Voice calling me to respond to her request.
"Why yes, I think I will stay for lunch," I said.
I think it surprised her. It did me. She was most likely unprepared to hear
"yes.".
"Oh, well, yes. Really? That would be great," she said stumbling through her
response.
I came in and sat in her living room.
"Now, if you aren't prepared, please don't fuss at all," I said.
I could hear her rummaging through her cabinets, opening and closing her
refrigerator several times. After a few minutes she called me to come to the
kitchen table. As I entered the room, I could see stacks of newspapers,
magazines and a collection of odds and ends scattered throughout. The table was
set with two sandwich plates barely nestled in among the stacks of mail,
condiments and a few dishes left from a previous meal.
"I hope you like it," she said as she placed sandwiches in front of each of us.
"It's my favorite meal," she said.
"If you made it, I am sure I will love it," I politely responded.
Lifting the top slice of bread I peeked under it to see what exactly I was
getting into.
"Ketchup or mustard?" She asked.
"I'll try it plain," I said, still wondering what it was.
She paused, suddenly tilting her head forward. I thought for a moment she was
going to say a prayer before our meal. She was crying.
"Are you okay?" I asked her.
Looking up at me she began to apologize.
"I know this isn't much of a meal," she said. "It's really all I have."
"My friend, I can't imagine a better meal," I replied.
"Really? I've eaten meatloaf sandwiches since I was a child. It doesn't sound
like much to most folks, but this, this is a feast for me," she said.
"We eat meatloaf in the colder winter months, " I said.
Then, lowering her sandwich back down to the plate, she turned to me and with
trails of tears still visible on her cheeks, she told me her story.
"We were very poor in life. Poor in possessions, not poor in spirit," she said.
She stopped as if reflecting, vividly picturing her childhood days.
"Daddy always made a big thing out of nothing. He could take the simplest thing,
of most little value, and make it appear to be a newly discovered treasure. Like
meatloaf. We couldn't afford any fancy meats, so ground beef was our filet
mignon. When daddy prepared it, it was like he was directing a symphony. The few
ingredients were presented, mixed and baked as if he were performing Beethoven's
Fifth," she said.
She picked up the sandwich, took a small bite and continued.
"The first meal of the week was always meatloaf. In fact it, was often the third
and final meal, too. The first was hot and fresh out of the oven, the second a
warmed version of it and the last, like what we are having today. A cold
meatloaf sandwich."
She took another bite. I still had not begun.
"Don't you like meatloaf, Bob?"
"Yes, I do," I replied, then hesitated as I thought about the possibility of the
meatloaf being a week old.
"Good, because I just made this fresh yesterday," she said.
It was heavenly. "The best I ever had!" I said with a mouthful. She stopped.
Once again she began to cry.
"I'm sorry, maybe you misunderstood me. It wasn't polite of me to speak with a
mouthful. I said it was the best I ever had," I said in an effort to assure her.
"I heard you perfectly," she said. Now wiping the tears, she continued. "Bob,
that's exactly what my Daddy would say. I swear he could eat garbage and still
find greatness in it. Later in my life I realized it was his way of making us
think it was a special meal."
We quietly continued our meal, she remembering her childhood and I gratefully
thanking God for inviting me to stay. Meatloaf, "The best I ever had."
Bob Perks Bob@BobPerks.com
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