The church potluck yesterday felt like more than just a meal. Maybe it was the way the tables were lined up in rows, stretching across the fellowship hall like an open invitation. Or maybe it was the quiet understanding that no matter what kind of week we had all walked through, we would meet there, together again. The line for tasty treats went on forever, as guests ate quickly to make room for more.
A moist and delicious spiral-cut ham, glistening under the lights sat the beginning as the anchor of luncheon. The pastor’s wife had wrapped green utensils with orange napkins to resemble little carrots as we celebrated a late Easter meal. Everyone brought what we could. Not just food, but little pieces of our lives.
HHH created his fabulous scalloped potatoes, rich and creamy, the kind that always seem to disappear faster than expected. I made two lbs. of glazed carrots, warm and sweet, their brightness offering a small bit of color on a long table of comfort foods. Others came with rolls, salads, casseroles, and desserts, each dish telling its own quiet story of effort and care.
We filled our plates and found our seats. Simple conversations began, even if sometimes a little awkward at first. Soon enough, the room was buzzing with conversation and laughter followed right behind as it usually does.
I had the pleasure of sharing a meal with someone a bit down on her luck. We met two weeks ago when I learned she’d traveled all the way from Wisconsin. When asked how her week had been, she said she’d met some struggles. God, please bless her as she makes her way through each day. Her path in life isn’t an easy one. The path of the homeless never is.
Some people there carried heavy things, seen it if you looked closely enough. Others seemed light as air, quick to smile and serve. At this potluck, it didn’t matter which one you were. The food didn’t ask questions. The chairs didn’t require explanations. The invitation was the same.
Come. Sit. Eat.
And for a little while, everything else softened.
Watching plates being passed and hands reaching for seconds, I realized that this is what it means to be part of something bigger than ourselves. Not perfection. Not performance. Just presence.
A red-headed, pint-sized and full of himself, had collected a plate full of sugar and dye’s. This was one child that didn’t need more energy. There are some children that bring the winds of terror with them when they enter the room. It’s sad that red-headed boys often live up to their reputation of naughtiness.
As he placed teeny, tiny bunny cookies on his cupcake, I mentioned how cute they were. He smiled and gave me one. He also shared one with HHH. For dessert, I ate this tiny cookie with one bite. It was then a Dr. Mom (an amazing physician and mother not related to this little) came to sit down by him. He offered her one.
“I’ll take the cookie, but I’m not eating it. Remember what your hands touched before dinner?”
My heart sank. I could only wonder what the heck this little had touched. The possibilities were endless.
She continued, “Boogers? Next time, wash your hands and I’ll be happy to share a cookie with you.”
After all those years of teaching, you would think I’d remember one important rule. Never take food from anyone under five feet tall without first watching them wash their hands. With a sinking heart, it was time for HHH and I to leave.
At Sunday potluck, we didn’t fix each other’s problems or solve the war. We shared a meal while making space for one red-headed little and a homeless woman. We remembered, if only for a moment, we’re not alone. Just as the beautiful astronauts reminded us, we’re all part of Crew Earth.
And at Sunday potluck… that is more than enough.
More tomorrow.