The Lord’s Supper…that word “supper”, it got me to thinking…
You don’t hear that word anymore. Everything is “dinner”. Let’s go to dinner. What are we having for dinner?
I’m an Iowa farm boy and Andy is an Alabama guy. Where we come from it’s called supper. Except in Alabama it’s more like “Whas’ fo’ suppa?”.
You put in long days on the farm. Breakfast is what you eat in the morning. Dinner is what you eat at noon. And supper is what you eat in the evening. Oh, and lunch? That’s what you have with your coffee at 10 in the morning and 4 in the afternoon.
When I was a kid about my kids’ age, the school bus would drop me off at the end of the gravel lane framed by two giant cottonwood trees. I’d have all this pent up energy that had accumulated by sittin’ in a school desk all day and it needed to go somewhere. So I’d run and play. Sometimes up in the hay mow in the barn. Sometimes climbing trees in the grove. Get my BB gun and shoot something. Sometimes trying to pop wheelies on my bicycle. You know, the one with the wide handle bars and the banana seat?
When the sun started dropping and waving good-bye to the day, Mom would start calling me. Inevitably, I was at the far end of the farm and all I could hear was a distant “T—o—-d—-d! S—u—p—p—e—r!” I could stall for a bit. Maybe try to pop another wheelie, but then the yells got louder and shorter. “Todd! Supper!” And it was head for the house or get real hungry before breakfast.
I’d head for the house, park my bike under the big maple tree in the front yard and dash in the door, letting it slam behind me.
Wham!
“Todd Allan, what have I told you about slamming that door?”
And I’d remember. “Sorry.”
Then she’d tell me to go wash up for supper.
I’d go wash up in about 5 seconds. I was good. I could slide these hands under the faucet so fast they wouldn’t even get wet. I’d walk back in the kitchen and she’d say, “Go wash them again.”
And I’d say, “Mom….I just DID!”
And she’d say, “Let me see.”
And I’d turn around and go back because we both knew what she’d see if she looked.
This time I really scrubbed. And standing there scrubbing I could really see what she meant. Man, these hands are dirty. Grease and dust and mud and scuz…just filthy. Turned that pure white Ivory Soap lather a dingy blue gray.
I liked it.
But Mom, not so much. So I scrubbed because it was important to her. I rinsed and dried and went back to the table. Where Mom told me to sit still and wait.
Why do Moms do that? Why do they tell you to hurryuphurryuphurryup…WAIT? They won’t let you go up to your room, or watch TV or go back outside till it’s time to eat. Just sit and wait. Like an 8-year old doesn’t have better things to do with 5 minutes than to watch his Mom put a plate of rolls and a pitcher of juice on the table.
Now that I think about it, Mom and I got things talked about in those 5 minutes. Like what was I up to at school. If I’d been giving my sister a hard time, which I always was. And if I’d been skipping out on my chores. Mom would let me know why it was important to be kind and hard working. And if I’d managed to be half-way good, she’d let me know that, too.
Sitting there watching her put the finishing touches on supper, listening to her talk or sing an old hymn to herself, I could feel how much she cared about me. I guess that’s where I started to learn that family is important. That sense that I belonged. That there was a place for me at the table.
Finally, everyone else showed up. My sister and often my great uncle LD and my grandparents. And my Dad. Sometimes he sat at the end. Sometimes he sat on the side. But it didn’t matter. Wherever Dad sits is the head of the table. And Dad said the blessing.
While all of us were sitting there surrounded by the aromas of fried chicken or lasagna hot out of the oven, Dad would say, “Let’s pray.” And we’d bow our heads.
There was something about Dad saying it that made it serious and important. We weren’t just flying through some memorized string of words so we could dig in to the potatoes. We were praying. Dad was talking to God and you could tell that God was listening. And seeing as how God was paying so close attention, Dad made it a point not to take up too much of His time. He thanked God for the food, prayed for whatever pressing needs we had for ourselves and for our friends and neighbors. Then he’d say “Amen” and ask my sister to pass the fruit salad.
That’s when I’d reach for the rolls, which, no matter where I sat, Mom seemed to put at the far end of the table. And she’d give my hand a pat and say, “Wait your turn.”
So I waited. And passed the fruit salad. And the green beans. And the fried chicken. And the potatoes. Till finally the rolls came my way. There was a discipline in that. You learned that no matter how hungry you were, other people were hungry, too. And you wouldn’t starve waiting for them to get their food.
Well, we finally got to eat and I gotta tell you, it was worth the wait. Mom put everything into her cooking. It was delicious. Though now that I think about it, it’s a wonder I could taste anything the way I wolfed everything down. “Slow down”, my Mom would say. “Take smaller bites.” “You eat too fast”, my Grandma would say. She was right. I do. Then again, Grandma was the slowest eater in the world. She had unfinished meals that dated back to the Eisenhower administration. But I’d listen and slow down. A little. And take smaller bites.
Then I’d tip my glass, chug the last of my juice, run a napkin across my face and say those all-important words.
“May I be excused?”
And Mom would say, “Yes, you may be excused.”
And I’d be FREE to run.
…That’s what I think about when I hear that word “supper”.
Someone asking me to come home.
Someone who wants me to wash up…to enjoy being clean as much as I enjoy being dirty.
Someone asking me to just sit and be still…just for a while, and think about my life…and how much I am loved.
The sounds of serving…the clatter of plates and trays. The feeling of family. That I belong and there is a place for me at the table.
Some quiet serious praying.
Passing plates so others can eat, too.
Small bites and careful thinking.
And those all-important words,
“May I please be excused?”
Hearing the sweetest answer back…
“Yes, you are excused.”
And being free.
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