In my last post I introduced you, my kindly reader, to Bernard. Among the many wonders of Bernard, he is my father-in-law, a Harley owner who doubles as an official “Road Captain” for his ice tea drinking bikers group, a lover of tattered Champion sweatshirts, and a charcoal-er. That’s right. He’s not a griller, not by a long shot. He’s a believer in the embers. A lover of the clock who lights his pile of Kingsford nuggets well in advance and then waits until the heat below the griddle and the meat on top of the griddle are in perfect equilibrium with each other. It could be a few ears of corn, some roasted red potatoes, and a breast or two of chicken as well, but it’s almost always burgers and dogs. “Close your eyes and take a bite, you can practically taste the smoke,” Bernard would say. “It’s just better over the coals.”
One of my first recollections of time spent with Bernard was on a cool Saturday in October. We come from the Land of Octobers, where it takes only a handful of strolls through the apple orchard on a blue-sky morning, an afternoon of leaf peeping or raking, and a L.L. Bean fleece to make you forget there are three other seasons in the year. On this particular golden day Bernard was out on the back deck. He and my mother-in-law had just moved into their house in late August. While a few boxes were still waiting to be unpacked, based on the way everything in the place had a place, you might have mistook the boxes for decoration. Even the unfinished basement with its shelves of paper towels up top and extra cans of tomato paste down below somehow looked, finished. But out on the back deck Bernard was in a state of strange peaceful consternation. Up above, the canopy of trees had already begun to shed. The tall oaks and bendy pines were showing no mercy. If the deck was painted red we wouldn’t know it again until next A
pril. And one might swear Mother Acorn was using Bernard’s shiny bald spot on his head for target practice. A few yards beyond us the property came to a gentle stop where a duck pond, a grassy field, and a wooden fence that would make Robert Frost write again, all met. Like he was standing at attention, afraid to move or he might disrupt the order of creation, Bernard indeed, looked right at home. And yet, he couldn’t help but mention how, all things considered, the deck would never look finished. I thought he was referring to the daily chore of sweeping away the leaves. “It will make grilling more interesting,” he said pleasantly.
Back inside the new dining room table had arrived. For a room of humble size and people of simple pleasures, the table was huge. I didn’t know if Bernard had always been used to sitting at such a table. Growing up in a family of nine children, maybe the table needed to be big enough not just to eat at but also to do homework at, to play board games at, and no doubt to argue and reconcile at. I’m sure that’s it, because I seem to recall sitting down at the table myself for dinner one evening shortly thereafter. Thinking it was the proper thing to do I asked for a coaster on which to place my water glass. Bernard told me, “No need. We made sure to get a table that doesn’t need protection. You can put just about anything on it and not worry about leaving your mark. It can take it.” In time I came to accept this as a great sign of hope and grace.
I have spent my own privileged time around the table with Bernard. On certain occasions we have sat as many as twenty. And there have been times, mostly in the morning hours, when there’s been just two of us. Now it’s never been Bernard’s style to say a prayer at the table before we eat, though I won’t forget the first time he asked me if I would say a prayer. It was, I know, his way of making room at his table especially for me, the minister whom he must have thought would like to pray. Then there was the first time my daughter asked her Grampy if he would pray. I’ll admit I felt awkward for him. She, however, acted like it was the most natural thing in the world to receive grace at the hands of her Grampy. Joining our hands together Bernard prayed. “Thank you for Grammy who always makes sure there is enough food. Thank you for laughter, for family, and for this. Amen.” And for this. What did he mean by this?
The 23rd Psalm paints a picture of a shepherd who pays such close attention to us–aching with us, fearing with us, rejoicing with us–that we won’t even bother to want for more or less when we are with them. At the hands of this shepherd we are made to lie down in stillness, and even the darkest valley is riddled with right paths. Finally (though not really) there is a table, and there we eat with our enemies. I would much prefer to eat with my kinfolk, but at this the shepherd bids me join hands with my enemies. The spread is an overflow of unimaginable goodness, with plenty to go around for all.
Now I’ll tell you this: next time you’re in the area, stop over to get a burger from Bernard. You might have to wait a bit for it to cook. Those coals take a while to heat up. While you wait you can sit at the table. Trust me, they’ll be room. And no, it won’t matter who you are, because by the time you leave you’ll know yourself simply to be full, mostly of grace.
PleaseGrace 