A Larger Table

On a side street, not always on the same side street, is a little store front. Sometimes here, sometimes there, but the door is always propped open. From the street you can see the jumble of books and papers and maps, filling every corner, leading down every isle, into a maze and jumble that seems almost endless.

Is it a bookstore? No. A Library? No. It is rather like a catalog. Some of these books are real books, you can find and read for yourself, although they may be slightly different when you read them, as each reader brings himself to the book and this changes it. Yes, you can take away books, or leave books, as you find the need.

Some of these books are not books at all, but movies, or songs, or stories told by campfires, handed down.

The best of these books are actually people, and like books, you bring yourself to them so their stories may not be the same for everyone in every way. They are true people nonetheless.

I’m Daniel, and I wander these shelves, and hand down books, gather books, give books away, introduce them to others, and cherish what they are and what they were, and sometimes what they will be. I pull down a wide volume to show you. I can only open the last few chapters of this one, near the end, but not quite to the end. There is more story there, more pages and chapters, but those are not my stories to tell, not mine to share. These few chapters near the end are.

I’ll tell you of Momma from them.

She is not my mother, but rather the mother of one of my best friends from years gone by. She was in the hospital when I first met her, I went with my friend who was visiting her. She was a robust woman, even in illness, draped in her hospital gown and propped up in her bed. I greeted her by name, adding Mrs. To her first name, as a sign of both respect and affection, a not uncommon adaption in the South and Midwest. She welcomed me warmly, like family, and partway through our conversation told me she did not want me to address her that way. I assumed I had made some misstep, some social error unknowingly, and this was my reprimand, to have to use her last name.

I am sure she saw the worry on my face as she smiled and said “Call me Momma.” and relief and her warmth and acceptance flooded through me. And so, I did. She welcomed me like kin.

Momma had a lot of kids, mostly grown, including my friend. Some liked me, some did not, some objected to my color to Momma.

“I wouldn’t have a white man in my house.” One told her once. She smiled and said “Well, it’s a good thing it isn’t your house.” and laughed.

Momma and my friend had me over often. She cooked and fed us, we played dominoes (You ever lose Dominoes in a big way? I got schooled often.) My friend became my roommate, and we’d both walk up and see Momma, attend the store front church Momma went to, or stop by the church school attached, where Momma taught.

She was honest, but kind with her honestly, and joyous in her laughter and mirth. There were always kids, and grandkids, swarmed around her and her home and she loved them all. She loved me, and I loved her as well, even without the ties of blood, and she loved Jesus and God.

Lots of people over the years have told me that they love God. some have, and some have not, and that’s really between God and them, but I can tell you without a doubt Momma loved the Lord. It glowed out of her. That love for people, for family, for strangers like me even. Loving them until they were not strangers at all, but part of the family.

I make no claim that she was perfect, do not fear. She was human and fallible as we all are, but let me tell you an example of what I mean.

Momma would sit on the stoop of her apartment building. If you’ve ever lived in the city, this is a common enough thing. She would greet people, talk to people. Some of the people she would talk to were “working girls”. (And no, I don’t mean waitressed and cabbies, and yes, I do mean what you are thinking.) She would talk to them, listen to them, share their joys their sorrows, their stories, their lives. She neither accepted their profession as right, or judged them for it, but instead loved them. Not as a project, not as a duty, but as one elderly woman to individual young women, as sister, as mother, as friend. She did not lecture, or condemn. She shared tea, or a snack, and talked, and listened. Sometimes she was able to give advice, other times just a shoulder to carry the burden, but there, always there. A warm and loving part of the community. An example of God’s love, without preaching, without harshness, without any cruel word excused because it is “truth”. (A poor excuse to harm another) She brought Christ, and tea, to the stoop and shared them both. Transparent and real and open, without agenda. There were a lot of churches up and down that street, and some who would lecture me on faith and not works, but my favorite church was the stoop where Momma sat, and shared out love one cup and one plate at a time.

I close the book and slide it on the shelf. You can see for yourself the chapters I shared are near the end of the volume, and if you suspect that she is Home in heaven now, you are right. I am sure sitting on the steps of the pearly gates, welcoming the stray travelers and stragglers like me.

Daniel

Renaissance Hillbilly
Custodian of stray volumes
Resident of the side street

Matthew 11:28 Come to Me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.

© Dan McDonald, September 2022

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Dan McDonald