good grace
We gather as family around the table to celebrate Josh’s birthday—Camille and Ray and Kevin and me with our kids, all following the hostess in the Japanese restaurant like ducks in a line, and I count the blessing. In my heart, every meal is a eucharist.
And when He had taken some bread and given thanks, He broke it and gave it to them, saying, “This is My body, which is being given for you; do this in remembrance of Me.”
The word eucharisteo, which in Luke’s gospel was translated in the past tense, “given thanks”, over time became a formal Christian appellation for a remembering ritual or act of worship which long before had been a remembering meal. In times long past, people would crowd around tables and laugh and cry and love and, as they chewed the broken bread and drank the wine, remember that Christ once called the bread and wine His own body and blood given for us, betrothing us to himself, and that when He gave himself for us, we became a found family from every tribe and nation and tongue.
I glance around our table as the hibachi chef taps his shining cleavers against a polished grill, as he stacks onion slices large to small and fills the little mountain with oil. We are, our little tribe, a family found because of Christ, because of love, because for years now, we have shared a life. As my friend Camille says, we go together like old shoes.
“Volcano,” the hibachi chef says, striking a match and touching it to the grill. The oil ignites with a rush.
Adam makes a surprised sound, suddenly sitting back away from the grill, holding his hand in front of his face as though it will somehow protect him from the flames.
“It’s okay, Adam. You’re okay,” Riley says.
Josh and Riley sit at one end of our little ‘u’, grinning, fingers effortlessly intertwined, looking for all the world like two halves of a whole. These days, they’re happier just occupying the same space. Sometimes I watch them together and think about the oneness Jesus wanted us to know experientially, the communion he repetitively described with the words, “I am in my father and you in me and I in you.” For people our world calls “challenged,” Riley and Josh make that union look practical. Riley often says, “I can’t wait to be with Josh, and when I have to leave him, the time always feels too short. I wish I could be with him all the time.” When she says that, I think of Jesus praying that we might be with him where he is.
Eucharisteo refers most properly to the acknowledgement that God’s grace works well, which is why it makes a fitting word for a careful remembrance of the cross and the resurrection, the greatest work grace has ever accomplished. Just as joy refers to our delighted, open-hearted awareness of grace, thanksgiving amounts to a recognition and celebration of the good generously accomplished by that grace.
“Those two,” Camille says, and we share a smile that stretches from valleys to plateaus, a smile that remembers and testifies, yes, God’s grace works well.
God has given our children love, the greatest gift of grace, the one that remains when everything else falls away. What is it then, that they lack?
We mamas keep getting distracted from our menus.
Beside Kevin, Zoe quietly talks to Adam about what he wants to order, pointing at the menu carefully.
“Hi-BATCH-i chicken,” Adam says, his voice gravelly deep, a knot rising in his expression because it’s his first time in a Japanese restaurant. He likes chicken, but he’s not sure what hibachi means.
I gather gifts, my arms full: Zoe’s patience, her gentleness with Adam; the way he responds to her questions; the way our children lean into each other.
It will be a while later, after the hibachi chef packs up his little cart and wheels it away, nodding over our thanks, after our plates steam with grilled veggies and meat and piles of rice, after we have laughed and shared stories, when I will hear Zoe say, “Adam, are you okay?”
Since autism and dyspraxia often push words out of Adam’s reach, his use of language can become even less dependable when he’s struggling through something, and as a result, everyone who loves him learns to watch for clues. We’ve become a band of willing detectives, though especially in public places that hyperawareness can make it impossible ever to completely relax and enjoy things.
When I hear Zoe ask, I glance down the table to where Adam seems to be poised and waiting for something to arise, instantly feeling a sense of wary hope. His adam’s apple bobs. His eyes flit toward us and back toward Zoe. He can feel us all looking, and the attention only makes him feel more unsettled. He presses his lips together and stretches his neck, and my first diagnostic mama-thought is that he has something caught in his throat. Because Adam also has type 1 diabetes, I scan my mind for blood glucose patterns. Has his blood sugar been off this afternoon? Consistent highs and lows can make Adam nauseous. He gulps and swiftly hunches, bringing a hand to his mouth in surprise, and suddenly, the parents at the table start moving. Camille and I throw our napkins down to Kevin, who scoops them up as he pulls Adam to his feet. Collectively, we are moving, even though we still don’t really know what’s happening.
All this, like a swell on a mighty sea, in a matter of seconds.
Kevin races Adam toward one side of the restaurant looking for a bathroom. We watch them disappear into an alcove and quickly reappear, scurrying in the other direction. At the table, we are narrating.
“Oops, not the bathroom. Okay, maybe it’s that way.”
When Kevin finally jerks open a door and guides Adam through it, the rest of us turn our attention back to the table. That’s when Riley begins to cry.
“Riley, what’s wrong?” Someone says. Our conversation has flattened into a narrative line. We have become one family, navigating what for us amounts to a normal level of chaos, and it’s hard to separate our voices.
“I’m just worried about Adam,” Riley wails, tears dripping down her cheeks.
“He’s going to be okay,” I say. “He’s okay. Dad’s with him.”
Josh puts his hand on Riley’s back, reiterating, but she has already begun to escalate into full on ugly weeping. Riley loves hard with a high capacity for empathy. Adding to this the fact that, for Riley, gagging by anyone for any reason triggers anxiety, it’s easy to see how we arrive here, with two empty seats pushed out from our table, all of us still wondering what is going on, and Riley openly grieving.
Just as I begin to get up, to push back my chair and walk my way around the ‘u’ to be closer to Riley, Zoe leans across the table, reaching, talking so quietly I don’t realize what she’s saying until Riley takes Zoe’s hand, abruptly stops mid-panic, and the two of them bow their heads. Zoe begins to pray, and even though I can’t hear all the words, I know she’s asking God to grant Riley peace and to protect Adam, to calm the storm that threatens.
In Paul’s second letter to the Corinthian church, he told them that God had given us the treasure of His light “in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us.” He said that, “…we are hard-pressed on every side but not crushed,” that “…all this is for [our] benefit so that the grace that is reaching more and more people may cause thanksgiving to overflow to the glory of God.”
Thanksgiving. Eucharisteo, like wine splashing over the sides of the wedding cup.
Camille and I exchange a blurry look, the two of us mamas, sisters, friends, sitting back in our chairs, remembering again. Yes, God’s grace works well.
When my young women finish their prayer, we all feel steadied.
Peace. Be still.
Kevin and Adam return to the table, Kevin shaking his head.
“Nothing happened,” he says, shrugging.
After they got to the bathroom, whatever had been troubling Adam had suddenly and inexplicably ceased. Like a storm commanded by the voice of God.
“He was just okay,” Kevin said, “like nothing had been bothering him at all.”
