place setting
Late afternoon, I fold bath towels, touching the unraveling sides with my fingers, thinking of all the skin these towels have dried, all the cleaning, all the blessing in their worn softness; thinking this can happen to bodies too, that I want to age and unravel through years of humble service. The warmth of the suggestion, that nubby towel now neat in my hands, makes me feel better about the pain I feel in the bottoms of my feet. I need the reminder that soreness in my muscles develops as a natural outcome on a day I’ve given away.
“Thank you, Father,” I begin to pray, “for rest and restoration, for the energy to love now and to love tomorrow.”
I smile, considering the years of prayer I’ve whispered over household chores, recognizing this too as grace.
What else can I depend on for tomorrow and be thankful for right now?
Only recently, God has given me this question as a prompt for prayer. He has been patiently teaching me to give thanks for what will be as often as I give thanks for what is, what was, because I can walk around with treasures in my arms and everywhere I look and still believe tomorrow I won’t have enough. I fight the urge to hang on to the manna I have, to seal it tight in a jar, as insurance against a famine. Somewhere deep, I sometimes doubt God will be the Bread tomorrow too. But God is not an insurance policy, a teacher friend of mine likes to say. I can believe in Him and I can believe Him, but the two phrases mean something different.
“Thank you for already having tomorrow firmly in hand,” I tell Him, “for already being there, for already loving me there. Thank you for preparing work for me to do tomorrow, for preparing me, even now for that work.” You aren’t fickle, I’m praying, scooping up a stack of towels in my arms. There are no loopholes, no withholdings. You’ve never neglected me. I settle the towels on the shelf and make my way downstairs, my bare feet tapping softly against the floor. I need these prayers, that’s why God gave them to me. I tend to believe in scarcity, to identify myself by it, which is crazy, because I know it’s a lie. But God writes over lies, crossing them with the truth. Everywhere, He shows me truth. So even my home becomes holy ground, even towel-folding an act of worship.
When I reach the bottom of the stairs, Adam stands up, starts whirling across the living room toward me. He never walks, except at night when he paces loudly, back and forth, like a swinging pendulum marking the end of time. During the day, Adam glides; he spins, as though set to music no one else can hear. In fact, it’s striking that he was sitting when I walked in the room, something he rarely ever does on purpose but only when he’s extremely tired, when his energy has almost completely emptied.
He’s hungry, as I am too, if in a different way. I know it instantly, which is also grace, because he’d never tell me. But whenever Adam feels needy, he finds me and stays close. He teaches me: hunger and need should set me seeking, should draw me deliberately nearer to the Giver. I smile at Adam and he pauses mid-spin to touch my ears, his wordless I love you. You may ask how I know that’s what he means, and I would tell you it’s in his eyes. I have looked further into those eyes than anyone.
“Supper is almost ready,” I tell him, because I know that’s what he wants to know, even if he doesn’t ask.
I have been cooking all day for the week ahead, and pots still simmer on the stove. The oven ticks and hums. A casserole I made for Adam’s breakfast sits on the counter cooling. Everywhere, all is grace. It confronts all of my senses. Truth, truth. Verily, verily.
I go to the cabinet and pull down the plates; I reach into a drawer for forks and Adam’s spoon. He prefers the round safety of a spoon over prongs, unless he can’t get around cutting a piece of meat. I know this about him, and I find no harm in it. When I reach for the napkins, counting them under my breath, 1-2-3-4-5, I finally look toward the table and find it already set, in Adam’s way. Adam places the utensils on the diagonal, like arrows pointing toward the plates, as though invisible hands already grip them, have already begun to lift them to eat. This looks like faith, like confidence in hope, like assurance in the unseen.
“Oh, you’ve set the table,” I say, and if I sound incredulous, it’s only because Adam doesn’t always do it without me asking. This practice he reserves for his hungriest, leanest times. It’s a bit like me upstairs with my hands in the towels, thanking God in advance for what will be.
Adam laughs over my surprise, grins wide, mumbling something sheepish and pleased, an oh both delighted and dismissive.
“Thank you,” I say, turning to replace in cabinets and drawers the things in my hands, and he laughs—wild joy, again.
A dear friend of mine likes to remember that every meal at every table foreshadows a promised feast God has prepared and will one day serve His people. So we set the spiritual table in confident hope, already giving thanks. We set the spiritual table, believing God. It’s assurance, not insurance. We come hungry, lifting our arms on the diagonal, reaching for home.
“Thank you for trusting me,” I say to Adam, and I can’t even be sure he knows what I mean, but still, he laughs.
