this is us
We breeze in the back door like windblown leaves turning at the edges, all of us rushing in on the holiday gust.
“I’m related to all these people, but I don’t know them,” Zoe said with some awe, us tumbling out of the car and crunching our way through the parking lot, weaving around this old country church in search of the fellowship hall.
“Well, some very distantly,” Kevin clarified on the way in. I watched Adam’s PDM, his 2-in-1 glucometer and insulin pump controller, swing against his hip in its camera-case-turned-diabetic-care-pouch. He’s used that thing so well the metal pull has fallen off the zipper; he has to grip it between his thumb and forefinger to unzip. This is us: equal parts ripped, resourceful, and rejoicing.
“But still,” Zoe says, about the time we open the door, and I wonder if I will know that same kind of awe for eternity, reunited at God’s stretching table with family I don’t even know.
The kids walk in first, all long legs and blooming cheeks, and I follow, scanning blank faces for the ones we know–Kevin’s grandparents, his uncles and aunts. In the wake of my tribe, I can see eyes searching us for expressions of family DNA. The height looks right, especially in the kids, but maybe not the slope of my English forehead, the dark hair, the olive skin and square face. But I am only related by love. Maybe that ‘only’ is misplaced. Doesn’t Jesus say, “Everyone will know you’re my disciples if you love one another (John 13:35)”?
When Kevin walks in and then his dad, the family faces light with recognition; suddenly they know how we fit. “Ah, that’s Perry’s boy and his wife and kids,” I can hear the murmur fall, even without watching it cross their lips. I want to believe that the day I arrive in heaven, my distantly related family will recognize the shine of the Spirit on me, that they’ll know right away that I belong to them. Of course by now, Grandma has seen us from where she sits against the far wall keeping a mental accounting. She wears her usual Christmas red; it makes her white hair gleam where it curves like cupped hands around the apples of her cheeks. At 93, she finds it difficult to move, to stand, to walk, but by the time I make it to her she’s reaching for me, opening her arms so they can all see it’s love that makes us family. Her mouth curves at the edges in welcome, that amused smile a receipt of the only gift she ever wants: us at her Thanks-giving table.
I pass out hugs along the row of aunts and uncles, then wind my way around the long tables to sit down next to Grandpa, who turns to me and resumes a conversation we began a long, long while ago. “I’m so blessed,” he says to me. Every table where Grandpa sits is a thanks-giving table. He begins re-counting gifts for me, talking about God and what God does, and our conversation becomes a hallowed space, abundant in ways no one else can see. We worship, passing truths and joys like heaped plates. This is us: equal parts ripped, resourceful, and rejoicing. That word for rejoice – chairo, when Paul writes “rejoice always (Philippians 4:4),” it means to be glad for grace, and right now at this table, Grandpa and I feel exceedingly glad.
“I’m thankful for you,” I say to Grandpa, touching his arm. “You always give thanks.”
He sits back, considering me. He has things to say, and only after we pack up the car and drive away do I realize he’s saying now what he believes he might not be able to say to me at a later time. “You know I love you like my own,” He says quietly, with a firmness that allows no exception. Grandpa loves in truth, his hugs still solid and strong.
“Yes,” I say, squeezing his arm. I told you, I’m related by love. “I feel like we’ve always had a very special connection, you know. We’re kindred spirits.” I smile, easy, let him see how I mean it.
“I knew that the very first time I met you,” Grandpa says, returning the smile. He gestures to Kevin. “And you two, you were made for each other.”
“Yes,” I say, with certainty. Grandpa and I, we’re still re-counting grace, re-telling truth, tasting again the fullness of God. And sitting beside Grandpa now, I think maybe God’s given us this too as a deposit on what’s to come. We feast before the feast, while Grandma’s sisters bustle around the buffet tables, peeling back tin foil from casseroles.
