A Special Guest

Like so many of our older friends, a woman’s husband had died many years prior and her children had all moved away to find jobs and their children were off to school and starting their own families.  So each year near the Christmas holiday, her neighbors would watch her as she trudged through the snow in her rubber goulashes and old tattered fake fur coat.  She would slowly back out of the driveway and meander down the road to the nearest small town where she would buy enough ham for two and enough potatoes, milk, cheese, and flour to make a small dish of scalloped potatoes.  She would stand at the bakery counter and ask for the same two hot crossed buns that she had every year prior that her and her husband of 67 years were married.  She would stop by the dairy department for a fresh quart of milk and was sure to get all the ingredients she needed for her famous French Apple Crumb Top pie, that she made from scratch, even now with her tired, weary hands.  Before leaving she would assuredly stop by the flower department where fresh poinsettias had been arranged in glimmering pots of red and green and she would ask the young lady behind be counter if she would graciously lift one of the pots into her cart.  The girl always obliged.  She wondered if her grandpa, now alone as well in a city far off, was shopping alone for his holiday meals, as well. 

Once the woman arrived back home, one of her neighbors would beat her to the driveway and ask if they could help her carry in her bags.  Each year, no matter which neighbor it was, they would use this moment to personally invite her over to their home for Christmas dinner, but every year she declined.  She would smile genuinely and say the same words she had the year before: “Oh thank you. You are so kind.  But I have a special guest coming to join me for dinner.  So I will be busy preparing for his arrival.”  And once the bags were carried in and placed on her counter in her small meek kitchen, she would thank whichever neighbor had been so kind this year and allow them to show themselves to the door as she began emptying her bags. 

The kind neighbor would return home feeling sad for the elder widow, wishing she would stop eating alone and accept an invitation one year, anyone’s invitation, just so she wouldn't eat another holiday meal alone. 

One year, a young boy who lived next door to the elder lady was playing in his yard, tossing snow into the air and sticking out his tongue to catch it, like a frog would over a pond.  He saw the woman heading to her car and had heard his parents talking about her the night before, wondering if this would be the year she would join someone, anyone, for dinner.  So being the curious, honest, little guy that he was, he waddled over through the snow and onto her snow blown drive, stomping his boots as to not take snow in, on a clean, dry carpet. 

She looked up with a smile as he determined to make it to her before she reached the car-door handle.  Then he blurted, as most young boys would “Hey Mrs. Thompkins. Are you going to the grocery store to get your holiday dinner?”

“Why yes I am, James. How nice of you to kick off your boots before heading up my drive.  You are a very considerate boy.  Your mom must be very proud of you.”

“Some days,” he replied honestly.  “My mom and dad said you buy food every year for two but eat all by yourself.  Is it so you can eat leftovers the next day too? My mom does that sometimes… but we usually just throw them away when they get furry.”

Mrs. Thompkins smiled.  “Well I surely do buy for two but I never eat alone, especially on Christmas.” 

“You don’t?...” James asked, with a rather confused look on his face. 

“No I don’t, ever.  Ever since my husband died and went home to be with the Lord, I have asked Jesus to join me for Christmas Dinner.  After all, it is his birthday, you know…”

“Oh…” James replied.  “How does he know to come? Do you call him up or send him a party invitation or something?” 

“I guess I do.  Every year shortly after Thanksgiving Day, I get down on my knees and fold my hands tight.  I close my eyes and sit quietly until I can almost see Jesus’ face right behind my eyelids.  And then, I just ask him.  I just say ‘Jesus, I would love you to be my special guest at Christmas dinner this year.’ And then I sit quietly for a few more minutes… until my feet start to go numb…”

James giggled.  His feet did that too at night time prayers, when they got too long. 

“Jesus has never turned me down. He’s never too busy and never too full.  Every year he assures me I won’t be eating alone and he will join me gladly, for another of my scrumptious Christmas dinners.  Seems my husband must have told him all about them.”

James smiled even wider.  “Well, enjoy your dinner!  You and Jesus!  Let me know how he likes your pie.  My dad says it’s better than my mom’s” and he jumped two booted back over the snow line and plopped on his fanny, swooping up more snow as he tossed it into the air above him. 

Mrs. Thompkins continued on her way, smiling even more than usual.  It seems James shared their conversation with his parents later that day, because although they and other neighbors on their block continued to help Mrs. Thompkins carry in her groceries, and continued to invite her for Christmas dinner, they were no longer sad when she declined them.  They knew she was having dinner with a Special Guest, and truly, that’s all they could have ever really hoped for.