Lenox Liberty.

Registering for china was still a thing when I got married, and that’s the official name of the fine china I registered for as a bride-to-be back in 1992. Actually, that’s not really true. I registered for another pattern, was gifted about ten sets of that pattern, decided I liked the Liberty pattern much better, and subsequently hauled ten boxes of complete place settings back to the department store for an exchange.

It was kind of a crazy thing to do (just the first glimpse of crazy for my unsuspecting new husband), but they were very expensive dishes, and it wouldn’t have been fair to those who’d so generously given them if I spent the rest of my life secretly disliking them and wishing I had something I was prouder of.What I didn’t know back then is what those beautiful blue and ivory plates would come to mean to me. How God would use them to give me a glimpse of His lavish grace.

One of my most vivid and bitter memories from living in Massachusetts is my daughter Kayla’s first birthday. It was not at all what I imagined, or what was supposed to be in my mind. We had moved about 2000 miles away from home and family the year before, and so instead of grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins there to watch her eat her first cake, there were only a couple of friends visiting from out-of state and a handful of college students.

Over the last twenty years, though, and only by the transforming work of God in my heart, the resentment over the wrong people being at my table has turned into rejoicing over the variety of people He has specifically chosen to be there.

The pinnacle of this transformation may have happened last year at Thanksgiving.

For the whole year leading up to that holiday I had been reading and re-reading the gospels. Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John only, for an entire year. One of the passages that haunted me was the one in Luke chapter 14 about giving a dinner and inviting the “crippled, the lame, the blind” rather than “your friends, or your brothers, or your relatives, or rich neighbors.” The reason being that your friends and neighbors would be compelled and able to repay you in the here and now, when it would be better to be repaid at “the resurrection of the righteous” – or upon the return of Christ and with His rewards.

Astonishingly, these are the words of Jesus to the host of a Sabbath dinner. His response stemmed from a couple of scenarios. First, He had been called into question during that dinner, because he healed a man who had been suffering with an uncomfortable medical condition. Secondly, He noticed the invited guests vying for seats of honor around the table.

It was all backwards to Him, and so in typical fashion, He instructed them, a group of religious leaders, in how to properly host a dinner party, and one that would rightly reflect the coming feast of all those God has chosen and invited.

Don’t invite your friends, invite those who you don’t know well, those who are alone, dependent, marginalized, suffering. And while they’re in your home, give them what they need – healing, comfort, food, family, seats of honor.Honestly, it’s not the easiest thing to accomplish even for the most devoted. Where do you even find folks like this? Should you call the hospitals? Stop by the nursing home? Set a dinner table in the local jail? Open your car door to the homeless man with the sign at the stoplight?

Well, maybe you should? Those are all things I considered in responding properly to this teaching of Jesus.

But that’s not how it usually happens for me. At least not during the holiday season.

And really, this has been happening for many years, but it always starts with a blanket invitation to our Thanksgiving meal to anyone in our church. It’s truly one of the perks of being the pastor’s wife for me – being known in the congregation and having an easy platform from which to invite people into my home.

It almost feels like cheating.

Last year the guest list was already up to twenty or so when Robert had the opportunity to put a homeless man up in a local hotel for a few nights and take him grocery shopping on the way there. Thinking he would eventually love a break from bags of tuna and crackers, Robert invited him for Thanksgiving.

On Thanksgiving morning we started receiving text messages from another man Robert had helped to rent a room in a local home. He didn’t want to be alone on the holiday, having come from a very dark background of foster care, drug abuse, and mental illness. We offered him an invitation, but asked that he leave his dog at home, since we also had a few internationals coming, some of whom have a great fear of dogs. He agreed.

That Thursday morning, like every other Thanksgiving, was a frenzy of finalizing the table settings, making place cards, carving the turkey, making the gravy, and receiving the guests. As hard as I try to be at peace, those are always stressful moments for me. People are arriving with various food items that need to be warmed or chopped or refrigerated. There are greetings and questions as the remainder of the meal waits to be finished.

Robert walked in with the man from the hotel about this time. He needed welcoming and introductions and instructions about where to sit.

A few minutes later when things had settled a bit, the other man arrived.

The first thing I noticed was a large dog in my mudroom behind him.

Then our Iranian guest walked into the kitchen and was almost paralyzed by fear upon seeing the animal so close to coming in the house.

I was nearly paralyzed by anger until I noticed the blood coming through the man’s khaki pants. He had put a lot of effort into his appearance that day, but had a bike accident on the way over when his dog (whom he had on a leash while riding) went chasing after something at a high rate of speed.

Upon getting his permission to lift the leg of his pants and look at the injury, I could see that cleaning him up was a non-negotiable. The blood was still fast-flowing. It was all down his leg, all over his pants, his socks, his shoes, and even starting to collect on my kitchen floor. It was a nasty scrape that had removed a previous scab.

I wish I could tell you that I immediately delighted in cleaning him up and finding ointment and a large bandage to cover the serious wound on his leg. I wish I could report that my heart was overflowing with patience and love as he explained why he brought the dog, and we looked for a way to secure him in the back yard.

But I wasn’t those things. I was frazzled by the things not supposed to be. Just like I was at the seemingly unorthodox first birthday party of my baby girl.

As I wiped up the floor of all traces of blood (no one had seen the scene in the kitchen that day) and washed my hands, I wondered at God’s purposes. Did I really need more lessons in patience and acceptance and humility and sacrifice? Was it not enough that I’d opened my home and cooked this food? That the poor, and the crippled, and the homeless were here at my table?

I obviously hadn’t taken in the full implications of Jesus’ instructions.That’s when I walked into the dining room to join everyone for the meal that had already begun. There was the homeless man from the hotel sitting near the head of the table. In front of him was a Lenox Liberty plate heaping with food.

The symbolism wasn’t totally lost on me in that moment, but it’s really been in the last few weeks leading up to this Thanksgiving that I’ve been more overcome by the beauty of that scene.

A feast on fine china for the homeless man.

A bandage for the wounds of the man who struggles with his own sanity.

Comfort and reassurance for the one gripped by fear.

A lesson in humility for the prideful and particular woman.

An opportunity for all of the above to acknowledge common vulnerabilities, weaknesses, and shortcomings, but none more than me.

A foretaste of the coming feast where everyone who receives the invitation has a place at the table.

I’ve never been so proud of those china plates and the grace they opened my eyes to that day.

I say to you that many will come from east and west, and recline at the table with Abraham, Isaac and Jacob in the kingdom of heaven…

Matthew 8:11

May your Thanksgiving celebration this week contain much evidence of His grace.