Who are you following?

In December of 1995, in a terribly depressed area in Hamilton, word got out on the street that our renovated bowling-alley-turned-church was hosting a free Christmas dinner. We didn’t know what we were doing and were greener than Ireland. No free tickets were distributed, so we didn’t have a hot clue how many were going to show up. And show up they did. They came in groups of 2 or 3. Then entire families. Then a street gang, which by then, we had to turn away as we’d reached the 200 person limit for the number of people allowed in the building. The angry mob threatened to smash our storefront window. I was terrified. This was not the happy, joy-to-the-world evening I’d envisioned.

Earlier that day, my mom and I’d set long rows of tables with red plastic cloths from the dollar store with plastic forks and knives and pretty paper napkins. Next came the little pots of poinsettias, 2 per table. Our 3 daughters had spent hours making 100 popcorn balls, each wrapped in cellophane and tied with red curly ribbon for party favours- one per place setting. Ladies had cooked up 4 turkeys, lots of instant mashed potatoes, corn, salads and numerous pies. But it wasn’t enough. As the line continued to grow, I ran down the street to the grocery store and bought up every pie available. But it still wasn’t enough. Our one-toilet bathroom ran out of toilet paper. We ran out of chairs and people were eating turkey dinners sitting on the floor, backs against the walls. Another teen was stuffing all the cute popcorn balls in her backpack. It was a zoo.

We ran out of food.

We ran out of space.

I ran out of grace.

But then grace showed up in the form a another pastor’s wife, Joan Woods. She called shortly after, asking how our event went and during that conversation, she offered me 2 gifts. The first was the gift of a listening ear. No interruptions. No advice. No quotes from the bible telling me that I shouldn’t quit. The second gift was the invitation to her home for dinner. She said I could use a night off.

A week later, we arrived at their home in Ancaster, along with another young couple. After her husband took our coats, we enjoyed tiny appetizers and sipped warm mulled apple punch. Then we were called to the dining table which was Martha Stewart perfect. The snowy white linens were set with gleaming silverware; crystal glasses glowed in the candlelight; the fresh flower centrepiece was interspersed with cuttings of spruce from their backyard. This tablescape was a feast for the senses.

And the food! Oh my!

We sat around that table for hours as she set before us course after course. There was crisp salad with a delicate dressing, individual loaves of homemade bread, perched on wooden boards that her husband, Bruce had made; a velvety butternut squash soup then an entree of succulent morsels of curried pork with pineapple on a bed of fluffy rice and for the finale- cherry cheesecake. Bruce later told me that she took 3 days to prepare this feast.

Around Joan’s table, all was calm. All was bright.

That evening, she provided space for my jaded eyes to see beauty, my bitter, angry tongue to taste sweet. At Joan’s table, the cacophony and chaos of our church Christmas dinner faded and I gained perspective. She picked me up, dusted off my weary soul and set me back on my feet, ready to face the new year.

That was 30 years ago.

By the way…

Since then, each year, Joan sends us a Christmas card with a newsy letter enclosed. Then 4 years ago, at 92, she took up painting and last year’s card featured a beautiful watercolor scene. It’s now nestled in my memory box. We chat on the phone maybe once a year and she is always interested and always interesting.

In these days of celebrity culture, this is the kind of influencer I choose to follow.