A Feast of Grace by Mary Owen

 Sitting at a worn table in a broken-down shack, an Appalachian child’s eyes light up in anticipation of immeasurable delights to be found in a brown wicker basket adorned with a bright red ribbon. The donated feast will be consumed with unabashed eagerness. Once the treasured icing on an emotionally filling cake, the red ribbon, much too nice to toss aside, will become an unwelcome reminder of too many days without that brown wicker basket.

Lying on the dirt floor of his hut, a young father despairs that his children will not receive the nourishment they need to temporarily fill their pitifully empty stomachs. Suffering from AIDS, an insidious disease that robbed him of his wife last year, he cannot walk the many miles to the food relief site. His young daughter stares vacantly through the open doorway at the dry, dusty, bleak African horizon. Languishing listlessly in her arms is a baby, her cracked lips suckling on dry air – when she has the strength to move them. Haunted eyes fill the young father’s gaunt face. For now, his table – and his faith – is empty.
For my bounteous table, and all we are about to receive, thank you, God.

Under a bridge, a homeless man hovers closely over a Coleman stove that serves up a shimmer of heat along with his meager “dinner.” The aching in his empty stomach is unmatched by that in his heart. Too many nights he has competed with rats for the scraps of food tossed onto a pile of garbage behind a nearby restaurant. His eyes get steely as fleeting thoughts of better times mix with the reality of a cook in a dirty white apron tossing dinner onto a heaping pile of filth.

A runaway huddles shivering in the doorway of an abandoned building. He yearns for the courage to reunite with his family, but his hurt, anger and bewilderment sentence him to a Thanksgiving feast gleaned from neighborhood trash cans, a feast shared with a marmalade kitten rescued from canvas sack tossed carelessly into one of those trash cans. Fear keeps him from naming the tiny kitten. The boy knows he could lose this “family,” too.
For this warm roof above my head and those of my loved ones, thank you, God.

A cancer victim carefully adjusts the bright-colored bandana she wears to hide the shine of her hairless head. Her home shines with love from her husband and her children, seated around the table for what might be their last Thanksgiving dinner together. That shine, she welcomes.
A 5-year-old autistic child quietly and rhythmically bangs his head against the wall. He lives in his silent world while his parents deal with a more raucous one that knocks loudly at their door. Their pain is shared by many who know the agony of “losing” a child by any twist of fate.
For the abundance of happy, healthy faces seated around our table, thank you, God.
A grandmother lovingly restyles second-hand clothing into first-hand miracles for her grandbabies. Her gnarled, arthritic fingers stitch slowly in anticipation of her daughter’s return from her low-paying job at a nearby factory. Her daughter will be home at midnight. As usual, her meth-addicted son-in-law won’t be home at all.
A scared 15-year-old hides behind defiant eyes as he bravely faces the prospect of another processed-turkey dinner in a juvenile intake facility. Released into county care by his fourth set of foster parents, he grits his teeth determinedly. He knows he must not cry. Nobody wants a boy who cries – or for that matter, a 15-year-old.
For the love we share openly as we gather with your blessing, thank you, God.

A plump, plain-Jane matron stares intently at the figures dancing across her television screen. They keep her company for the few hours, hastening another night into one of a long string of lonely mornings. She subconsciously grimaces as the image of a pretty starlet jumps in close on all 19 inches of faded glass. She knows the beautiful heroine always gets the hero – the plain-Jane does not.
The old man pushes the microwave button to cook his frozen dinner. He quickly glances at the telephone which remains painfully silent. He was sure they would call tonight. They promised to call three days ago. As the microwave dings, his trembling hand reaches for the all-too-familiar plastic tray. Tomorrow, he thinks – surely they’ll call tomorrow.
For all who take time to reach out to my family, to me and to all others needing more than just a touch of friendship, thank you, God.
A small Iraqi boy longs to be home with his family, but as he lies in his make-shift hospital bed, home seems very far away. The nurses and doctors are nice. They fixed his leg. Still, the smooth, while sheets feel as foreign to his body as did the pieces of shrapnel that put him there. Nearby, explosive booms fill the air with dust and debris – and his tortured young mind with fear.
In a Salvadoran border town, a tiny, stick-figured girl with luminous brown eyes thrills to the 10 extra beans that grace the middle of her thin tortilla. Her family is celebrating her brother’s return. Her father is still “disappeared,” but she is not aware of how many days it has been since she last saw him. She’s only aware of the vague hollowness in the pit of her stomach – and in the palm of her hand, there’s a feast to be had.
For the peace that surrounds this day of Thanksgiving, for the many who commit their lives to creating that peace in our troubled world, thank you, God.

Lying on a cot for the umpteenth day, a young Christian covers his head with his threadbare blanket in an effort to close out the horrors of his cramped cell. He contemplates smashing the dim, bare bulb that dangles from the damp, cracked ceiling. The shards of glass would end the agonizing pain from drug-induced muscle cramps – and his life. He sighs sadly, knowing he still has work to do. Too many other souls depend on his support.
A middle-aged man stands on the curb, waving to all the cars that pass by. He screeches with deranged realization that his “friends” only pass by because the highway bisects the sanitarium’s grounds. He also knows he is different from others. He longs for the key that could unlock his mentally troubled mind, a key that could open the doors of his world a little more than do the waves of the drivers to which he so desperately clings. A few stark moments of sanity fleetingly pierce his delirium before he raises his tired hand and screeches once again.
For the freedom to pursue a bounteous table, good health, warm shelter, love of family and good friends, and most of all, peace to all mankind, I humbly pray, thank you, God.


©2011 Mary Owen, SCwSG Communication Team Leader   http://www.DianeDike.org