Suppertime

(The Narrator stands in front of a family dinner table, set for a meal.)

Narrator: A lot of people call what we’re doing today “Communion.” That’s okay, but when I was a kid, we called it “The Lord’s Supper.” I still think of it that way. And yet … even now, those words always hit me a little funny. I guess because not many people eat “supper” anymore … it’s always “dinner.” “What’s for dinner?” “Let’s go out for dinner.”

[Behind him, Mom enters, and begins setting things on the table.]

You know who used to call it “supper?” My mom, when I was a kid.

It’d start getting late. The sun would be sliding down over the horizon, and I’d be out riding my bike … not headed anywhere in particular.

Mom: [Mom steps around the table, alongside the Narrator, and yells]

Michael! Supper! [She returns to her work]

Narrator: That’s when Mom would start callin’. And I could stall … for a while. Take a couple more laps around the block.

Mom: [Mom comes up by him again; this time, she really belts it out] MICHAEL! SUPPER! [She goes back to setting the table]

Narrator: [Shuddering a little, half-deafened] That was the tone I had to listen to. So, I’d head for home, stash my bike, dash for the door.

[Slamming sound – as a young boy, 8-10 years old, appears by the table]

MICHAEL! What have I told you about that door?

Boy: Sorry, Mom.

Mom: [A sigh] Okay – go wash up for supper. [Boy dashes off]

Narrator: So, I’d go wash up – sort of. I could zip those hands through the water without even getting them wet. Then, I’d go stompin’ back into the kitchen …

Mom: [The Boy skips in; Mom doesn’t even bother to turn around]

Wash ‘em again.

Boy: I just did!

Mom: Lemme see.

[The Boy turns without a word and trudges out of sight]

Narrator: And then I’d shuffle back to the bathroom without showing her … because we both knew what she’d see if she looked. This time, I really scrubbed. And you know, standing there, rubbin’ that soap in, I could see what she meant. Those hands were dirty. Grease … mud … scum … just filthy.

I liked it.

But Mom didn’t. So, I scrubbed, and rinsed, and dried, and then I hustled back to the kitchen …

[Boy skips back in; Mom is mashing potatoes. She points to a chair; he rolls his eyes and sits]

… where Mom wanted me to just … sit. And wait.

I could be watchin’ TV. Or playing video games. Who wants to sit and watch someone mash potatoes?

[Boy and Mom pantomime conversation, reactions, laughter]

Although … Mom and I did get a lot talked about, in those few minutes. She’d ask me about my schoolwork – if I’d been nice to my sister – all that stuff about being kind and responsible. Somehow, just watching her moving around the kitchen, working so hard on supper … I could feel her love for me. For all of us. Guess that’s when I began to understand that family time – suppertime – was important.

Sooner or later, everyone else would show up.

[Dad strides in, herding a little Girl in front of him]

Dad: Hey, we’re home. Supper ready? Take your chair, honey.

[Dad, Boy, and Girl all sit and hunch their chairs to the table]

Narrator: And, even though she was never quite done, Mom would sit down, too, so we could say the blessing.

[She joins the others; they reach out and hold hands around the table; heads bow, and Dad mimes the blessing in a tone barely audible]

Dad’s prayers were always so … real. We weren’t just flying through some ritual, before diving into the food. We were talking to God Himself.

Dad would ask the Lord’s blessing …

[Everyone looks up and begins reaching for bowls, napkins, etc.]

… and then ask Mom to pass the fruit salad. That’s usually about the time I’d make a grab for the rolls, which Mom always seemed to put on the far side of the table.

[Boy lunges for a roll; Mom lightly smacks his hand]

Mom: Wait your turn!

Narrator: So, I’d wait … and pass the fruit salad, and the potatoes, and the green beans, until – finally – the rolls came around. Waiting was tough for me. But, eventually you figure out that everyone else is hungry, too, and no one is going to let you starve.

[Everyone begins eating – the Boy really shoveling it in]

Then, at last, we got to eat – and it was worth the wait. Mom put everything she had into her cooking, and you could taste it. Although it’s amazing I could taste anything, slamming down those huge mouthfuls so I could get to tonight’s TV show.

Mom: Slow down. Smaller bites.

Narrator: I slowed down, a little. But I could see that Mom and Dad had lots to catch up on, so … [Boy does it as he says it] … I’d chug down the last three swallows of milk, wipe my mouth, and gasp those all-important words:

Boy: May I be excused?

Narrator: And my dad would say …

Dad: Yes, you may.

Narrator: [As Boy dashes from the table and off stage] And I’d be FREE!

[A beat. The remaining family members freeze, then quietly rise and exit]

[The Narrator steps around behind the table, looking at the homely scene, then at the audience]

That’s still what I think of, when I hear the word “supper.”

Someone who wants me to come home.

To wash up. To enjoy being clean, more than I enjoy being dirty.

Someone who wants me to sit, just for a little while, and think about my life … and how much I’m loved.

Some genuine, serious prayer.

Passing the plate, so that others, too, can be filled.

Small bites, and quiet reflection.

And … those all-important words:

“May I be excused?”

[A beat]

And the awesome resonance of the answer:

“Yes, you may.”

And being free.