Round Table of Mercy

A Middle Little and a Little decided to make dinner.  A delicious smell of scrambled eggs and toast drew the rest of us from the schoolroom to the table, set with all the necessities including the remnants of last night's salad.  A lone voice broke through the thankful murmerings, "I hate eggs!  I don't like toast!  I'm not eating that for dinner!"

I yanked the arm of the hollering Little and called to the others, "Start without us, we'll be on a walk!"  I felt furious and stalked ahead calling back for him to grab his sneakers and catch-up!  We talked of all the things mothers say to children who refuse to eat or display an entitled spirit of ungratefulness.  It is ironic in our house to talk of starving children in Africa, since some actually were, at one time.

When we returned home, the boy ran ahead to humbly apologize for his screeching and unthankfulness.  Salomé graciously handed him his plate, but before his first bite, I swiped it out from under him.  I had decided during our vigorous conversation around the neighborhood, while he continued to fire back defiant words, that he would not be eating dinner, but nor would I, since solidarity sometimes softens what hard hearts might feel are unfair consequences.  All four siblings stopped mid-fork, wide eyed at my choice of the natural result of his naughtiness.  They seemed to feel the weight of justice.  Their eyes begged me to reconsider as the jury sat on the edge of their seats.  I gave them the floor.  "I see you wish to give your brother mercy.  If you can defend the reasons why he deserves it, I will allow him to eat."  And so the round table began with each offering their reasonable argument for mercy.  By then, my stern outward demeanor served only to hide my softened heart over the grace displayed through thoughtful words of kindness for their brother.

I handed down my verdict by replacing the plate in front of the boy.  He looked around with his head slightly bowed, like a gentled colt.  "Thank you," he voiced, quietly, then began to shovel in the cold eggs and toast.

By the time I could finally begin eating, the crew was focused on a game beside the table, their own version of Bananagrams, where each spelled the words they knew.  I asked a stragglier at the table to pass me the salt.  Twelve year old Malachi slipped four tiles on the table beside my plate.  The word read SALT.  I laughed.  What a perfect ending to our rough evening!  Jesus asks us to be salt and light to our world.  At our own table, our round table of mercy, the children displayed the rich addition of the most powerful seasoning in our lives, grace.