The Case for Odd-Numbered Place Settings

Today, a young couple gathered with friends and family to receive gifts in anticipation of their upcoming wedding. Their gift registry was modest, by anyone’s standards. Only four plates. Four glasses. The most basic kitchen needs. 

It was charming, really, the simplicity with which they are looking ahead to their union and housekeeping. I appreciate the minimalist approach. There are far more important things to think about and invest in than the maintenance of much STUFF.

But even as I pieced together my gift selection for them from their registry, to try to help in meeting their needs as well as their expectations, I did invest in one item that they might consider superfluous: a fifth dinner plate.

My daughter, through whom I know this couple, had already purchased for them the four plates they had registered for and requested. I added a fifth, and along with it, an explanatory note, which was inspired by my own long history of life at this point, and the knowledge that these young two truly desire to honor Christ in their marriage. 

So I wrote a note, and it said something like this, or at least, this is what I intended to say in that dashed-off missive:

Blessings of grace and peace and mercy and joy to you in your new marriage! The gift you find here of the fifth and odd-numbered dinner plate is to serve a purpose as a reminder in your marriage as you gather with others to nourish bodies and friendships, to remember the sojourner, the widow, the orphan, the single person, the lonely elderly neighbor, and to set a place for one who might not be so embraced at the table as those who are bound in pairs. For this is true religion: to visit the widow and the orphan and remain unstained by the world.

I myself have recently married after six years of singleness. It was a long six years. In that time, I realized that while I have far more than four plates (I do enjoy inviting in), neither my “good” china nor my everyday stoneware inhabit the cabinet in even numbers. There are 13 of one and 15 of another—and that wasn’t intentional. Over time, a piece here or there was broken. But the odd number still serves as a reminder.

I don’t have an extra plate to be left off as I fill the table with pairs and couples. Even now that I’m married, I don’t have an extra plate to leave in the cabinet. I have an extra opportunity. An opportunity to bring in one more, someone who, like I was all those years, may be eating alone on the night of . . . whatever event we’re having, whether it’s our annual Friendsgiving—a gathering of mostly singles I have hosted for several years and intend to continue even though I am married again now—or just dinner, at home when someone single crosses my mind.

And this I would offer: If a single person crosses your mind, don’t dismiss it. That’s very likely a God-nudge to bring that person somehow into fellowship. Clearly, God wants to talk to you about that person, and maybe what he wants to say is “Reach out. Include. Visit. Invite.”

And if you too have an odd number of plates on your shelf, think of setting an odd number of places at your table, and find that lonely soul who needs you. 

Thoughts on Day 40: Life in the Time of Corona

Quarantine. The word literally means “a period of 40 days.”

40. A significant number. Today is day 40 in quarantine or lockdown or “safe at home” for us. 40 days. Like Jesus in the wilderness. Like the time it rained while Noah and his family and all those creatures were on the ark.

I’ve been wondering about this number. It comes up so often in the Bible, but why does our English language have a word for this particular number of days? The word goes all the way back to Italy in the early 1400s. As people attempted to manage and avoid plague, travelers were sometimes required to spend a full 40 days, a quarantino, in isolation to allow for potential infections to incubate and run their course before risking transmission via contact with others in an uninfected area.

Perhaps there’s some epidemiological science behind that. It seems reasonable to think so. But I also think there’s some Creator-inspired psychology behind it. I think of how we started out 40 days ago. Sure, we didn’t like this—didn’t relish or enjoy it—but it felt like something of an adventure, and I for one dive into adventure with vigor. At first. My intuition had told me as far back as early February that something was likely to “go down,” and so I had made a little game with the girls of selecting strategic items to add to our normal weekly grocery shopping. Before there were even rumors of isolation, we had a small surplus store of pasta, peanut butter, beans, rice, applesauce, pet food, and acetominaphen. (Always ridiculed by my daughters about my personal dread of running out of toilet paper, I failed this time to stock up on that precious commodity in advance, however.)

We made some plans about how to address a temporary isolation. Schools sent home student laptops. We baked a little. We pulled out games and a puzzle. We planned movie nights and took youth group to Zoom. We were so going to do this! And we did, without much strain despite the uncertainty for the first two weeks.

And then we felt the restlessness creeping in. We felt the end of our own resolve and resources. Trips that kids were excited about got canceled. That hurt. We got cranky. Moods have stayed pretty good overall, but it is clear that our own bootstraps have grown much, much shorter as the days creep on. There have been a few teary meltdowns (mea culpa—even more than the younger ones here in the household). We miss our friends. We miss our families. We miss sports. We miss church. We miss classrooms and offices and lunches out. We miss the movie theater and the spontaneous errand. We miss… everything.

We’re not hungry. We’re not cold. We’re not even alone. We have each other and we connect with people by text and phone and social media and Zoom. But even so, we know we need something else. It’s not enough. And I think this is where the development of real patience and perseverance and healthy dependency upon someone other than ourselves to sustain our whole-image health has opportunity to get roots and grow… around the 40 day mark. It’s too long for us. We want it to end, now—just as it has the potential to develop something lasting within us. Endurance. Endurance doesn’t come easily. It isn’t born into us. It’s nurtured into us. It doesn’t spring up like a weed but grows like an oak—from something small but lasting, that takes a long time to become mighty.

I think its unlikely to be coincidence that Psalm 40 claims, “I waited patiently for the Lord.” And then, the Psalmist goes on to ask God to “make haste” to deliver him. We hold both truths simultaneously. That’s simply honest.

We’re becoming more aware of our needs beyond the physical. We’re becoming something. We’re becoming.

I don’t want to miss this. I want to welcome it. I want to receive it. Despite all the hardship, I’m trying to open my hand to what this is working in us—individually, as a family, as a community, as a nation, as a world. May there be fruit in the future.

Life in the Age of Coronavirus, Day 9: The Tears Come

Nine straight days of quarantine didn’t do it.

Moving a disappointed college freshman home without a chance to say goodbye to the friends she made didn’t do it—even though she’s changing colleges and really won’t see them again.

The lost eighth grade track season didn’t do it, nor the lost running club for the youngest. The lost hostess job for the oldest didn’t do it. Not even, NOT EVEN, the very real possibility that my own wedding might be canceled later this summer—or at the least radically altered.

Hearing my 80-year-old dad say, “Becca, I reckon you better not come visit” didn’t quite do it.

No, none of those things yet had brought tears. But this one did.

This face. This gentle, smiling face of a stranger, which I sat mesmerized with in Twitter’s feed, posted by a stranger.

I looked him up. I needed more. Who was this man?

Don Giuseppe Berardelli was a 72-year-old Catholic priest in Bergamo, Italy. Though the account of his life I found online was awkwardly translated from Italian to some assortment of English words and phrases, I could pick out enough to grasp that he loved and was dearly loved by his parishioners. So much so that when he contracted COVID-19 among the throngs of others in his community, his parish knew: He won’t let himself be treated above others.

The parishioners went in together and bought a ventilator. Who of us has thought of that? They bought him his own, to be sure he wouldn’t refuse one at the hospital.

And still, when there were not enough, he opted to give his ventilator to someone else. I don’t know who. Someone younger. Maybe someone not yet so secure in his eternal inheritance.

And there they were. The tears, for a stranger. For the man, yes. For his parish, yes. For love, for sorrow, for anguish. For anger at this stupid virus that is sweeping our planet. Taking away Don Giuseppe Berardellis abroad and at home.

For something else too. For the sheer, perfect beauty of it. It’s a beauty that can’t be grasped without tears. Self-sacrifice. Greater love has no man than this, and we know it. We know it so much that we can’t experience this kind of beauty with glee. It has to hurt. It’s too foreign to us. Too vast. Too other. I recognize it but can’t take it in. The tears and sobs push it OUT, OUT! It doesn’t belong in me.

After Moses saw God face to face, his face was too radiant. No one could look at him. He had to veil it until it faded. That’s it. I can’t look. I can’t take this in. It is too wonderful for me.

Mercy, mercy! God have mercy on us all.

And thank you for Don Giuseppe Berardelli. May his memory be eternal.

Life in the Age of Coronavirus, COVID-19: Tuesday, 3/17/20

Tuesday, 3/17/20

My daughter who isn’t “supposed to be here” told me today was St. Patrick’s Day. I hadn’t realized it. On a normal weekday in mid-March, I would likely have been surprised to learn it was a holiday requiring specific attire the morning of as we were rushing to get to school and work on time, and WHERE IS IT? THAT GREEN SEQUINED HEADBAND I BOUGHT LAST YEAR TO WEAR TODAY! would have been expressed in profound despair from behind a closed bedroom door no more than four minutes before my own WE MUST GO NOW! declaration would add to the desperation of the morning.

But that was then. This year, it was quiet. The children were not even awake yet at 7:09 am, when all that would have been happening. No one particularly cared about wearing green.

I was sitting in front of my computer when she passed by to tell me and to give a sharp pinch. I felt its sting for minutes afterward. That was good, actually. I was feeling numb there. Blank. Not at my office in the Village, but at home at the dining room table. A bit disoriented. The house is more full than normal. The pincher is one of my college girls, home, presumably for the rest of the semester, as her college has closed dorms. She moved her things out yesterday. All but one rug and one shelf that she couldn’t manage to get. She might go back for them. She might abandon them.

Very exciting, planned-for-all-year, paid-on-all-year field trips to Atlanta and Chattanooga for the younger girls have been canceled. Our $550 so far investment may not be returned to us. No one knows how this is all going to work.

All three girls are waiting for virtual school to start: sixth grade, eight grade, and freshman university classes are all going online. My oldest chose to stay in her city, where she rents a house and has a job. Or had. She’s a senior, hoping to graduate in December—IF her summer internship, which is needed for credit toward graduation, doesn’t get canceled. She too is waiting for virtual classes to begin. Her university has already said that all in-person gatherings on campus are suspended through the end of the semester. No students will return to dorms or classes. Everything will be online. On-campus residents were asked to move back home. She chose to stay in her house with her roommates. I catch myself praying for her protection out loud as I rinse my coffee cup or try to make the ice maker stop that grating sound it makes or wipe the dog’s feet after she’s been out. Pray without ceasing. My baby isn’t a baby any longer, I know. But right now the mother hen’s wings feel her absence. I wish she was here with us.

We’re not going out beyond our yard right now. I needed soap. I ordered from a local craft soap maker. Her prices are now completely reasonable compared to the “market demand” prices for the supply available online. She brought my order in person, in a brown paper bag, and left it at the street. It feels like a treat even while it’s a necessity.

We have enough food to last us a few weeks, I’m sure, though we won’t love what we’re eating. Fresh vegetables for probably another day, maybe two. Fruits for three or four. And then it’s frozen, and then it’s canned unless things restock. Pickup for orders isn’t available at Walmart. No clue when it will be. Many of the things I would have ordered are not in stock anyway.

While I’m trying to work from home, there are interruptions frequently. We’re going to have to find a way to have a schedule, or a routine at least. Maybe once virtual learning actually starts we can define dedicated blocks of time. For now, it feels very fractured. I like order. I don’t like this, though I’m not as anxious as I might have expected to be. We’re doing what we can. We’re in. We’re supplied. We’re praying Psalm 91 daily at dinnertime together, asking for provision, protection. Expecting it. That’s comforting.

This is Day 3 of home quarantine for me. It’s only Day 1 for my college girl since she had to leave to go move out of her dorm. As the extrovert in the family, I expect to struggle the most with the isolation.

My fiancé and I have chosen to honor the time apart. His job still requires him to travel to various sites as needed. Yesterday and today, different sites. Tomorrow already has one planned. It’s less contact than normal but he is still more “out there” than I would like. So to protect my household, we are staying separate.

We text throughout the day and talk on the phone at night when we can. It’s something. Long ago, people wrote letters. They waited weeks for a reply. We can do this.

Our wedding is planned for August. At first we thought, “Surely…” Now we’re thinking, “Maybe not…” We may not have the wedding we’d planned—small though it was to be. We agreed tonight that even if we can’t have the wedding, we will still get married on schedule. “It will be,” he said. I love that.

At the end of the day we did the dishes—again. There are so many with everyone home all day. We played Monopoly. We’ll continue that tomorrow. And now we sleep. We’re really OK at home, without class and sports practice and physical therapy. For now. It feels surreal. It feels like we can’t see what’s happening outside, but we hear. We hear and we accept and we wait. For now.

So this is life. What a rapid, sharp turn it took.