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| Children feed our hens during the church picnic |
I
knew Mom and my Kentucky relatives planned another picnic when she boiled eggs
and potatoes on a Saturday. That provoked mixed feelings as a child.
A day at Wildwood Park meant loading
up Mom’s potato salad, fried chicken, chocolate cake, and sweet tea bright and
early Sunday morning. After a long drive from Warren to Holly, my sisters and I
splashed and played on the beach with our cousins. Then Mom hollered for us to come
and eat. Then we played and ate again until the cake disappeared.
A picnic also meant I’d miss Mrs. Urban’s Sunday
school class and reciting my memory verse. That meant missing another star by
my name on the teacher’s chart.
But Dad and many uncles worked Saturdays, so we
picnicked on Sundays with what seemed most of Michigan’s population.
Without a doubt, those glorious, sunburned days
running back and forth from the beach to Mom’s chocolate cake redeemed the
lessons lost in Sunday school.
For Sabbath mornings with fellow classmates and the
Holy Scriptures far outnumbered the Saturday mornings my mother hand-blended
potato salad in her white metal dishpan rimmed in red.
My favorite memory verse Mrs. Urban assigned my class
remains Romans 8:28. Therefore, I knew God would work out a family picnic for
my good because I loved Him and was called according to His purpose. Whatever
that purpose might be.
This knowledge, one portion of my inheritance as a believer
in God’s Word, granted confidence in the revelation of His purpose. Meanwhile,
family picnics and reunions fell by the wayside as relatives passed or moved
out of state.
I grew eager to plow my hands through a gigantic bowl
of sliced hardboiled eggs, boiled potatoes, celery and olives, chopped carrots
and onion blended with Hellman’s mayonnaise, sour cream, and buttermilk.
Finished with Morton’s Nature’s Seasons.
In the perfect dispensation of opportunity to fulfill my
heart’s desire, our pastor’s wife announced several months ago, “We’re planning
to resume our potluck picnic this summer. We’ll keep you posted on the date and
location.”
I turned to my husband with absolute assurance in our
purpose. “We have the location.”
After months of planning and preparation for 50-60
guests, this past Saturday I carried a punch bowl filled with Mom’s potato
salad downhill to our pavilion.
Megan Schwetz of Living Grace Church packs up goodies to take home
In good time and humor, the pastor’s wife, daughter,
and two other women arranged the bounty of food on four tables. I recalled
reunions and picnics of my childhood: fried chicken, chicken and dumplings,
greasy beans with onion, new potatoes and gravy, blackberry cobbler, and jugs
of sweet iced tea, for instance.
The pastor’s wife rang the dinner bell I’d fastened to
the wall fourteen years ago. Sixty-one guests fell silent to the unexpected
clatter.
Dear Reader, a year ago I had no vision of the blessed
moment when Pastor Tom asked the Lord’s blessing upon our feast.
Our home is no Wildwood Park, yet childhood laughter while
feeding hens and running in sprays of our lopsided sprinkler provoked no less joy.
