guess who's coming to dinner

Another writing prompt from my friend Meredith.

I read it, and think - a process that always takes a few weeks with me - "Hmmm... CS Lewis? JRR Tolkien? Marilynne Robinson? ..."

At this point my brain freezes over, and I realise, "Oh my goodness! I'm sitting at a table with a bunch of Intelligent, Knowledgable, Articulate people, of whom I am Completely And Utterly In Awe, and I have Absolutely Nothing To Say!"

And what on earth would I cook? And where's the beautifully set table? And the open fireplace? And the muted lighting?

And is that my kids arguing over a video game - oh, please children, couldn't it at least be a book? - over in the corner?

Performance anxiety about a purely hypothetical situation: a seven-word summary of me.

My mind shies away from this scenario and turns to a plaque that hung on the wall near the dining table when I was a child. A cut-glass rectangle with gothic lettering, it proclaimed:

Christ is the Head of this house,
the Unseen Guest at every meal,
the Silent Listener to every conversation.

Even that gave me some performance anxiety growing up.

But at least Jesus is used to our plain table with its simple food and ordinary conversation. And he's not talking over my head. He's talking to me.


And yes, I know I'm being very unfair to CS Lewis and JRR Tolkien and Marilynne Robinson. To whom I say, "It's not you. It's me."


This was written in response to Meredith's writing prompt.