O Lord, I remembered my name today, but apparently forgot to add that final cup of flour to the cookies. Thank You that my eternal destiny does not depend on turning out a perfect recipe — of any kind. OMG, how I celebrate Your love and forgiveness through Jesus!
O Lord, my sweet mother-in-law could actually find and use the many lists she made. Me? I just found one I made three years ago in a shoe. Yet she loved me like a daughter. OMG, I’m thankful she’s now with You, maybe making perfect lists in Heaven. But how I miss her!
O Lord, reading about Your feeding 5,000 people with a little bread and fish, I’m amazed by Your kindness. Your miracles. Yet, an ordinary mom or grandma probably baked those loaves. OMG, aren’t You glad she didn’t forget and let them rise way too long, unlike … um, some people You know?
Lord, You know that yesterday, I forgot to put my prepared Sunday dinner in the oven. I filled my coffeemaker, but neglected to turn it on. On this Monday morning, I wonder what’s next. Will I fill the coffeemaker, turn it on and forget the pot? Yet when recall fails, OMG, Your mercies don’t. So thankful You won’t forget me in 2020!
I forget many things. And I had forgotten about this tablecloth.
Years ago, I almost added it to the giveaway pile because we rarely used it. One day, though, the tablecloth floated to the surface like bread cast upon the waters.
Strangely, the scenario involved a TV stand my brother-in-law gave us as a wedding present in 1975. When eventually retired from TV duties, it functioned as a “temporary” end table.
After more than four decades, I could not stand the old stand one more second.
Rummaging through a closet, I found the gold and white tablecloth, woven more than 40 years ago by a friend in Ecuador, where Hubby and I did a six-week medical mission.
I cannot remember the weaver’s name, but his portrait is etched in my mind: chamois skin, a black braid down his back, topped with a jaunty black fedora. He wore the local uniform: white shirt with a poncho, black pants, and rubber boots. His tiny wife wore a full, black skirt and shawl clasped with a monster-sized stickpin that could have fended off Godzilla. Their children were miniatures of their parents.
They all thought gringos were certifiably insane.
The missionaries liked their vegetables and chickens small, whereas any person with a brain would grow them big to feed a large, hungry family. Gringos, who owned kitchens the Quechuas only dreamed about, ate picnics outside. Norteamericanos ignored ancient wisdom that the night air caused every malady from sniffles to liver disease.
Mentally unbalanced and possibly deficient, they lacked basic life skills. They couldn’t finagle decent prices at the market. Despite their height — the gringos also were known as la familia de gigantes, the family of giants — their volleyball team consistently lost because they didn’t cheat.
Such people obviously needed help. The weaver and his family, among others, offered it. They even joined us on picnics.
The weaver’s wife gave me a monster stickpin. “It’s not real silver.”
That, and the lovely tablecloth I bought from her husband at a reduced price, communicated friendship woven into its warp and woof.
Back in the States, we purchased an oval dining room table instead of a rectangular one, so the tablecloth lived a largely undisturbed existence for decades. Now, however, it graces the TV stand, redeeming it with a beauty I never expected.
One more show-and-tell reminder that the forgotten sometimes can reproduce the unforgettable.
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: What forgotten memento brings back memories for you?