I never feel less like an adult than when my car is being temperamental. Honestly, even going to the gas station intimidates me sometimes. On a typical day at work, I feel intelligent and competent, but when my car throws a temper tantrum, I suddenly feel an undeniable urge to call my dad and wail too. Dad speaks car; I don’t.
About a month ago, on Mother’s Day, I, like so many others, heard a sermon about the “Virtuous Woman” described in Proverbs 31. The idea that stuck with me that day had nothing to with mothers. (Incidentally, most of Proverbs 31 isn’t about mothers, either. Only one verse mentions the woman’s role as a mother; most of the chapter focuses on her excellent work ethic and management skills.) What stuck in my mind was the phrase “priced far above rubies” and how truly that can be applied to my mechanic. My car is been in its death throes for about a year now, yet every time I take it to the mechanic expecting to hear that this time it is truly dead, somehow (and at a far lower price than I had braced myself for), my mechanic resurrects the car and keeps it running another couple months. Even more amazingly, he explains to me in terms that I can understand what is going on with my car. There’s a tendency in language learners to feel a level of distrust in doing business transactions because the learner’s understanding of the language is limited. When I read about that trend, I connected it instantly to my feelings about my car. My understanding of cars is limited, which means I am forced to trust my mechanic more. And he does not take my trust for granted. He pulls up diagrams of the engine for me. He takes me to the garage and shows me exactly how a particularly recalcitrant part is make causing that horrid squeal I hear or how it causes the car to jerk like a bucking bronco when I accelerate (I can confidently cross “rodeo cowboy” off my list of potential careers after that rather harrowing drive). Amazingly, I don’t dread going to the mechanic anymore. Oh, believe me, it’s not on my list of fun activities for a sunny afternoon. But it’s not the painful experience it used be. So, while the virtuous women is undeniably amazing, I think the modern proverbist could say with equal truth, “Who can find a virtuous mechanic, for his worth is far above rubies.”
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When anyone asks me to picture family, like most people, I imagine my own family. But that mental image (or filmstrip, really) is always the same. We--Mom, Dad, my four siblings, their spouses, and a handful of my nieces and nephews—are gathered around my parents’ dining room table. We’ve finished eating but haven’t cleared any of the dishes yet. Rather than clean up the dinner dishes and move into the more comfortable living room, we linger around the table talking. To me, that is family. It didn’t matter what we talked about; I loved those stolen minutes (hours) together, a refuge from the hurry of the day. It didn’t matter that I rarely contributed to those conversations. I loved nothing more than to sit back and listen, occasionally adding a thought or opinion, but mostly just savoring the fellowship. What we talked about varied. Topics--even within one evening--could range from commonplace anecdotes of the day to comic memories from the past, from philosophical and theological discussions to personal reflections and experiences. We shared thoughts about books, movies, teachers, speakers, and, of course, food (although I’m not sure why it’s so natural to discuss the memories of the amazing A&M’s subs while eating Mom’s home-cooking). Recently, I learned that there is a Spanish word to describe this time that I love so much--sobremesa. It makes sense that we don’t have an English word for it since now so few families gather around a table to eat together in our culture. Even fewer people invite guests into their homes, choosing instead to meet friends at a restaurant. (In the last decade, I’ve been invited into only four families’ homes for dinner.) While fellowship over dinner at a restaurant can be pleasant, the bustling environment and the consideration of the wait-staff who need to turn over the table make sobremesa almost impossible. My own home is a tiny apartment with little room to accommodate guests comfortably around the kitchen table, and my own family is spread over the country now, which makes any sobremesa that much sweeter. For those who, like me, enjoy a rambling discussion about almost anything after a satisfying meal, welcome to my own ersatz sobremesa. Since I eat dinner alone, it seems only natural (and more sane) to write my after-dinner conversations than to actually talk to myself. |
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