The Mercy I Never Wanted

I made a roast beef dinner for our friends a while back. Something from my upbringing causes me to cook 50’s dinners when wanting to especially impress company. I poured melted butter into potatoes and forked the carrots to be sure they were soft. I heard the door open and quickly checked the meat. To my dismay, it was nowhere near silky. It resisted my attempts of shredding and stared back at me like a rubber tire.

The toddler who only wants to live on my hip started to whimper and I threw cheerios at her like she was one of those yappy dogs. I was stressed. I didn’t want to be stressed. More importantly, I didn’t want to appear stressed. I’ve always admired and longed to be one of those laid back people from the magazines of my mind that laugh away chewy pot roast and prioritize their kids in front of others- even when the toilet bowl desperately needs scrubbing. 

While my husband let them in and laughed loudly at something they said (he’s one of those magazine people) I scanned the room like a rabid squirrel. Things were not entirely in place, but those holiday candles were making up for it. I greeted them with a big smile and slight perspiration and plopped my baby in her high chair.

While my husband seated our guests, I sawed at the meat, mashed russets, filled kids’ plates and sippy cups, and croutoned the salad. I singed my finger on the oven rack and nearly upset the bread bowl. I should have asked my husband for help five minutes earlier. If I had, I wouldn’t have sat down in my chair like a pot at full boil. Suddenly noticing my flushed face and tight lips, my husband asked six minutes too late, “Can I help with anything?” 

And then the pot boiled over. “Not now,” I nearly spat with unmistakable bitterness and rage. Surprised by the murderous tone, my husband fell silent. The table fell silent. After what felt like eons of awkward silence, the other husband offered to pray for our meal. I closed my eyes and died inside. 

I would not have died had they been ordinary house guests. These friends, however, are the stuff of apostles and pioneers. I believe one day their silhouettes will be among a slew of stained glass saints. The husband is a writer and editor with a gift for turning everyday words into gardens. As someone who likes word gardens, you can imagine my temptation to worship his opinions. The wife actually delights in Scripture like it’s the honey on her toast, the muscle in her work. She carries herself, her children, and the burdens of others out of sweet plenty. As a fellow mother, you can imagine my temptation to worship her gracious example. 

It’s hard to show your cards to your heroes, your gods, your cool friends. Harder still to receive God’s mercy when it shows up like a zit on the day of prom.  

Mercy sounds like a word to be cross stitched and framed by foliage. Flannery O’Connor saw mercy more violent than tame and warned her readers of its “terrible speed”. It’s more palatable to receive God’s mercy in a private pew. Harder to swallow when our mess flips inside out. 

No matter if mercy comes in a way we approve of, it’s still what we need. The Lord knows I’m easily starstruck and that there’s no satisfaction found staring at people of dust, even the godliest of dust. My mercy was hidden in a tough chuck and audible anger. Thank God for mercy that wakes us up from our misplaced worship and savage self-seeking. This dinner story has played many different ways in my life with minor tweaks in cast. Each time, the mercy of God cups my face and whispers, “It’s Me. Not them. It’s me you want.”