When I lived in New York, I would often take myself on “dates.” I’d grab a book and pick a place and head out for dinner alone. For some reason this often raised eyebrows as the hostess walked me to a table normally for two. I got pretty used to getting looked over at the door as they seated complete parties ahead of me.
Last night, I had some time to spend alone. I left the house, without any real destination. As I drove I decided, “I really want a Coca Cola.” McDonalds was on my left and although I can’t remember the last time I went into one, I found myself pulling my car into the parking lot. I thought I was there to get a soda. I was wrong.
Approaching the counter, the kid in his uniform asked what I would like. Instead of the fountain soda I had planned on, I ordered a meal. I had time to kill and decided that it would be a good chance to catch up on some reading and the beeper announcing that a fresh batch of fries was done, was the clincher.
I was glad that there isn’t a hostess at McDonalds. I chose a booth for 4 on the far wall, rather than sit in the cramped looking table for 2 in the corner of the dining room. I began my familiar process; spread out my meal in front of me, chose three fries, bunched them together and dipped into the ketchup. I grabbed my book from my oversized purse and began reading and munching. It all felt familiar.
I overheard a conversation at a far table between a man and the man preparing his taxes. I listened as “taxman” educated his client on the importance of keeping receipts and maintaining a mileage log. After all, he was a sales man. There were a lot of write-offs to be had. He explained about charitable contributions and mentioned a place called Serenity Beach House, a halfway house for young women. “Taxman” explained the benefits of keeping careful logs of charitable contributions as well. The client just looked at the other man as if he were speaking a foreign language. I wondered if it was all the tax information or word “charitable contributions” that confused him.
Sometime later, I can’t be sure when, I found myself staring out the window. There was a large man getting out of his car. He was late 30’s, tall, stocky and tattoos covered his arms. He appeared gruff. His wife, close in age, followed behind him, with three young boys. She wore a long flowing skirt, sandals, a stripped t-shirt, hair thrown up in a messy bun. I watched as the man entered and headed to the counter. Mom and the boys picked the booth directly in front of me.
I listened as the boys chattered on about the door behind me. Was there an arcade behind the door? Didn’t there used to be arcades in McDonalds? I vaguely remembered, the one I went to as a little girl, had one. I listened to their hopeful voices as their mother asked them to sit down and informed them that the door lead to the employee break room. With resigned defeat I watched the boys sit and settle in.
Three boys. Three Mohawk hair cuts. Mom sat with her back towards me. I went back to my book and French fries. A few minutes later the man came back with food and sat next to his wife. His orange t-shirt caught my peripheral vision as I read and I looked up just in time to see him settle down and look up at the tax man. The “tax man” called out to him a greeting. They chatted about where they knew each other. Ah yes, from this place or that. I watched as the boys sat waiting. Not one opened his sandwich.
Their father finished their conversation and turned his attention to his family. I took a sip of my soda. They all crossed themselves and I listened as the youngest boy said a prayer of thanks for their food. The youngest boy met my gaze. “Voyeur,” I thought to myself. I had been caught. I looked away, out towards the window and to a car passing by in the parking lot.
I’m not sure what exactly happened next. Something overwhelming came over me. My eyes suddenly began to overflow with tears. I felt at home with my brothers and sisters in the Lord. I thought about the cross section of people sitting in this McDonalds with me. I thought about this "taxman,” and Matthew from the bilbe. The client and the parable of the rich young ruler. The gruff man with tattoos, his wife and the Mohawk triplets, "I say to you, come to me as little children..." Blessed are the poor in spirit... As I thought on these things, I prayed. I prayed that God would someday allow me to have a family like theirs. One that is closely knit, filled with love for each other, and for the Lord. I thanked God for choosing me, loving me and forgiving me and all the other outcasts of this world.
I cleaned up my tray. I packed my book away and took a sip of my soda. I walked towards the garbage and deposited my trash. I looked over at this family, eating, chattering boys, Mom and Dad listening to their children… “You have a lovely family,” I thought. I thought it. I didn’t say it.
The lump in my throat prevented me.
