Grace Before Dinner

From Today's Christian Woman
November/December 2000
Copyright © 2000 Liz Curtis Higgs

Grace Before Dinner
What would it take for Laura to find her way back home?

by Liz Curtis Higgs

Ellen was reaching inside her mom's kitchen cabinet for croutons when she saw it: a simple loaf of homemade bread, twisted into a plump, honey-colored braid.

She knew why it was there. Just in case. The knot in her throat eased after a deliberate swallow. "Mom?" Ellen made sure her tone sounded casual. "Want me to pop this bread in the oven? Puts a nice crust on it."

Turning to catch her mother's reaction, Ellen saw the faint lines on the woman's face tighten.

"Not quite yet, El." For the first time that afternoon, her mother looked all of her 60 years.

"No problem." Ellen nudged the drawer shut with her hip, pulling open the bag of croutons as she did so. "Nice to know it's handy if we need it."

Her younger sister, Suze, dutifully mashing potatoes at the stove, lifted her eyebrows in silent acknowledgment. You mean if Laura doesn't show.

Without warning, a chorus of men's voices rang out from the front room. "Alllrriight!"

Ellen smiled, despite the awkward tension that filled her mother's kitchen. Suze's current heartthrob, along with Ellen's vocal husband, and their father, were feasting on football—as treasured a Williams tradition as turkey with sage dressing.

The family's Thanksgiving menu seldom varied. Ellen fixed the vegetable dishes, Suze handled desserts. Laura, the youngest sister, was in charge of the bread—something even she could manage.

Except lately Laura was barely managing herself.

There was no point avoiding the question that permeated the room like Suze's fragrant raisin pie. Ellen trained her eyes on her mother's back. "So … have you heard from her, Mom?"

"Heard from whom?" Her mother said it too quickly. The sharp tone gave away her answer: No.

Suze shrugged. "Laura's had a hard year, even with the counseling." A quick splash of milk, a generous dose of salt, and her sister was working the potatoes again. "Let's not be too rough on her."

"I agree." Most of the time. Ellen turned her attention back to tossing salad greens, jabbing the plastic tongs with more oomph than necessary. It hurt to watch her mother fret over Laura's angry outbursts, then suffer when her daughter's pride kept her away.

Or was it her shame? Ellen shook her head. Truth was, she fretted over her sister every bit as much as her mom did. Not that it made any difference.

Matt, Laura's ex-husband, had endured her volatile temper for a decade. Laura never hit anyone, but she'd hurt them just the same. Now Matt was gone, taking their eight-year-old son, Jeremy, with him to West Virginia. His lawyer had no trouble convincing the judge that Matt would provide a more stable home environment for their son. Especially after Laura went ballistic in the courtroom and had to be restrained, and then Jeremy—

Let it go, Ellen.

Sighing, she carried the salad into the dining room while memories from the last three years followed her through the house. After Matt left Ash-land County, Laura had checked out emotionally. Seldom answered her phone, hardly ever stopped by. Then she moved—once to the edge of town, then to Marion, Ohio, an hour southwest of home.

That first Thanksgiving after the divorce, Laura had reluctantly joined them for dinner, bearing fresh bread still warm from the oven. She'd stayed well into the evening, watching the bowl games with a vacant stare. The second year, she didn't even stay for the meal, just showed up with a loaf of bread and a lame excuse about the nursing home where she worked being short-staffed.

Last year, she burst through the front door—an hour late, without the bread, nearly hysterical. While the family huddled over their plates, pretending not to listen, Laura called Matt in West Virginia and battled with him over not getting to see Jeremy yet another Thanksgiving.

It was heartbreaking.

No, Ellen, it was ugly.

That was the last time Laura came home. She'd stayed away at Christmas, then at Easter, then on the 4th of July. No matter how many times they called or sent her notes, Laura found an excuse not to see them.

Ellen gazed out the dining room window of their old Center Street house, the one their parents had fixed up three decades ago when the Williams girls were toddlers.

What would it be like to lose your family—the center of Laura's universe—all at once? Ellen thought of her own children glued to the tube with their dad and grandfather in the next room. Kent, already longlegged and athletic at 10. Todd, with his impish smile and bright blue eyes. Kathleen, hiding a ballet dancer inside her chubby preschool body. If Robert left for good and took their children with him …

An unexpected spate of tears sprang to her eyes. Flustered, Ellen lifted her hands to her cheeks, swallowing self-consciously as she brushed away tears.

No wonder Laura couldn't seem to function anymore.

Ellen drew closer to the window, absently wiping her damp hands on her jeans, peering down the road toward Dale-Roy Field, where next July the city's annual BalloonFest would blanket the sky with a crazy quilt of colorful hot air balloons.

That's where Laura and Matt had staged their last big argument four years ago, right there in front of God and half of Ashland, Ohio. They threw everything at each other but their fists. Cruel words, flimsy lies, hateful accusations, all at the top of their lungs. The balloons weren't the only thing full of hot air that midsummer's morn.

Ellen shuddered at the memory and gazed up at the gray, empty skies over Ashland. No balloons aloft today. Not with a sharp wind and heavy clouds promising snow. Would Laura brave the threatening weather and come?

They didn't need her bread, they needed her. Right or wrong, happy or angry, she was part of their family, a family who loved her. Did Laura know that?

"Your corn pudding looks about ready, Ellen," her mom's voice rang from the kitchen.

Grateful for the distraction, Ellen hurried back into the cluttered kitchen and was greeted by a wave of heat from the gaping oven door. Suze handed her a knife and pretended not to notice her watery eyes.

"Test for yourself, mighty queen of the casserole."

Ellen bent over and felt the last of her tears dry in the oven's warmth. The knife slid through the buttery crown of eggs and corn and came out clean. "It's done," she announced, carefully lifting out the dish with two ancient potholders. Surely these weren't the ones she made in third grade?

Her mother was a sentimental softie.

Oh, and you're not, huh?

Ellen closed the oven door, eyeing the cabinet with the untouched loaf of bread. They couldn't delay dinner much longer. "Cooking's finished, ladies." She tossed the potholders on the counter. "Let's set the table, then call the troops."

While she folded napkins, Ellen watched her mother open a long, shallow box on the maple sideboard and beam at the freshly polished sterling silver reserved for holidays. Counting as her mother spread out the flatware, Ellen came up with service for 10.

But there were only nine people in the house—Mom and Dad, Robert and her, the three kids, Suze and her boy-friend. Nine.

Across the dark green tablecloth, the two women locked gazes and slowly nodded. Yes, 10.

With the table arranged, there was nothing left to do but bring in the food and hope Laura made an appearance.

They were in the midst of transferring the turkey from roasting pan to serving platter—a three-person job if there ever was one—when Ellen and Suze exchanged glances, then caught their mother's eye as well.

"Mom?" Ellen heard the croak in her voice but there was no going back. It had to be said. "Do you want me to warm the bread?"

The older woman's face crinkled, and her lower lip began to quiver. "No, not yet." A sob escaped before she could stop it. "Sh-she still might come." She waved a shaking hand to-ward the kitchen clock. "It's only two now. Give her time. I don't want … "

Her mother pinched her lips together for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice was strained to the breaking point. "I don't want her to get here and think we didn't expect her. That we didn't … want her."

"You're right." Suze, the stoic one among them, seemed close to tears herself. "I hope she does come. I've missed her … " She choked on the words, reaching for the nearest dishtowel. "I've left messages for her, Mom. Honest, I have." The towel doubled nicely as a tissue. "I've written letters, too. Even drove down to Marion. She wouldn't answer the door, but … I heard her crying."

Ellen nodded, not trusting herself to say a word.

Weariness was written across her mother's brow. "I know, girls. You've done what you could. Four years ago, I gave our Laura to the Lord to mend. He's taking longer than I'd hoped, but I've no doubt he'll succeed." She dried tear-dampened hands on her apron, then reached for a stack of china bowls.

One look at the familiar dishes and Ellen was fighting a shaky smile. "Do you remember the Thanksgiving Laura broke one of those?"

"Remember?" Her mother rolled her eyes. "I not only lost a cherished piece of Wedgwood, I lost every last green bean in the house."

In spite of herself, Suze giggled, "Ooh, you were hot, Mom!"

Her mother shook her head. "Not as hot as those vegetables." Her features softening, she added, "Little Laura was pretty hot, too. Remember her standing there, arguing with those beans?"

"You made her pick up every bean by hand," Ellen laughed when she suddenly recalled the rest. "I can still hear her counting out loud as she dropped them in the trash can. '78, 79 … '"

"And when she got to 100, she started over. 1, 2 …'" Suze giggled again as she filled the gravy bowl with a thick, savory sauce. "Look, I don't care what she did, then or now. We gotta love her, as is. She's our little sister, right?"

"Thirty isn't little," their mother cautioned. "And she's not a girl, she's a woman, just like you two."

The knot in Ellen's throat tightened. "Even grown women need their mothers."

"Need their sisters, too." Suze glanced at the clock over the stove again. "Look, she might still come. Let's pray she does."

"Yes, let's." Their mother quickly put aside a serving spoon and grabbed their hands, catching them both by surprise. "Let's pray. Right now." She straightened her shoulders and squeezed their hands firmly in hers, as if they, too, might run away. "I'm not sticking that old loaf of bread in the oven," their mother informed them with the look of fine-grade steel about her expression. "We're going to pray our Laura home."

HOME.

Laura mounted the front porch with soundless steps, fear and dread pounding a steady rhythm in her chest. She wouldn't stay. She just couldn't, not after last year.

The bitter November wind tore at her scarf as she drew closer to the back door. Laura exhaled, forcing herself to move forward. Keep breathing. Her plan was simple: She'd slip the loaf of bread between the doors, ring the bell, then leave.

She'd already attached a note: "Happy Thanksgiving." Pathetic. Not even her name, let alone "I love you."

She did love them … didn't she? Of course she did.

But, did they still love her? Surely not, not after all she'd put them through. Her mother hadn't seen her own grandson in four years! Who could forgive such a thing?

The bread was her responsibility, though. It had taken her two rounds of baking that morning to get it right—the crust golden and firm, the sound hollow when she tapped on it. Just right. She'd wrapped it in a linen towel to keep the toasty bundle warm.

The drive from Marion had done her good, cleared the cobwebs out of her head. The holidays were the worst. In a month, they'd be over and she could breathe again.

She could hear her counselor's voice on that one: No, Laura. Breathe now.

Easing open the heavy storm door, Laura bit her lip as her hand touched the worn wooden door she'd pushed open hundreds of times. One step over the threshold, and she'd be thrust into the heart of the Williams home again.

Was she shivering from the cold, or was it from something else?

As Laura bent down to prop the bread in a safe spot, she heard voices inside. Muffled, yet distinct. Mom. Ellen. Suze. Her heart thudded to a stop.

They were laughing about something. Despite her melancholy mood, Laura felt the corners of her mouth twitching. Suze hadn't lost that giggle that made her sound 14.

Laura leaned toward the door, straining to hear Ellen's voice. She was … counting? "78, 79 … "

The beans! Between sniffles, Laura's smile grew. They brought up that silly story every Thanksgiving.

She caught the tail end of what Suze was saying. Something about their little sister. Uh-oh. Her smile faded. Something about loving her. One phrase rang out like a bell: "I don't care what she did, then or now."

All at once, Laura felt lightheaded. Did Suze really mean that? When she'd imagined them talking about her—and she had, dozens of times—the conversations in her head were nothing like this. This was kind. Loving. Forgiving.

Then Laura heard her mother praying—for her. Telling God how much they needed her.

Needed her!

Stunned, Laura leaned against the door for support. Deep inside her, something collapsed, pressing her down toward the brick threshold.

Behind the kitchen door, her mother's voice shook as she prayed, "Please bring my daughter home to me, Lord."

Laura bent in two.

Pain she'd hidden even from herself came rushing to the surface. Pain, regret, sorrow, and a single word.

Help.

Numb inside and out, Laura slid down further still. Her right side pressed hard against the wooden doorjamb until she heard a chime echoing through the house.

Startled, she realized she'd pushed the doorbell button with her shoulder. Oh! Panic sent her scrambling to her feet. No, not like this! They'd find her, a weeping, foolish woman piled on the porch like so much trash.

But it was too late. The kitchen door swung open, blanketing her in a warm, aromatic cloud.

"Laura!" Three women said it in unison. Sang it, almost, pulling her inside and into their embrace.

She didn't remember who took the bread from her hands or the coat from her shoulders. Laura only knew that she was home. Home.

Suze was bawling like a kid. Suze, of all people! Ellen wouldn't let go of her hand, while her mother kept patting and kissing her hair as if she were a child. Nothing ever felt so wonderful.

"Come, come, we have a meal to get on," her mother finally said, swiping her nose with Ellen's old potholder. The four of them gathered up the day's offerings and headed for the table, their bowls brimming with food, their hearts brimming with something infinitely more satisfying.

The male half of the family came bounding into the dining room on the first call. Her brother-in-law, Robert, ignoring the emotionally charged atmosphere, gave her little more than a casual glance. "Glad you're here, kid. Let's eat."

She looked at her sisters, who both burst out laughing. Some things never changed. Thank goodness.

Within moments, all were settled in their seats, Kathleen in her booster chair, the boys sitting as tall as they could, their gazes glued to the succulent drumsticks pointed in their direction.

Her mother slid a warm hand around hers. "Who's going to say grace?"

Peace fell on her shoulders like a well-worn sweater. "Mom," Laura whispered, squeezing her hand. "You've already said it."

Liz Curtis Higgs, a TCW columnist, is the author of 15 books, including two novels, Mixed Signals and Bookends (Multnomah). She lives with her husband and two children in Kentucky.