Gourmet food. French-accented waiters. Alabaster columns, domed ceilings, and ghosts of nobility and dignitaries. But when I’ve forgotten much else about that elegant business dinner, I’ll remember the man sitting to my right.
“What are you having?” he asked, studying his menu. The buffet,” I said. (It seemed a safer bet than the culinary jargon between the leather covers.)
“Good choice.”
I learned things about my table-mate as the meal progressed. Owner—for over three decades—of a beloved shore-line restaurant. Chairman of this and president of that. CEO of a vital national organization. That he doesn’t do desserts or vegetables, and that on his phone he had a photo of himself shaking hands with President Obama.
He only told me all that because I poked. Mostly, we discussed simpler things. Family and marriage (a half-century for his own, thirty-five for mine). Pets (his three-pound Yorkie, my three-ounce parrot). The precariousness of life and his goal of packing each day full of worthwhile moments. The importance of serving others (as he dished his tomatoes my way) and the joy of fishing. The latter two, I’ve learned, have earned him a broad reputation.
Our hotels both lay within walking distance. After dinner we left the restaurant together. “It’s raining,” he said of the mist outside. “Perhaps we should catch a cab.” But a bus came by just then. We hopped on. He noticed I was laughing. Asked why.
“I find it funny,” I said, “that a man who just finished showing me photos of himself holding a small crocodile, snagged by his own barb, fears a few raindrops.”
“It’s my suit,” he confessed. “I didn’t bring another one for tomorrow.”
“Just hang it up in your closet when you get back to your room,” I said. “It’ll be fine.”
“Yes, Mother,” he said.
At my hotel, my companion bid me a cheerful good-night and carried on. But here’s what I’ll remember most about him: Over dinner, he handed me his business card. “If I can ever help you in any way,” he said. “Feel free to call.” Amazingly, I believe he meant it—and that his determination to serve others is one secret to his highly productive life.
One day I’ll sit down to another banquet, and in an atmosphere far more rarefied, I’ll meet more unforgettable people. We’ll all be there for the same reason I attended that business dinner: by the good graces of our Host alone. We’ll share Heaven’s table not because of who we are or what we’ve done for him, but simply because of what he’s done for us. Not only did he live to serve—he died to save.
His invitation, extended with open arms at Calvary’s cross, reads something like this: Come hungry. Come dirty and thirsty. Come undeserving. But come through me. I am the Way. And call anytime. Signed: Jesus Christ.
Hope to meet you there.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FzwonpF-ros&feature=related