I felt awkward at dinner tonight.
I didn't know any one at my table, I didn't know what to do with my hands, and I was sure I would use the wrong fork for the salad.
Then the small little lady to my left started to talk and my love of a good story overcame my awkwardness when one of the lines that dropped out of her mouth was, "I lived in London during World War II." My curiosity was piqued and I began to ask her questions.
She began to tell me about how she was born in Ireland in 1936 and her father was a British soldier stationed in India. Her brother died from cholera at nineteen when she was three and that's why they moved back to London. She recalled watching a hole being dug in the backyard, corrugated metal being dragged over it, wondering what it was for, and she remembers the moment when she discovered the reason-the first air strike came, they ran hid in the dirt hole and bombs dropped.
She remembers climbing into a train, leaving her mother behind and going into the country. And I inquired, "Like Lewis wrote about in The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe?" She responded, "Exactly like that."
She told of going to Canada after the war and her father dying shortly afterwards. She remember meeting her husband and the children they had. Then she remembered being found by Jesus when she was forty and how He chased her down. She said, "They have called Him the hound of heaven and I am so thankful He hounded and hunted me down."
And I loved her.
And you will all be pleased to know-I used all the right utensils.