My Last Supper With Dad

The other day I was sharing with some folks about the intimacy of sharing a meal together.  There is a sacred bond when sharing a meal.  Growing up as we gathered around the breakfast, dinner, and supper table, we shared and learned about life.  Time there was one of mostly laughter and fun. 

Sometimes anger would penetrate our sacred table and the devil would enjoy our confrontations.  The most ungodly were ones when mom and dad would be at odds.  These sad and intense moments rose their satanic goading and the terrible and frightening displays of animosity would side down the walls and splatter the dining room curtains with food that God had given us, momma had prepared, and that we not longer had an appetite.

Thank the Good Lord that these devilish moments were few and far between and our table was one of reconciliation and love.  Times around the table together grew scarce as we all got older.  Dad would work evenings, mom worked days, and my sister, brothers, and I would be involved in extracurricular activities.  For a short time, mom and dad both worked evenings but momma would leave us a great supper on the table.  That is back when you did not have to worry about food spoiling on the table.

When we did gather around the table, there was love.  We all had our places.  Dad sat at the head.  I sat at the other end.  My two brothers sat at daddy’s left and my sister and mom sat to his right, momma being next to him.  Today when I sit at a rectangular table, I always set on the opposite end from the head seat.

Daddy, even though for many years did not know the Lord, requested that someone say grace.  Granny Hopper taught her family to say grace.  As a widow trying to raise nine children, Granny Hopper knew the importance of thanking God for His blessings.  How that Granny cooked in dishpans on a wood-burning stove with no running water amazes me.

One of the special moments of the supper table was dad saying grace for the first time.  We all teared up as He thanked God for the food and our family.  There were some shenanigans at the supper table, some even during grace.  One was my sister would pinch me under the table and stupid me would hit her.  Momma hit me.  Finally, my Uncle Clifton told mama was happening.  Momma hit my sister.

There have been times when pieces of chicken, especially the pulley bone, would mystery be missing off the serving plate and amazedly appearing on our sister’s plate.  After prayer, someone’s lips would be burning only to have his lips burn more.  Cayenne pepper will do that when rubbed on the rim of your drinking glass.

Dad asked momma to turn thanks.  She was standing beside me putting another dish on the table.  Momma seemed to have a difficult time praying.  I think it was because I rubbed her stomach as she prayed.

I remember the last time I sat at the supper table with dad.  It was a Monday night in April.  Dad was dying from a brain tumor.  He could not longer walk or talk.  Mom and I put him in his wheelchair.  I had arranged for her to take the night off.  Caretakers unselfishly sacrifice to care of loved ones.  Mom and my sister were wonderful to care for dad in his illness.  My brothers and I cannot thank them enough for their sacrifice.

I fed dad his last meal.  It was the most moving moment at the supper table.  I sat at dad’s right side.  Mom had prepared a good southern meal of purple hull peas, oiled potatoes, okra, corn, and cornbread.  I fixed dad’s plate and fed him.  I used a fork to feed him and our only mode of communication was the nod of his head.  I was used to that because dad nodded his head when he could talk.  One time I put the fork to his mouth and he nodded no.  I put the fork to every bowl to which he nodded no.  Dummy me. I forgot to give him some sweet tea to drink.  I pointed the fork at the tea and he nodded yes.

Dad was a big eater, never eating between meals.  He did not like diary products, especially butter, and rarely ate sweets of drink soft drinks.  His last meal was a big one.  We were doing fine until daddy choked on cornbread.  I thought he was going to die on me.  Later that night dad would have a seizure and rushed to the hospital.

From early Tuesday morning until Friday morning, around four in the morning, dad had only fluids for substance.  Momma always mourned that dad starved to death.  The nurses bragged on momma saying that dad was the healthiest cancer patient that had.  Dad lost very little weight during his illness.

Last meals are important and those precious moments bring with it a tear of sadness and a smile of joy.  Not long ago I share my last breakfast with Nanny, my sister-in-laws mother.  She sat to my right.  I passed the breakfast dishes to her, helped her jelly a biscuit, and poured her some coffee that Saturday morning at my brother’s home.  It was their Saturday ritual to have breakfast with his in-laws.  Nanny always picked at me.  She loved it, as did I.  The morning of her funeral, I sure missed her.

We all share moments not certain if they are last moment together.  I do not remember the last meal I had with momma before cancer overtook her.

 

I wonder how the Disciples of Jesus felt after their last supper together.  As our Savior girded himself and washed their feet, did they often think of that moment when the God of the universe bathed their nasty feet?  Did they think of the moments they were all concerned with their position in the Kingdom that Jesus’ position would be hanging on a cruel cross in a few hours?  Did the wine they shared remind them of the blood that flowed from Jesus?  Did the ripping and tearing of the bread weigh heavy on their hearts as the body of Christ shredded as the whip thirty-nine times crossed the back?

The moment they were together was a celebration of the watershed belief of Old Testament, the Passover.  It was the last meal that the Hebrews had before leaving Egypt.

 

As they were eating, Jesus took the bread, blessed and broke it, gave it to the disciples . . .

Matthew 26:26a