Previous Challenge Entry (Level 4 – Masters)
Topic: Cup and Saucer (08/28/14)
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TITLE: not a baseball hat | Previous Challenge Entry
By Jack Taylor
08/31/14 -
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Three days before, Francis had come to our door knocking as if the place was on fire. “Bwana.” Bang, bang, bang. “Bwana.” Bang, bang, bang.
It was minutes after the rooster crow. The sun hadn’t even peaked over the hills behind us yet. The chattering of parrots mingled with the departing farewell of a great owl and the cry of a wood dove. Dogs barked somewhere and a bush baby responded. The knock scared my parents, my brother and my two sisters and we huddled behind dad as he crept to the door.
The next thunderous knocking sent us kids scurrying back up to the landing on the stairs leading up to our bedrooms. Dad fumbled to remember the appropriate Swahili greeting for when you’re scared to death and the sun isn’t even up yet. “Jumbo... Jambo... Jimbo.”
We’d heard about the dangers of mission work in the bush while the tribes were still clashing and raiding for cattle. Guns had replaced spears as weapons of choice for the young warriors involved in snatching the prized cows and we had heard numerous shots during the night. We’d seen the guards covered in their thick brown overcoats and woolen hats. We’d seen their machetes glinting sharp in the dim lights of our doorway.
Francis had proved his desire to get a job looking after our yard and since he’d apparently walked more than an hour to get to our place first, dad invited him in for chai and started to sort out a job description. Francis didn’t read or write but he knew how to say “yes”.
Francis apparently had skills like bread making, dishwashing, cutting grass and chicken killing. My mother was left to lead him through the unloading of the trunks which held our beautifully packed dishes. Her prized set of country rose tea cups were hand me downs from my grandmother. These were essential for missionary hospitality.
I assume Francis got the idea of the cup on his head from my brother wearing his Yankees’ baseball cap everywhere. Frankly, my mother was horrified. Her eyes looked as big as the saucers belonging to that cup as she bounded like a Tigger across the kitchen and snatched back her prize. She smiled and tried to remember how to breathe again.
Francis added making tea to his skill list and mom began using her gift of hospitality to welcome in the neighbours. At first mom chafed over the small chips that began to appear, but she soon realized that sharing the love of Jesus through an open home and an open heart was much more important.
“Now remember,” mom would say, “each cup has its own special saucer. It’s just like God made one man for one woman. They have to fit together. You can just look at them and see that it’s so.”
But poor Francis. He would watch and watch to see what the magic of matching was, but the cups didn’t quite find their way very often with the right saucer. I could hardly get it most days. Mom just knew.
Finally, one day before the women selling vegetables had arrived for tea, I heard mom clapping triumphantly. “Yes, you did it!” she said. “Every cup and every saucer are matched.”
Francis beamed and the few yellow teeth he still had poked victoriously between his lips at a 45 degree angle. He nodded his head up and down and the smile worked its way right into his eyes.
“How did you do it?” I asked him later.
“Timothy,” he replied. “It was easy. I watched your mom to see which chip on the cup went with which chip on the saucer. Now, I wash them very carefully so there are no more chips.”
“So do you understand why my mom thinks this is so important?” I asked.
“O yes,” said Francis. “The man is like the cup. He gets the most tea. The woman is like the saucer. She gets what is spilled over. The right man must prepare to spill a little of what he has for the right woman. God does not want them mixed up.”
I still smile to myself when I sit down for a cup of tea with my wife. In memory of Francis I spill a little for the right woman.
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Excellent job.
God bless~