Bread and Banana Cream Pie: Prologue

It isn't often that one willingly walks into a cliche with the feeling that there is no way the cliche could possibly apply to them. Either we walk in fully expecting the obvious; or we avoid the setting entirely, refusing to subject ourselves to the inevitable.

I went to camp that weekend to work in the kitchen. One of my closest life-long friends had recently become the director of a Christian Campground, and all I wanted to do was spend a weekend in selfless service to God in support of this ministry. I didn't exactly know who it was I'd be serving from that kitchen, but I knew I'd be spending it with my friend's mother who, for all intents and purposes, had long ago adopted me as her own as well.

In the wake of my own mother's passing away, eleven years earlier, this one woman saw through to the heart of who I was in good times and bad. She knew when to prod, when to push and when to simply sit and listen. Anything that felt like real mother-daughter interaction with her was so satisfying and the chance to serve her whole family, especially her son, Tim, in his new ministry was like being offered a cool glass of water after a day-long walk.

The previous year of my life had taken me so far away from my Christian identity. I had sacrificed myself on the altar of a Godless relationship because my desperate desire for a family and an identity within a family bamboozled me into believing that anything was worth sacrificing to attain that goal. I.was.very.wrong.

So in the wake of that marring detour I had rededicated my life and my focus to my job, teaching, and re-centering my identity and faith in Christ. I know it sounds prosaic and predictable, but I cannot apologize for the fact that a Christ-centered lifestyle is a remarkable anti-psychotic not to mention it helps heal a lot of wounds because it forces us to surrender things, weights that would break our own backs if we insisted on continuing to carry the burden of them ourselves. Not that it's easy, but its worth it. Completely.

And so there I was; focused, serving and driving out toward camp on a warm autumn afternoon with the top down on my convertible. I pulled up the long gravel driveway, with the radio turned up and parked in front of the main house. On the porch, I noticed a man with a piece of poster board paper, making a registration sign for what I assumed was the group we'd be feeding and hosting that weekend.

I park, turn off the radio, leave the top down and step out of the car. "Good afternoon" I wave to the stranger and bound down the service road toward the trailers where Mom and Tim and the rest of the family would be found.

Once everyone had hugged me hello I had my marching orders for the weekend. Apparently the group the camp was hosting was a men's group. I couldn't help but be amused at the irony of this fact. "Ha! Great, I'm going to be feeding a whole bunch of Christian men all weekend. Maybe one will like my cooking enough to ask me out."

There was once a wise man who said, "Be careful what you wish for."

I slept in the room right off of the kitchen area in the main meeting building. The men's group had all their meetings in the main room literally 20 feet from my room on the other side of the kitchen doors. Normally a curious little thing, one would assume I'd take no small delight in eaves-dropping on their comings and goings. I mean, the chance to listen to the inner workings of the Christian male pow-wow is an enticing proposition.

I should have figured it out from the moment when my little interior voice said, "This is not for you to be listening to" that this weekend wasn't going to be run of the mill. Once I had ascertained that the message their leader was sharing with them was one that truly encouraged their pursuit of a Christ-centered life, and the pursuit of a woman's heart through His eyes, I didn't need to listen any further. It was sacred, and I just couldn't, wasn't comfortable listening in. So I didn't.

On Saturday morning, 5:30am, I made and filled all the coffee, tea, cocoa pumps and set out the basics. When Mom and Mr. P arrived, I hopped on the griddle and started my mountain of breakfast potatoes. I heard a friendly booming voice from the main room coming in toward the kitchen. I recognized it as the men's group leader.

He and I had had a keen exchange the evening before when I recognized the book he was teaching the men with, and commented that I thought it was brilliant. The leader was dropping off 6 large loaves of round bread he asked that we warm for their lunch meal where they would enact a symbolic bread-breaking among their brotherhood. "Sure thing, Captain, you got it."

I smiled broadly at the portly, jolly man and put the bread away for safe keeping. A whirlwind, enamored with my current devotion to Christ in this service weekend, I fried potatoes, made sausage, filled coffee and checked on the tables to see what else might be needed.

It was somewhere in the middle of my practically dancing through my chores that I noticed someone noticing me having a little too much fun logically for someone up to their eyeballs in kitchen chores.

He cracked only a half smile and I could have sworn he gave an almost imperceptible chuckle. Our eyes locked for a split second, I smiled and thought nothing of turning around and bounding back toward the kitchen like a child running out to recess.

"One of those men sorta smiled at me." I threw the comment out halfheartedly for Mom to hear. "Maybe you will meet someone this weekend, sweetie." She smiled her wry grin and I rolled my eyes. "Puh-leeze. That's ridiculous and besides, that is SO not what I came here for." Another wry grin and a shrug sends me wandering off into the pantry muttering about fruit cocktail and pudding.


After breakfast, and pre-assembly of all the baked ziti pans, Mom and I make a run to the supermarket. Getting off the campground felt nice, driving in the beautiful Indian Summer sun, but I couldn't wait to get back. Camp was always a magic place. Whenever we'd go away on retreat as youth group kids in high school, the weekend always held a kind of magic, no matter the camp location. Some remnant of this magic lingered as one of my friends now ran the camp to boot.

Back in the kitchen that afternoon, pans of ziti flew in and out of convection ovens, garlic bread was buttered and meatballs boiled in vats of hand-spiced sauce. Having to use a jarred sauce is a necessary evil of cooking for the masses. But a balanced addition of all the right herbs, garlic, basil, and a little sugar to cut the acidity goes a long way.

As the meal finished cooking, the Captain appeared in the kitchen again. "Hello sweetheart." A smile, "Hello Cap, needing that bread?" He nods and so I head into the pantry, slice the round loaves into halves and pop them in the convection oven for 10 minutes.

"Mom I have to take this bread out to the men. Should I use the glass plates?" Nodding her approval, she sends me out to the tables with bread plates in hand. Two halves to each of the 4 tables were my instructions. I dropped off the first two along with a plate of sweet cream butter. The men had been incredibly thankful and gracious, constantly thanking us and complimenting the camps hospitality.

The second table was the Captain's. There were other men sitting with him but, as had been my habit all weekend to that point, I raised my eyes to meet no one's gaze save the Captain's. "Here you go fellas." I smile broadly and place the plates on the table. Then a voice speaks. The voice is resonant, fluid and actually rather remarkable.

"That looks beautiful...and the bread doesn't look bad either." I chuckle offhandedly and keep busy about my chore, not registering who spoke and what was said. But just before I leave the third table, I turn back toward the voice, and see him and meet my gaze. My ears turn red and I immediately retreat into the kitchen.

After serving the rest of lunch, we the staff partook of the spread we'd created. The Captain and one of his men, the tall, dark-haired man who had smiled at me earlier that morning, approached us as we sat eating our mid-day meal. "Ladies, this sauce was really incredible. I mean, I'm a New Yorker and I've had my share of good sauce, this was excellent."

Both Mom and I began laughing immediately. We confessed that it was doctored Ragu but thanked the Captain profusely nonetheless. Unwilling to believe that we'd merely "cheated," he insisted we were kitchen magic. "Well whatever you all are doing in there, keep doing it. We've never eaten this well at camp before, have we?" He gestured to his companion who looked directly at me and said his own thank you. Another smile, a protracted moment of eye-contact.

Why my stomach did a back-flip I could not have told anyone at that moment. Looking back it may well have been because I recognized this man. Handsome, but not overtly so. His eyes were kind as he walked away, smiling. I went to check the coffee again and he appeared suddenly again at my side, with the guise of surveying the dessert offerings. He spoke of the weather, the weekend, the camp. He thanked me for the food, and I quickly began telling him how his group being here at this camp was giving my brother a chance to live this ministry and do what he'd always wanted and I was just as grateful to their group as they appeared to be to the staff and the camp. I did not talk about myself. I did not ask him about himself.

One of his fellow group members sidled up along side to also offer thanks and I instead lobbied their group to help with the revamp of the camp in the weeks to come. He smiled all the while, and again looked at me with a countenance that spoke volumes but that I couldn't yet discern its intention.

"Well I'd better get back in the kitchen. Dishes need doing and your dinner needs prepping." We exchanged a look that said We'll talk again later, and off I went back into the kitchen. "MOM!" I didn't yell but I heard myself sounding gob-smacked. "What's the matter dear?"

I told her I was pretty sure I'd be talking to this man again later and that he kept smiling at me. I wasn't unnerved by this attention but it just seemed so out of place because, heck, I was so focused on just reveling in serving God and the camp. I desired no distraction, this was too important.

Sunday morning got a later start than we'd have wanted. The men told us that breakfast would be at 7:30 and it wasn't until nearly 8:45. Admittedly a little annoyed, as its hard to explain how difficult it can be to maintain fresh pancakes freshness for 2 hours once in the steam tray, we served them breakfast and began prepping lunch.

Running again to the supermarket, mom and I decide that the vanilla pudding the men have not been partaking of needed to be reincarnated into banana cream pie. A fortuitous choice as that afternoon, their last meal, the smiling man opted for a double portion.

"Try the one on the right." He raised an eyebrow. "Why that one?" I told him it was filled with jello mix rather than the re-purposed pudding. "It'll taste better. Whipped cream?" He smiled his smile. "I love banana-cream." I felt pleased he was enjoying my little invention.

"So where do you all hail from?" He explains that the men's group is an amalgamation of several 'platoons' from several states including NY, PA, VA and New Jersey. He is from New Jersey it seems. Its only at this point that I tell him I also hail from the same state and am a French Teacher at Piscataway.

"So you are a Chief" he grins while telling me the name of the High School mascot. "Yes, oh yes, I'm a huge Chiefs fan. I'm really a huge high school football fan." Now his expression goes wide as do his eyes. "Really?" I reaffirm my enjoyment of the sport in general and he enthusiastically explains that high school sports are his job. He is a writer for a news paper and covers sports exclusively.

With an almost unnecessary but equally involuntary amount of awe in my voice I gush, "You're a writer? Reeeeallly?" and immediately felt like a big ball of cheese. Gathering my thoughts I blurt, "Well I'd love to hear more about what you do." He smiles a little. "Sure yeah yeah I'd love to chat." I suggest we perhaps get coffee some time. He grins a bit wryly. "Actually, I should be asking YOU to coffee, so, coffee some time?" I apologize for doing his job, and he laughs along.

Quickly I scurry back into my kitchen to let the men get into their closing session before the end of their weekend retreat. Back in the kitchen, I announce a little mystified, "I think I just got asked for my number." Many eyebrows raise. I confidently assert that I'm not here for this kind of thing and immediately immerse myself in kitchen duties.

Not at all looking in this man's direction again that early afternoon I dash in and out of the main room picking up after the meal. In my peripheral vision I can see him occasionally glance my way. But I cannot take my mind off how delicious it is to be at camp, in service to God!!! I hum praise and worship songs and keep my focus on the goodness that is this service experience.

As we begin our final cleanup the voice approaches me a third time. "Um, so I did want to be able to get in touch with you so I went to my car and grabbed a business card." I thank him and put the card in my pocket without looking at it. "I'm really best reached via email." I dictate my address once aloud and then finally endeavor to look him squarely in the eye and shake his hand.

That moment is suspended in eternity somewhere. It had the feeling of a prologue to a play's first act. An act which we are presently engaged in playing out.

I left camp at 4:30 that Sunday afternoon. There was a first email in my inbox by 9:45am the next morning. I did not expect to see it ever, but there it was. A week later, the first date, then a second and third and so on.

This prologue is the beginning of a story I am committing to let God write. I'm writing it down Lord. Trusting you with its contents, and with its outcome, every breath, every moment, every day and night.

Looking back on those first days and moments, he tells me a story that involves the voice of God in his head. He was not there for me that weekend, as I was not there for him. But God said, "Go talk to that woman." What's more, he tells me how God bids him pursue me every day. His beauty worth fighting for.

If in this life I never know anything else of love, I will always know what it is to surrender my heart to God and have Him welcome me home, make me beautiful in His service such that a man after His own heart would find the desire to know me because I know Him.

I'm happy with today, sitting on my couch in a living room this smiling man helped me design, lit by a Christmas tree he helped me decorate. Rooting for a football team in which I, prior to these last months, had no vested interest. Simply because seeing this man smile makes me feel like I can take on the world, with God's help.

Stay tuned my friends, I'm on one heck of an adventure. Pray for us.