Gourmet food. French-accented waiters. Alabaster columns, domed glass ceilings, and ghosts of nobility and dignitaries.
When I've forgotten much else about my current assignment as a political staffer, I'll remember the man sitting to my right at that elegant business dinner.
"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 avital national organization.
He had a photo on his phone of himself shaking hands with President Obama, for goodness sake.
And he doesn't do desserts or vegetables.
He only told me all that because I poked. Mostly, we talked of simpler things: family and marriage (a half-century for his own, thirty-five for mine), pets (his three-pound Yorkie, my parrot) and the precariousness of life; the importance of charity (as he dished his tomatoes over to my plate) and fishing. The latter two, I've learned, have earned him a broad reputation.
Our hotels were within walking distance, so 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, and 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, is afraid of a few raindrops."
"It's my suit," he said. "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 good-bye and carried on. But here's what I'll remember most about him: Over dinner, he'd handed me his business card. "If I can ever help you in any way," he said. "Feel free to call." Amazingly, I think he meant it. No doubt his cheerful attitude of determination to serve others at his own cost is the secret to his highly productive life.
I have another friend who lived to serve others. I'll have dinner with him one day too, in an atmosphere far more rarefied. The guests at that table will attend for the same reason I attended that other dinner: by the good graces of the Host alone. Only I'll be at Heaven's table not because of my pedigree, abilities, or what I've done for him. I'll be there simply because of what he's done for me.
His invitation, extended to everyone, reads something like this: Come hungry. Come dirty and thirsty. Come undeserving. But come through me. I am the Way.
Signed: Jesus Christ.
Hope to meet you there.
