That early, somber grey Friday we ambled still satiated from the evening's feast toward Mother's. The morning's heat penetrating through a viscous sky was matched only by the same inescapable boil rising from the feet swelling pavement. Upon entering, not even the pungent aroma of "the world's best baked ham" was pervasive enough to ignite our tired taste buds. All we craved was the jolt of eye-popping caffeine and a spot for jovial communion before our convention called us to revelry.
We invaded - what else can a merry band of twelve do in a small New Orlean's cafe - and from some shrill yet garbled dialect, were immediately instructed to take plasticized cards and find a seat. And that's what we did. Securing our places in an empty hall we sat and waited. We waited and watched and waited even more. Entertaining ourselves with amused glances and curious inquiries as to the edibility of "debris," nobody came to break our back-room isolation.
"Did we hear her correctly," we wondered. It was a relevant question because the waitress's multi-syllable drawl garbled like glutinous grits into a single unrecognizable jumble. Since we couldn't follow her commanding voice, we looked for a guide to gauge protocol. But we were haplessly alone, so there we remained until a pitying busboy scornfully directed us to line up at the serving counter in the next room. Happily we complied but were frustrated at the ritual censuring to maintain precise military alignment. Disorganized, we quickly broke rank while pointing at the enticing Southern delicacies behind the steaming display cases. Once again a swift reprimand bellowed from the scurrying wait-staff. Breakfast was never so serious.
Back at our table, we were condemned for using the wrong pitcher to draw water; vilified for inappropriate chair placements on the beaten rug; and snarled at for retrieving coffee from an errant carafe. Unspoken rules confounded us like inarticulate travelers in a foreign land. Indeed, to paraphrase Oscar Wilde, we had virtually nothing in common with our Louisiana hosts, including language. We didn't know their customs and couldn't follow their directive voice.
Efficiency may demand a certain manner of doing things. A proper place, a right time, an organized way, all conspire to advance etiquette. But we were out of our element and hard-pressed to do the right thing. Unacquainted with common convention, we were simply rude, ugly and barbaric as we were deaf to the voice of authority.
In the story of the Good Shepherd, John tells us about following the master's voice. Though summarily cautioned not to blindly follow any command - "He [the master] leads them and they follow because they are familiar with his voice" - the gospel acclaims only that which comes from love. And that voice is life-affirming because "I put the sheep before myself, sacrificing if necessary." But this voice is often unclear, sometimes unintelligible like an overworked New Orlean's waitress. But if we are conscious to the voice of love we shall be filled with abundant grits - I mean grace - just as a mother tends to her child.
On the return puddle-jump home, I sat next to a young South American mother entertaining her eighteen month old baby reading from the book "Buenas Noches, Luna." I watched in captivation as she slowly read Bway-Nas, No-Chez, Loo-Na to the cherub, pointing at each individual letter as she did. The baby tried to imitate everything her mother did and it was evident that she was beginning to get a command of formulating words. No doubt she will be talking soon, and through the loving voice of the master, her life will unfold before her. That is the true voice of love.
pia
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