Cheeseburger Psalm

October 2024
Ephesians 3:16-19

We were having a late lunch at Phyllis’s coffee shop, a cheery place done up with yellow and white chintz tablecloths and framed covers from the Saturday Evening Post, the ones by Norman Rockwell of folks in diners and soda fountains. In the early years – Phyllis opened the place after the war, back in ’48 – she put little vases with dried flowers on the tables but after a few years the arrangements got scraggly and they went away.

Phyllis’ dinette was small, an L-shaped counter with ten stools and three tables at the side, but she served up the best cheeseburgers in town. Lunch at Phyllis’ place was something Gene Rutledge and I tried to do once a week. Between his schedule and mine, I was grateful that our lunches together were more hit than miss. Today, Friday, after a push-pull week, I was glad just to be with a friend. Lunch with Gene was always a bit of a caution, though: the way the man could read me was uncanny.

Example: as soon as I sat down, Gene said, “Roger, your head is spinning and your eyes are crossed. Tough morning?”

“Week, Gene. Tough week.”

“Want to talk about it?”

Not wanting to go where he did, I gave him my best thin-lipped smile of insincerity. “No, not especially. Nothing me and the Lord can’t deal with.”

“Good, ‘cause I’ve been thinkin’ and now I’ve got a question for you.”

“Thinking, huh? Dangerous territory. So, is your question pastoral or personal? Just so you know, I’m not answering pastoral questions on my lunch break. Not today.”

“Personal.”

“Shoot. Personal questions I can handle. Well, most of ‘em.”

Gene laughed. “Roger, we’ve been friends, close friends, for a bunch of years now. You’re the pastor of our church, I’m the head of the deacon’s committee, but I don’t remember ever hearing your story of when you responded to Jesus’ knock on the door. So tell me, what brought you to open it?”

Gene’s questions were seldom casual. This one, though, I didn’t have to ponder. “Sure. Great story. Glad to tell it to you.”

“Okay, good. Go for it.”

A wisp of hair peeked out from under Phyllis’ bandana as she came to our table, plates stacked on one arm, her trigger finger looped in a mug and a glass in her hand. “’Scuse me, guys. Here’s your burgers. Roger, you got the coffee, Gene, the Coke for you.”

“Thanks, Phyl. Smells wonderful. Like the bacon add-on.” He picked up his burger, took a bite. A drop of burger juice cut loose and sailed across his fingers. “Mmm, good. Messy, but good. Um, ‘scuse me. Now, Roger, you were saying.”

“Sure. You know Pauline and I met when we were in college. She came from the city, she and her family attended a local church. When she was in high school, she started going to a Friday night Bible study for teens, kept on with it in her freshman year. Me, I went to college to have fun. Education was secondary, church didn’t even make the list. Bible study? Okay for her. Didn’t mean anything to me.

“So, one day after we’d dated a few times, she says, ‘I want you to come with me to our Bible study. You’ll like it. I promise.’ I was willing to give it a shot, mostly because I just wanted to be with her. Anyway, Friday night we go to this meeting and this group leader, Tommy something, I forgot his last name, had this straightforward way of talking about Jesus and doggone, I liked what I was hearing. Not only did he present Jesus in a way that made a lot of sense but digging into the Bible got me curious. So Friday night Bible study becomes this regular thing, Paulie and I go every week. It was new. It was fun. I liked the other kids, had questions, how do we know God exists, was Jesus’ resurrection real?

“Anyway, there I was learning about Jesus and the Bible and faith and all, uncertain, skeptical about a lot of it but curious and after a few months, I realized it was time for me to make a commitment. And that was when Pauline and I met Claire.”

“Claire! Who’s she?”

“Claire was a Christian therapist, specialized in treating children. Gifted, truly, absolutely dedicated to helping children though all sorts of tough issues. Pretty, pert, short brown hair, brown eyes, had this attitude, this … this aura, don’t know what else to call it, just … immediate trust as soon as you met her. Friendly, open. Genuine, absolutely sincere. Liked her the moment I met her. Remarkable woman.

“She invited Paulie and me to visit her office and believe me, that was a testament to her commitment, no, devotion to kids and Christ. Well, Claire’s entire office was a playroom of sorts, a treasure trove of opportunities for kids to express themselves in any way possible. She had a set of shelves for dolls and doll houses, Barbies and all her friends, all sorts of dolls. Had another set of shelves for cars, trucks, all kinds of boy things. She had this giant toy box full of stuffed animals. There were stacks of kiddy board games, building stuff like Lego kits, Lincoln Logs. Plastic houses and buildings and figures, men and women and children, even pets, like that. Most of that stuff was for the sand table. No guns, no weapons. Not that she didn’t allow a child to express aggression or anger, though.

“She had one bookcase filled with children’s books, all age levels. There was a low table stocked with art supplies of all kinds, colored paper, watercolor paints, crayons, scissors, tape, stencils, sticker books and coloring books, easels, giant pads of paper, finger paints, felt-tip markers, you name it. If anything was for a kid, she had it. On the walls, she had some wonderful pen and ink drawings of Jesus and children. And right there in the middle, set against one wall was a big ‘ol friendly papa-san chair.”

“Tell me about the sand table. What’s that?”

“Sure. About two feet by four, had sides on it, you know, to hold the sand. She’d encourage kids to play there, which was actually a way to create a drama of sorts that reflected their lives, what they were feeling.

“As you probably know, young children aren’t great at identifying and articulating their feelings and motivations verbally, their young brains just aren’t there yet. But they can express their feelings in their play and drawings.

“You’re a dad, you know the way kids think and feel is pretty basic. When your son was six or so, did you ever ask him why he does such silly things?”

“Oh, sure. More than once.”

“What response did you get?”

“He’d just say I dunno. He had this look he gave me, reminded me of a loaf of white bread.”

“Exactly. He didn’t get the question, couldn’t relate to it. But kids will show you what their inner world looks like, what it feels like through their play and their artwork. Claire said the sand table was particularly effective in getting insights to their little worlds, discovering core issues. And that, of course, led to ways to help them. That, and a lot of prayer.”

“Umm. And this really works?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it does. Surprisingly well. Claire told me about this one seven-year-old boy whose father had abandoned him and his sister and their mom. The boy was acting out, hitting his sister, defying his mother, angry all the time. Spent most of his time at home shut in his room with No Trespassing signs plastered on the door. Claire showed him the sand table, invited him to play. First thing,  he builds a mound of sand in the corner, puts a house on it and surrounds it with a fence. Then he puts the figures of a woman, a boy and a girl close together inside the fence. Then he takes the figure of a man, digs a hole and buries it at the bottom of the hill. Then he pounds the dickens out of it with his fist. That gave Claire an entry point into his world and how to develop some alternative ways to express his feelings. Like that. That’s the kind of thing the sand table is for.”

“Yeah. Sure, I get it. Sounds like it could be pretty powerful stuff.”

“Amen to that. Anyway, let me tell you about Jennie, this one client Claire had, because this bears directly on your question of me and Jesus at the door.”

“Good. I was wondering if you’d ever get to it.”

“Eat your burger, Gene. On her first visit, this little girl’s mother, Beverly, comes to see Claire, tells her that husband, James, Jennie’s daddy, was killed in an automobile accident. The moment Jennie learned that her daddy had died, she stopped talking. Bang. Flat-out quit. For the entire time after his death, near to two months, Jennie didn’t speak a single word. Beverly realized her daughter was seriously depressed. She was desperate., heard about Claire from a friend, called for an appointment.

Claire said Jennie was eight. Sweet little girl, looked a lot like her daddy – blondish hair, blue eyes that sparkled. She absolutely adored her daddy, used to watch the clock and wait at the front door for him to come home from work just so they could have hugs.

“First meeting, Claire brings Beverly and Jennie into the playroom, shows them around. Then she politely asks Beverly to hang out in the waiting room. Said it was important for her to develop a relationship just with Jennie.”

“That because the parents can be part of the problem?”

“Well, that, and the parent in the room is always a distraction, mostly because the child will keep checking in with the parent for approval. So, on their first meeting, Claire sits in the papa-san chair like she usually does while Jennie takes a tour of the room. Jennie goes to the dolls, carefully picks one up, looks at it, and puts it back. Does this with a few more dolls, then moves over to the stuffed animals in the toy box. Most of them are small, easy to hold and cuddle, but Jennie just looks, makes a few experimental touches. Then she goes to the table with the crayons and drawing paper. She picks up a crayon, looks it over, puts it back in the box. Felt tips are next. Picks one up, gives it a look and puts it back. Then Jennie checks out the sand table. On the apron of the table, there’s an assortment of figures, men, women, children, pets. She pokes the figure of a little girl with her finger, picks it up and sets it down next to the figure of a man. Then she moves on.”

“That’s it? That’s all she does?”

“Yup. That’s it. Jennie continues the tour until she has explored the entire room – toys, books, games, art stuff, all of it. All the while Claire sits in her papa-san chair and watches Jennie, she prays for her, and for the mom, Beverly.

“Once Jennie finishes her exploration, she comes over and stands next to Claire’s chair and just looks at her.

“Claire says, ‘Jennie, would you like to sit in my chair with me?’

“Jennie shakes her head, no.

“By then, the hour’s up. Claire gets Beverly from the waiting room, tells her it’s a good beginning and schedules the next appointment.

“On the second visit, Jennie comes into the playroom and repeats her exploration routine but this time, she’s a little more interactive. She picks up three or four dolls now, gives ‘em a look, puts them back. Same with the stuffed animals, checks out a half-dozen of them. Runs her fingers over the paper and crayons. Very deliberately, she ignores the cars and trucks. She touches a few of the books, takes one out and looks at the cover, puts it back. She drifts around the room once, twice, looks at everything, still exploring but not engaging. Not yet. Even so, Claire sees this as progress.

“Toward the end of the hour, Claire tells Jennie that time’s almost up, invites her to sit in the chair with her. Jennie comes over, gives her this wide-eyed look. Still hasn’t uttered a word. The whole time, Claire has been watching and praying. Again, she asks, ‘Jennie, would you like to sit in my chair with me?’

“Jennie shakes her head, no. Uh-uh, nope, not today.

“The third visit is different. Jennie comes in and first thing, heads for the art table. She picks up a stack of colored construction paper, pulls out all the red ones, about ten or twelve of them, and sits on the floor. She takes a pair of scissors, you know, those round-end ones we had in kindergarten, the ones the teachers said we weren’t supposed to run with. One after another, Jennie cuts out big red hearts.

“Claire’s not exactly sure what’s going on with Jennie, but is confident she’ll work it out because kids know what they’re doing even if they don’t know what they’re doing. All the while Claire is watching Jennie, she’s praying.

“Then Jennie sits on the floor. She picks up every heart she has cut out and tears every one of them in half. Well! That was different!

“Next thing you know, Jennie picks up her stack of torn-up paper hearts, gets a roll of Scotch tape, comes over to the papa-san chair and, without a word, climbs up on Claire’s lap.

“Jennie snuggles in. She rests her head against Claire. Claire gives her a little hug.

“Jennie gives Claire a little smile and a nod. Then she hands Claire the Scotch tape. With her hands full of torn red paper hearts, she says, “Will you help me put these back together?”

Gene’s reaction wasn’t a surprise, not at all. Tears welled up in my friend’s eyes. Mine, too. Happens whenever I tell this story. Gene put his hand over his heart, tried to speak, couldn’t. He managed a nod and a gulp, but that was about it.

After a while, he was able to say, “And that’s why you opened the door, took Jesus by the hand and walked into the Kingdom of God?”

I needed a few moments myself before I was able to speak. Finally, I gave him a bop on the shoulder and said, “Yeah. That’s why I opened the door. Even today, that’s a lot of why I believe in Jesus. To me, Gene, that story brings home the very essence of Jesus’ ministry. Love. Grace. Patience. Kindness. Letting the Holy Spirit do his thing. All of it. So, yeah.”

“Wow. Yeah, for sure.”

Gene’s burger was history; mine was still half-eaten – hard to eat and talk at the same time. Gene tipped his glass, rattled the ice and finished his Coke. He set the glass down. I took the last bite of my burger, finished my coffee.

Gene said, “Can you answer another question?”

“Sure. Shoot.”

“How is it you know all this, about Beverly and Jennie and Claire?”

“Remember James?”

“Uh huh, Jennie’s daddy?

“James – Jimmy – was Pauline’s brother.”

“Oh! Wow again. You’re just full of surprises today, aren’tcha.”

“Pretty personal stuff, my friend. Wonderful story for the right time, right occasion. Not something I bandy about.”

“Bandy. Gran used to say that. How old are you? Nevermind. So how’s Jennie today?”

“Doing well. Got married last year. Lives in Arizona. Tucson. Loves to talk, tell people about Jesus.”

Cheeseburger Psalm © copyright 2022 Peter K. Schipper