Read The Great Christmas Bowl for Free Online Page B

with clarified butter. He picks up hobbies like I do new shoes. I had the sudden, wretched sense that perhaps he’d turned his hobby attention toward . . . me.
    Hadn’t raising five children been enough? What if I wanted to take time off? maybe eat out of a box for a change or, egads, not fix dinner?
    A little niggle inside made me wonder if perhaps he might be feeling the same twist of panic over our long stretches of silence.
    But signing me up for a new job wasn’t the answer. Didn’t he know me at all? Couldn’t he see that while I could organize my army of offspring, my leadership talents ended there?
    For a second I experienced the very mean urge to put his name down for sculpture class at the Community Art Colony.
    He’d probably love it.
    Dancing! I could sign him up for dancing lessons. . . .
    As far as the hospitality committee and the Christmas Tea went . . . “What do you mean by broken? Have you even been to a tea?”
    Mike smiled. “No. But I notice you don’t attend every year.”
    â€œI don’t like meatballs.”
    â€œI don’t think you’re the only one.”
    â€œWhat do you mean by that?”
    â€œI just think that maybe you could make this the best Christmas Tea ever.”
    In the back of my mind, I heard a memory ringing. I swept the dust into a tiny pile as it came to me. The Best Christmas Pageant Ever —it was a book I’d read aloud to the children when they were small, about a woman who breaks her leg and the victim who must take over running the pageant. As I recall, it turned out to be a catastrophe.
    The comparison didn’t bode well for my future. I swept the dust pile into the garbage can. “Well, I haven’t heard from God, Mike.”
    â€œHave you even considered that He might have a plan for you in this?”
    â€œA plan to saddle me with making coffee cake every Sunday for a year?”
    Mike took the broom from me. “Maybe there’s more to the word hospitality than cooking up potlucks and serving coffee.”
    I knew, of course, that had to be true. After all, the Bible wouldn’t say such things as “Offer hospitality to one another” if it didn’t have merit. Eating together had been a common activity for the early church and for every decent church since.
    The significance of this eluded me, however, especially as I called the committee meeting to order the next day at high noon.
    Gretchen, Rachel, Muriel Schultz—who was a distant cousin of Gretchen’s and the head of the Knitters Club—and fellow hospitality newbie Jenni Simpson, who also led the Mother’s Day Out group, had dropped everything to attend our hastily arranged meeting.
    According to my wall calendar, I had just over five weeks to pull together our tea. I had started to grasp why the menu had remained unchanged for decades. With the timing of the new committee chairs, the deadline rolled in too quickly for a new chairperson to spice up the event.
    That, and the iron fist of Gretchen Gilstrap left no wiggle room. She had everything spelled out, down to seating arrangements, and when she thumped a box down onto the table in front of me as we began the meeting, a chill streaked up my spine.
    â€œI’ve put it all together in a file box for you, including the recipes, past menus, past prayers, and the array of hymns we use.” She took off the lid to reveal hanging files, all colorfully organized. Once upon a time, I’d dreamed of such organization in my home office.
    â€œYou should call the newspaper about ten days beforehand—they have the usual copy and just need your go-ahead. And Jane needs the hymn lineup soon so she’ll know what to practice. And . . . when you’re ready, I’ll bring over the Christmas china. It’ll need to be hand-washed, of course, but I’ll be there to help you.”
    Christmas china? I scrolled back