Pulled Pork

            You should have seen his face!

            It was the first Sunday in August, and that meant it was time for Eddie’s hog roast at his beach restaurant. In spite of the fact that my husband will happily pass on pork, we strolled down to the roast that evening.

            I could almost taste the pork, sweet barbeque, and a side or two as my feet pounded the grit toward the waterfront. My husband envisioned his options, which excluded anything that smacked of pig but included something as sweet as anyone can make it.

            When we got there, the beach eatery was nearly deserted, the pork fans having descended early in the afternoon. After we got reacquainted, recalling our visit from last year, we stood at the counter while the weary proprietor and his wife awaited our order. Chunks of sacrificed hog lay on a table behind them, and I wondered if my husband’s resolve wasn’t further supported by our view.

            “Some of the roast, and no bun,” I said, not wanting anything to mask the flavor. “Cole slaw and lemonade.” Simple. They could do that.

            Then all of us focused on my husband.                                                                               

            “I’d like a hot dog and a brownie and . . .”

            Eddie didn’t immediately respond, but his face, all courtesy cloaking his weariness and affront, told a tale.

            “We don’t have any hot dogs,” he said, after a few tortured seconds. “Today we did the hog roast.” He let his words sink in. “And we don’t have any brownies.” I knew that was the icing on my husband’s sweet plans.

            “Oh,” he said, a little nonplussed.

            “But we do have some hamburgers that I cooked for the kids,” Eddie countered.

            So the burger and the cole slaw rescued the day and filled in for the hot dog and brownie. All in all, I think I got the better meal, the meal of the year, specially cooked.

            Although this is a rather humorous tale of our vacation, I can’t help but think that I’m sometimes like my husband—even worse--with God.  I don’t want what he offers.  I’m  less than grateful. I flared a couple of times lately at the kinds of things that normally fire me up. I preferred “a hot dog.” Translation: I wanted my way, which was far better than what happened to me. Isn’t my way always better? I’m a reasonable person.

            Instead, God was offering me “pulled pork.” He gave me the opportunity two times in as many days to learn what he’d cooked up particularly for me: that he is enough when I don’t get my way—that his way is better. He wants me to learn that I can still be joyful, yes, happy when I submit to his will, trusting him to work it all out.

            I wish I could get this together faster, but I keep on with my remedial work in this area of faith. Fortunately, God doesn’t make a face when I prefer the hot dog; he simply keeps giving me his best. But I have to admit, when I get it right, when I say, “Okay, Father, I’ll take the pulled pork,” I think he smiles, because that’s the special of the day, and that’s the best deal around!

            Taste and see that the Lord is good; blessed is the man who takes refuge in him. (Psalm 34:8, NIV)