Start readings here with "Sunday Lunch"

I did not know that my life was a story. I look back to study my life after the death of my husband and surprisingly I see a real story unfold. A life’s story. A love story. A story that I need to tell. Many memories that help to form my story seem to stem from the huge oval table where my family gathered for lunch each Sunday after mass. These Sunday lunches brought my comically large family together and it is there that I find the root of my life. I see now how deep and strong the root system is. My family story begins on a Sunday…

When the congregation is seated after communion the smell comes to me and apparently to my brothers and sisters as well. I attribute the calming of the squirming, wiggling, poking, and prodding that were present all through mass to the smell that we left behind in the house that morning. It has to be the smell from home. Not the smell of the flowers or the incense or the perfume of Mrs. Pinkard in the pew in front of us, but the distinct smell of Sunday morning. In the waning minutes of the mass, the smell from home is still with me. It conjures up the images of the early morning and what had occurred before any of us ever left to go to church. The schedule on Sunday rarely varied. It started early with the smell of rump roast searing in the hot oil. That is the smell that wakes up the army of people. The smell is more accurate than any time piece, and the family knows exactly how much time is left before the first crew is herded off to church. The smell reminds us that the altar boys get first dubs on the bathrooms for they will be in the earliest car load of people out the door. From the smell emerges the clear picture of my mom in her navy blue Sunday dress with a cup towel thrown over her shoulder. She is standing on tip toe lifting the heavy lid to the black cast iron kettle from where the smell originates. She is small in stature and exudes a calmness that is bigger than life. Her calmness seems to combine with the familiar smell of Sunday to guide us all through the morning. There is no question that Sunday lunch is already underway as Papa takes the first crew to church. When we arrive at church the third pew from the front is occupied and eventually completely filled by my family. The older siblings always helped entertain the younger children during mass so that the rest of the congregation could celebrate the service in peace. After mass we all file outside. I can clearly see the genuine smiles my Dad and Mom offer to each of their friends. No one would think there was anything more important or more pressing for my parents than this visitation with members of the congregation. The mayhem that undoubtedly awaits them as they ready a meal to feed a herd of people could not possibly have been detected by their friends as my parents calmly share and listen each Sunday morning. I wonder….does the story of my life start here? Soon we all pack ourselves into the cars to head home. Without prompting, we consecutively call out our numbers. (Our numbers were those that coincided with the order of our birth.) If a number was not called out we would turn around and go back to find the missing child. I am not sure now whether we numbered off to reassure my parents that we had everyone on board or just to keep the peace on the ride home. We pull up to the house and spill out of the cars. Everyone is running ahead at full throttle in order to grab a bathroom first and to get out of Sunday clothes. How many times was the door thrown open with the extra force of the anxious anticipation that the smell brought with it? How many times did we notice that even the door with its automatic hinge brought about a peace in the way it slowly closed after each assault? Did we even detect that we were all a part of the preparation for the Sunday lunch that unleashed the smell? Who set the table, who changed the diapers, who drained the potatoes, who entertained the young ones, who guarded the rolls from burning, who made the gravy? How was all of this so precise an operation that most of us did not even realize the effort? Did we ever wonder how the food was always ready for each Sunday lunch? Did we ever doubt that the smell would be there? The smell permeates through the entire house and adds more to our life than we could possibly understand. The smell of Sunday lunch is powerful. Perhaps its power is not fully understood until we look back at the scenes that unfold as they are remembered and told at the table. My personal story begins with an ending…

I am the first of the last five little ones. Number seven of eleven children. That means that by the time I was born there had already been 728 Sunday lunches without me and that there would be plenty more ahead. My birth order determined that I would lead. I was certainly the boss of the second crew and I relished my role. I felt empowered to make things right for everyone. There was not much that I could not handle. I realize now that these Sunday lunches fostered this feeling inside of me, and it was inherent that I fulfill this leadership role for the rest of my life. I married my high school sweetheart after convincing him that he really did want to become my husband. During our courtship and marriage, James became as ingrained in this family as any of the original eleven children. We were joyous at the birth of our kids and knew from the stories of Sunday lunch exactly how we wanted to raise our children. Later, I became a teacher and showed others the way. I loved every minute in the classroom and needed the feeling that I was making a difference to someone. Truly, I had the fairy tale life. I was strong, my marriage was strong, my children were healthy and independent, and my husband was superman. Then, kryptonite appeared on the scene. My sweet, beautiful husband of 28 years died tragically and instantaneously in a helicopter crash after we had spent an absolute perfect evening together. In an instant, I could no longer lead, but had to be lead. In a heartbeat, I was not helping others to cope and live and hope, but was on the receiving end of such ministrations. I had no idea who I was without James by my side. I was reduced to a state that made me question every single thing I thought I believed in. Who was I? Where would I gain the strength to continue? How could I show my kids courage when I needed to give up? What made me think that I was strong and capable? My search for this new life and role has made me take a long look at where I came from. As I studied, it was the Sunday lunches that slowly came into focus. Because my husband shared his life with me, he also shared in the dramas of Sunday lunch. Sunday lunch is what made my brothers and sisters rush to take care of me in the face of my tragedy. Sunday lunch is what made my family feel the loss of James as much as my kids and I did. Sunday lunch nourished my soul when I thought it could not be repaired. Sunday lunch gave me the courage to keep on picking up the scattered pieces of myself even though at times I could feel no headway. Perhaps it is the same old habits coming to life in me again as I now feel compelled to share these stories that have helped me to think that I might want to survive. I know that in some way it was the Sunday lunches that made James feel that he was such an integral and important entity in this huge clan of a family. I suppose to an outsider it would seem impossible that any one individual could feel important and loved when so many are around. As I search for understanding, I see a man with no formal education past high school surrounded by the doctors and entrepreneurs and artists and scientists and so much intelligence that defines my siblings. And, I see the way he was respected and valued and cherished by them all. I will be forever grateful for the love he felt from this family. He lived his life more fully than anyone I know, and I am convinced that the strength of Sunday lunch may have empowered him to do so. Through these stories I will try to search for who I am and try to build some courage of my own. I hope you can see yourself along the way and know that no matter what life has to serve; Sunday lunch will always welcome each of us home.