“You’ve been here nearly every week, and I really appreciate it. It’s gotten me over the hump.”
Those are the words from this past Monday night of an 89-year-old friend named Paul after an amazing steak dinner and even better conversation.
Paul’s wife, Margaret, died two and a half years ago. They’d been married 60 years, if memory serves correctly. They ran a Bible study out of their home for 50 years and raised two children in the faith. So, for the first time in many decades, Paul is alone.
A friend came up with the idea of getting Paul out of the house every Monday night, giving him something to look forward to. At first, I’m not sure if Paul was on board. Maybe he didn’t like us making a fuss over him. Or maybe he didn’t think a weekly dinner in his honor was necessary.
Over time, though, he grew to appreciate it.
We meet on Monday nights at a restaurant that has a special on New York Strip steaks for just $11.99. The aroma is scrumptious. And you get two sides. It’s so good!
We’ve gotten to know the waitresses, Nancy and Heidi, who alternate taking care of us each week. I hope they do so because we treat them well. We prayed once with Nancy when her daughter was in the path of a hurricane. And we talk to her once in a while about where she attends church.
Some Monday nights we have four people. Most Mondays we have six. And once or twice, we had a dozen or so.
One of the guys started coming after he overheard a friend and I talking about spiritual matters in a restaurant one day. He came over and complimented us, so we invited him to Monday nights, and he’s been a faithful attendee ever since.
Most Monday nights, after everybody else has gone home, Paul and I stick around and talk until way up into the night. We’ve talked about money, scripture, reading, women, business and our giftings.
And he tells me it’s made a difference in his life. It’s made one in mine too. But to hear our little gatherings have helped get him over the hump after his loss fills my heart to overflowing.
I get the feeling that most men are lonely – lonely for deep, meaningful conversation in a place where they can feel safe to say anything. I hope that our little group affords them that. And I hope we can continue it for years to come.
Paul says he’ll work (he’s an architect) until he’s 100, and maybe he will. He even has a party planned for that date. In the meantime, I hope he’ll continue to gather around the table with people who care about him.
That’s something all of us could use more of, no matter how many years we have left.
