My husband, Bill, and I weren’t expecting an evening to ourselves. It’s a rarity, raising three kids. I’d just put a chocolate cake in the oven for after dinner when my sister dropped by, unannounced. “I’ll watch the kids,” she said. “You two enjoy a fun night out.”
“What should we do?” I asked Bill. He picked up a newsletter from a Catholic charity we supported. “Well, there’s a potluck tonight,” he said. A church potluck? That wouldn’t have been my first thought. And the church was an hour and a half away.
“We don’t have anything to bring,” I started to say, but then the oven timer dinged. “Sure we do,” Bill said with a triumphant grin.
On the way we got lost. When we arrived at the church fellowship hall, two lonely casseroles were all that was left on the serving table. A man was heading out the door. He stopped and stared at the cake pan in my hands.
“What’s that delicious smell?” he asked.
“Chocolate cake,” I said. “But I guess we’re too late.”
“Goodness no, trust me, nobody’s leaving,” he said, ushering us in. He took the cake and chatted excitedly with the group. Two women ran to the kitchen and brought out plates heaped with lasagna and chicken Marsala, baked beans and Swedish meatballs.
The man we met at the door took our drink orders. Everyone waited on us hand and foot, even the priest. It was too much. You’d think Bill was the Pope or something! When we finished eating, everyone lined up for my cake. They all cheered when it was unwrapped.
“Okay,” I said. “What’s going on?”
“It’s truly a blessing that you’re here tonight,” the priest said. “You see, after dinner I offered a closing prayer, thanking God for the meal. It had just been missing one thing. I didn’t want to sound ungrateful, but said to God, ‘Still, a warm chocolate cake for dessert would have been nice.’
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