Free The Great Christmas Bowl by Susan May Warren Page B

me, through the crack in the door. I opened it just a smidge wider. “We have a Christmas Tea at our church every year, and I was wondering if you’d like to come.”
    Her smile dimmed. “I know about the tea. Every year the church sends someone by to make sure everyone in the park is invited.”
    Oh. Another task I didn’t know had to get done.
    â€œSo I’ll see you there?”
    She lifted the foil on the turkey. Smelled it. My stomach growled, and I hoped the wind covered it up. I had saved some of the turkey, the corn pudding, and the apple pie at home.
    â€œNah, I never go. It’s too fancy for me.” She looked up. “Thanks again. I’ll tell Bud you stopped by.”
    I nodded and let the door close.
    I was nearly back to my car when the door opened again and Marge stuck her head out. “Hey! Aren’t you the fish now?”
    I waved my hand. “Yep, that’s me. The town’s new Trout.”
    She laughed, warm and genuine, and gave me a little wave back.
    I rather enjoyed my new celebrity status.

Chapter 7
    â€œWhat are you doing?”
    I looked up from the kitchen table, where I had spread out around me three different versions of the Bible, a Strong’s Concordance , and a Bible dictionary. I resembled a Dallas Theological Seminary student and felt like one after an hour of rooting through the original Greek words for deeper understanding.
    â€œI’m trying to figure out what I’m doing.”
    Mike shoved his hands into his blue bathrobe, raised a blond eyebrow. “I’ve been wondering that for years.”
    â€œOh, very funny. I’m trying to figure out the true meaning of hospitality, being that I’m the ‘hospitality’ chair. Something that Marge Finlaysen said to me . . .”
    Outside, the snow still drifted down in gentle fluffs. The spindly birch trees appeared eerily white against the gray pallor of the day. I peered at Mike, grateful that he and Kevin made it home last night and still surprised by their lack of protest about our abbreviated Thanksgiving meal.
    For the first time in years, I didn’t have leftovers to worry about. China to hand-wash. And I wondered if I had discovered a hidden treasure about Thanksgiving in my snowy night offering to Marge and Bud.
    Which had driven me to gather my Bible study supplies and root through the New Testament for references to early church hospitality.
    Mike poured himself a cup of coffee.
    â€œListen to this.” I opened my Bible to Romans. “‘Share with God’s people who are in need. Practice hospitality.’”
    Mike sipped his coffee. “See, now this is what I like. No flavor, just good old Folgers.”
    â€œIt’s Sumatra. In my concordance, hospitality is translated as ‘entertaining strangers.’ Like Abraham did when he entertained the angels.”
    Mike grabbed a roll from the counter and sat down, watching me.
    â€œAnd in Titus, it says to be hospitable, love what is good, which translates to being fond of guests, and it also implies strangers.” I closed my Bible, drummed my fingers on the surface. “I’m starting to think that Jenni’s suggestions designed to cater to others are closer to the purpose of the tea, but in the same breath, it’s not fair to Gretchen, who’s spent years investing in this event. I can’t get past the part where we’re also supposed to live in peace with one another. What about ‘they’ll know we are Christians by our love’? If I tell Gretchen and Muriel we’re changing the menu, that’s certainly not going to speak love to them.”
    Mike ran his thumb down the handle of his mug. “What is the meaning of love, anyway? Isn’t it always looking out for the good of others?”
    â€œMy point exactly.”
    â€œExcept, what would you call the times we had to ground Neil for not finishing his homework or