When the robed minister, Dr. Price, ascends the pulpit, Saffee takes it as a signal to daydream, but within moments she is arrested by his eloquence and resonant baritone voice.
“. . . He could have made us into lumps of stone to line up and admire. But He chooses to give us the breath of humanity.
“He fashions ears to hear, not merely for self-defense, but to welcome the patter of rain, the trill of a robin.
“He could give us noses with which to merely draw air, but He gifts us with the exquisite perfume of blossoms.
“He could give us skin sensitive only to pain, but He accommodates our desire to receive a loved one’s tender caress.”
Oh, Mother, how could you misunderstand and distort such a God?
“He could have made eyes that see only light or dark, but He created a world with an immensity of color.
“And taste. Are we bored by flavorless nourishment? No! He made tiny taste buds that differentiate exquisite delicacies from land and sea!
“Beloved! Taste and see that our Creator God is good! Drink from His river of life . . .”
Soft light filters through the stained glass windows and hovers overhead. Saffee is comfortably warmed. In her heart, she thanks God for His creative goodness. She resolves to trust Him to teach her more than the professors she esteems.
At the same time, she is saddened that her mother, who would have once loved this sermon, has perhaps banished herself from ever hearing another.
That night, as Saffee lies awake in bed, three words from the sermon replay in her head: Taste and see, taste and see. Isn’t this the opposite of how she lives? In spite of Gloria’s tutoring on campus social skills (Gloria even arranged a couple double dates), Saffee still prefers cautious anonymity, devising excuses why she can’t do various things that others seem to do so easily, such as ask a professor a question or learn to play bridge. Gloria, on the other hand, is running for student council and has planned a trip to New York City with friends over spring break.
God’s directives—Watch. Listen. Learn—have been instructive, but they are passive assignments, requiring only observation and thought. Now it seems He’s added a fourth instruction, one that will call for involvement, expecting her to abandon her familiar role as left-out child.
For her Shakespeare class, she’s memorized a sonnet. What is that line? Something about killing the spirit of life (or is it love?) with perpetual dullness. She’s tired of dullness.
Taste and see. A new mandate.
After forty minutes in the phone booth down the hall, Gloria twirls into the room. “Saffee, it’s going to be such a great party. I hope you decide to come.”
Taste and see.
“I’ll be there,” Saffee says.
She combs her straight, wet hair, conscious of her roommate’s exuberant countenance beside her own more sober expression in the mirror. Gloria shares the plans for a surprise birthday party she and various friends and relatives are to give her mother. As she talks about cakes and decorations and entertainment, Gloria’s joyful face sometimes comes a little too close, invading space, and contributing to Saffee’s envy of porcelain skin.
“That’s nice,” Saffee says, moving a few inches away to reach into her bag of prickly brush rollers. “How old is your mom going to be?”
“Forty-six.” Gloria’s natural red hair bounces without the benefit of rollers. “She’s ancient.”
“Yeah. Same as my mom.” It’s a slip. Saffee, to avoid questions, makes a point not to ever mention that she even has a mother. She’s relieved when Gloria bubbles on.
“I made Dad promise to keep everything secret from the brothers. If they told, I’d . . .”
Gloria says she expects at least thirty people to attend.
Thirty! Saffee doesn’t think she even knows that many people.
“Gloria, why are you doing this?”
“Why? Because it’s her birthday! And to honor her, of course, for being such a great mom.”
Saffee looks into the mirror, unseeing, while Gloria itemizes the menu for the buffet dinner. Saffee interrupts, “Would you do this if she weren’t? A great mom, I mean.” Now she’s really said too much.
Gloria raises her eyebrows. “Well,” she says slowly, “the commandment isn’t to honor great mothers and great fathers, it’s just—”
“Yeah, I know. You’re right.” Saffee selects another roller and wishes she could stuff the question back into her mouth.
Gloria doesn’t let it drop. “I mean, well, if my mom were”—she says the next word delicately—“incarcerated, or something, I’d have to find some different way to honor her.” She takes a package of party invitations and an address book from a drawer and prepares to write. Saffee detects embarrassment.