Throughout my time in Swaziland, I consistently encountered a man named Simon. In our first week my friend Lillian and I noticed him form across the parking lot at the gas station grocery store, SaveMor. We approached him and offered to pray for him but he didn’t speak English. He kept repeating the S’Swati word for money over and over again. A week later my team and I were doing house visits and I ran into him again. This time, our pastor Justas was there and able to translate so I got to pray over him. Funny because I had prayed earlier that day for redemption. Later that week we got an assignment in a worship group that I participated in to write a story, song, poem etc. about the Great Banquet (Luke 14) and from the perspective of someone who by no means deserved to be there but was still invited. I wrote mine from Simon’s perspective:
Dust twisted with the violent wind, shifting the bounds of the dirt lane I walked along. I clutched two crooked branches with my calloused palms. I had only one leg. One leg and one stump that ended below my kneecap. I did not have a shoe but instead cloths wrapped around my foot. My toes had worn through the wrapping so they were bloody and scratched. My crackled lips screamed for a drink and my elderly eyes sunk into their place in my skull. The only word I could muster to breathe anymore was “Money?” I stumbled over my own tongue ceaselessly repeating it. Even when not a soul lingered on the horizon I still spent my energies uttering it. My life had been a slur of pain washed away with bourbon. Nothing struck vividly in my head anymore. Things entered in slowly and before a blink were gone again. I did not know why I only had one leg. Nor was I aware of my age or where I was. My place was a wanderer, an outcast. I assumed I would crumble soon. I was elderly and had abused myself. I was just about to sit, not expecting to ever stand again when, appearing like a mirage, a man grew near. He ran through curtains of dust, shielding his eyes with his fingers.
“Sir!” He hollered, looking into my eyes
How had he come for me? Can he not see that I am lame and miles from town? I struggled to take one last step and finally stopped to see what this servant was thirsting for.
“My Master is having a great banquet, Simon, there has been a seat prepared for you!”
I began to utter the only word I know, money. But before I could articulate it I began to wonder. Wonder how this stranger knew my name even while not a single living being possessed this knowledge. Not because I didn’t share but because I had never been asked by another. It startled me that he knew my name but I had never seen the likes of this man before. He beamed some supernatural light I could not explain. Before I could reply he insisted again.
“Come quick, the table awaits!”
With glee he grabbed my arm and wrapped it around his shoulder, bearing the weight that my crutches normally ease. We hobbled for what seemed like hours. He didn’t say anything, he just walked with me and carried pieces of me that I never even realized I needed help carrying.
Finally we reached the banquet. Though I was growing deaf I could hear the blare of trumpets through the surrounding hedges. Upon first sight of the palace, I notice warm light spilling from the windows and onto the gravel I limped upon. The servant led me towards the grand mahogany entrance. Carved into each door was a roaring lion. He heaved them open to reveal the luscious feast concealed by the doors. I was greeted by a rectangular table that stretched farther than my filmed over eyes could capture. It was clothed in a blinding white table cloth and on it sat overflowing cornucopias, goblets filled with red wine, dozens of golden turkeys and grape vines weaving between each setting. My mouth agape, the host approached. He was clothed in the same brilliant fabric of the table cloths. He exuded kindness and wore a crown of rubies. With a voice like brass he thanked the servant and took me into his own arms. He carried me down the length of the dining hall, the stained glass windows leaked patches of color onto the warm marble floors. Eventually, he set me down in a spot at the table. Each seat was like a throne wrapped in velvet and in front of the seat he had brought me to was a card labeled “Simon”.
Before continuing to place more guests, he looked at me and said “Simon, I thank you endlessly for attending this banquet, I pray to speak to you later. For now enjoy your feast, my friend.”
I looked around me at the seats that had yet to be filled. My eyesight growing clearer, I could see the table growing and bustling servants preparing more seats. I looked up to see the host speaking with a woman. The evidence of recent tears dwelled in her eyes. I did not intend to eavesdrop but still I did.
“You are welcomed here, daughter.” He said.
She nodded as the Host pulled out a seat for her across from me.
“Simon, this is Lydia.” He said it with such invitation in his tone.
When Lydia sat down, the host pushed her chair in and again returned to the entrance for more guests.
Lydia had an aura of regret about her. Her blonde hair was tangled and she had a black eye and a fat lip. She was young. Maybe twenty five but her eyes reflected a past heavier than the amount of years even a lifetime could plausibly sustain. I began to wonder how a woman as this had been invited to the feast but then I looked down at myself. Every scar told a tale of my drunk nature, each one a map of my sin. I detested that I would judge her for her invitation when my own invite was unwarranted. I looked up the length of the table to see all the others who had been invited. Millions of Simons and Lydias breaking bread at a Host’s table.
A couple days after I completed this assignment, Simon hobbled into our care point asking for food. I gave him our bag of sandwiches. It was a cool thing that the Lord did for me because I wrote this essay about Simon being invited to the feast and then I got to feed him. It was incredible
