Manifold Mission

There are many history-making moments recorded in the Bible that took place around a simple meal: Abraham serving dinner to three mysterious travelers; Joseph’s brothers having lunch while deciding what to do with their little brother after tossing him into an empty well; Joseph serving those same brothers a sumptuous meal years later in Egypt; Elijah dining with ravens, the Passover meal; the first Lord’s supper; the great wedding feast in Revelation. The list is endless, all filled with mystery and wonder at how the flow of our human story unfolded by these people breaking bread together.

When I was growing up in the Arnold household, hospitality was held in high esteem. If we four kids grumbled about the hordes streaming in and out of our abode like floodwaters during the rainy season, our parents might say, “We could be entertaining angels unawares.” That biblical morsel would mystify us, but never fully mollify. While we children weren’t required to “dress for dinner,” a certain level of decorum and table manners was expected. We would comply, but not without some grumbling amongst ourselves.

Missionaries, actors, teachers, journalists, writers, preachers, freeloaders, hoarders, artists, strangers, students, politicians, all racial stripes, all religious stripes, rich, poor, ex-cons, addicts, alcoholics, the glowingly healthy and the terminally ill, the greatest of these and the least; if you were at our house at the dinner hour, invited or the surprise arrival, a plate was set, and a bed was made should lodging be required. There were guests who stayed for a few nights or a few weeks, and sometimes those who stayed to infinity and beyond. If there were any angels in this disparate group, they came and went undetected.

The miracle was that out of the meager double income of our parents, they were able to feed all of us. Our hospitable parents were inventive in ways to stretch a dollar and a multi-course meal. But I suspect they had to be given divine help. It was the prophet Elisha and the ever-flowing oil from the widow’s jar; it was Jesus feeding thousands with five loaves and two fish. Looking back on how they were able to serve the multitudes who sat at our table, I shake my head in wonder.

It did not matter if it was a finely decorated table in our dining room or a roadside picnic table, care was given to the meal preparation at all times. Your eyes are not deceiving you. That is a picture of Bernie Arnold, my dear mother, cooking a pot roast on the manifold of our 1958 Impala. The power had not been turned off at the house. The oven had not broken. This was her creative experiment. One of many clever cooking ideas Mom discovered that made her exceptional. It also helped her win the “Mrs. Tennessee” contest one year and eventually lead to the job of the Food Editor for The Nashville Tennessean and The Nashville Banner.

The early years of the six-member Arnold household were lean. There was no disposable income. There were no luxuries. The bank account was like the proverbial turnip from which no monetary blood could be squeezed. Vacations were never to the beach or mountains. Our vacation was a trip to my paternal grandparents’ home in Virginia.

The journey from Nashville to Richmond began in the predawn hours and ended well after dark. This was before seat belts were standard in most automobiles, which meant we kids in the back were in constant danger of becoming human projectiles should the brakes be applied suddenly.

It was also before the Interstate system. Two-lane highways led through cities and towns and along the twisting roads of the Blue Ridge Mountains. If we got stuck behind an eighteen-wheeler, we would be nearly asphyxiated by diesel fumes before being able to pass.

The fast-food industry had not yet popped up like gastronomic weeds, so Mom would prepare snacks and full meals for the drive. Our favorite was her roast beef and vegetables wrapped in heavy-duty aluminum foil. Dad would secure it on top of the manifold of the engine with wire.

While we drove, the eight-cylinder engine was a natural oven maintaining a steady temperature. A feast normally prepared for family and guests on Sundays after church would be ready for consumption by the time we reached Bristol, Tennessee.

This picture of Mom reminds me of the lyric in Thomas Chisholm’s hymn “Great Is Thy Faithfulness.” In celebrating God’s creation, the heavens above “join with all nature in manifold witness.” My mother gave her personal “witness” of the pot roast on the manifold of our car. It was a roadside feast that no fast-food joint could ever equal.

When we celebrated my father’s life at his memorial service, it was a full house. As a man of the theatre, he loved playing to a full house, and for his final “performance,” it was standing room only. I asked all those in the crowd who had eaten at our table to stand. So many rose to their feet, it felt like a seismic shifting of the planet. My mother has since joined my father. It will not surprise me to see them helping our Lord when we gather for the great banquet feast in heaven.

Henry O. Arnold coauthored the novel Hometown Favorite, with Bill Barton, and a work of nonfiction, KABUL24, with Ben Pearson. He co-wrote and produced the film The Second Chance, starring Michael W. Smith, with Steve Taylor and Ben Pearson. He wrote the screenplay for the documentary on evangelist Billy Graham, God’s Ambassador, and the documentary KABUL24, based on the book. His latest documentary film I Go to The Rock: The Gospel Roots of Whitney Houston, will be released in 2023. The Singer of Israel is the third volume in his historical fiction series, The Song of Prophets and Kings. The first two volumes, A Voice Within the Flame and Crown of the Warrior King, are published by WhiteFire Publishing. He lives on a farm in Tennessee with his lovely wife, Kay. They have two beautiful daughters married to two handsome men and three above-average grandchildren. For more information, visit henryoarnold.com.