The grace of a ham sandwich

The work I'm doing sometimes involves long days, and then staying in the homes of people I've never met until I land on their doorstep. Sort of a bed-and-breakfast arrangement, when you think about it.

Last Saturday night, after a train journey that got confused by a suicide on the line, and the question of whether we would be taken to the next station by coach to get around the result of that, and a long day of observations, I landed at my hosts' home around 9:30 p.m. Lunch was the last 'real' (as in nutritious, balanced) food I had eaten--everything else available was nothing more than cakes and crisps. My hostess seemed to sense that something light but sustaining was in order, and made me a simple ham sandwich on wholegrain bread, with mixed leaf salad, tomatoes and cucumber.

When I was growing up, I spent a lot of Saturdays in Manhattan, and have had various sky-high piles of meat on bread at some of the best delicatessens that city has to offer. But Saturday night's was the best I can recall. It was just right--the right amount, the right kind, at the right time. And I barely had to do anything more than accept it and say thank you.

And I think, that's how divine grace works. What we need, in the right amount, the right kind, the right time. And all we need to do is accept it and say thank you.

Grace is an awful lot like a ham sandwich, sometimes.