From the deep south, Gus came to work in a northern factory. He worked one day and quit. Next day, he applied as groundskeeper at the local golf course, where he remained until retirement forty years later.

His wife and he invited me for dinner. I was new in the congregation, unmarried, 50 years their junior, and they wanted to be hospitable. The home was lived-in, modest—if you wanted to be uncharitable, you might even call it a hovel.

At the close of giving thanks to God, it was as though a gun went off. The two dove into the food with a ferocity I have not seen before or since. “They eat like pigs!” I said to myself, dismayed.

Presently, they looked up to see, concerned lest my plate be getting low. “Help yourself if you want more—don’t be bashful.” Gus said. “Be like us—we eat like pigs!”