Most of us can tell interesting tales of our very first jobs. Mine was waitressing in a small California diner in 1966. I was 20 years old and living with my cousins for the summer in a tiny desert town above Los Angeles.

Cousin Gloria and I were hired together by Mary, the owner of “Mary’s Kitchen.” She was a one-woman show who did all the cooking, bookkeeping and food management while training two green waitresses.

Mary’s requirements were simple:

• Buy a white uniform, and wash it daily.
• Show up on time, and never miss a shift.
• Serve drinks first.
• For everything else, ask me.

 Although Gloria and I made some major mistakes, Mary sensed we were trying hard and gave us endless grace. The day I dropped a tray of 20 water glasses, breaking them all, she rolled her eyes but only charged me a nickle a glass. When I spilled hot coffee at the counter, burning the ankles of those seated on the stools, she lectured me sternly but forgave me.

One Sunday morning about half way through the summer, Mary had just unlocked the front door at 7:00 am when the sound of approaching motorcycles made us both look toward the front window. Fifteen disheveled men pulled up on massive Harley bikes, and I heard Mary mutter, “Oh no. Hells Angels.”

I’d heard about this gang of trouble-makers with a death-head logo on their jackets and violence on their minds. They’d been credited with dealing drugs, trafficking stolen goods, extortion, public brawls, even murder.

My instinct told me to bolt for the door and throw the lock, but Mary said, “Better let ‘em in.”

They burst into our little dining room spewing language that burned my ears and roughly rearranging the tables with boisterous bravado. From their conversation I could tell they’d spent the night in the foothills and were ravenous.

Mary called her husband who quickly arrived on his own Harley with a gun in his pocket. His presence in the corner reassured us both as we pretended nothing unusual was happening.

Mary miraculously produced the requested dinner plates of meat and potatoes rather than breakfast eggs, and the men ate so much we wondered if they’d pay. In the end, some did, some didn’t, but the loss was offset by our relief in seeing them drive away.

Ever since then I’ve wondered about those men. Each had a life-story and a reason for joining the Hells Angels.  Requirements for membership are complicated:

• Become a “Hang-around”, attending only certain get-togethers.
• Move up to “Associate”, waiting a year or two.
• Become a “Prospect”, participating in some meetings.
• Gain “Full-patch”, wearing the insignia and voting.

 They call themselves a motorcycle club but are most proud of their strong bond of brotherhood. Maybe this “family” connection draws them more powerfully than their love of motorcycles or escapades.

The desire to belong is strong within all of us, because it’s God-given. That’s why the Lord offers membership in his family to not just a few but to everyone. Requirements are simple:

• Believe Jesus is the Son of God.
• Receive him as Savior from personal sin.

 Unlike riding with the Hells Angels or even working at Mary’s Kitchen, belonging to God’s family is for everyone. None are excluded.

“To all who did receive him, to those who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God.” (John 1:12)