This Table

This table is very important to me. At least 11,000 meals were shared by my nuclear family of four as I grew up and well into years beyond. I certainly don't have 11,000 clear memories, but the other day my brother, Mark, said to me on the phone, "Well, when you grow up looking at the back of the Wall Street Journal during dinner you become quite interested in business cycles, stocks, etc." Well, he did. I didn't. But, his point is smartly taken. He recalls our Dad perched behind the paper every dinner and I remember many other things. Some good. Some not. But, when our Mom was ready to pitch, literally throw the teak table and chairs into the garbage bin at her condo in 2007, it only took me a matter of seconds to jump in my car, drive the ten hours to her place, just so I could get the table and chairs into my car, into my house, into my life. Since then it has graced our dining room.

For some unexplained reason, last night I had the urge to create a lovely meal in the dining room. As I set the table and made it really pretty I realized the TV would be on during dinner so Rod could see the last, thank God, NFL football play-off game. Apparently, Ray Lewis and Tom Brady would be at dinner with us, too. As Rod closely tracked the game during dinner, I started noticing all the other people there with us. There were only two place settings, but it was a very crowded table.

My maternal grandmother, Edith Larsen, was there in the beautiful crocheted lace tablecloth. Our friends Kristin and Cary Linton from Nebraska were there in the three winter candles burning. My parents and brother were sitting there with us. My friend Evie Duncan from California was there in the handmade placemats we bought in San Anselmo. Rod's mother and grandmother were there, too, in the handmade Amish quilt hanging on the wall purchased in Indiana on a day in the early 90's when they sat bickering in the backseat of our Subaru.

When I look outside the dining room window to see the winter ice and snow, it's particularly warming to take note of all the people, all the relationships represented by the simple and beautiful objects in our home. I'm separated by time, death, space, distance from those mentioned above. But, as the Communion of Saints attests, we continue to live within the tender bounds of each other's love and grace. Whether we are here or there. Whether we are alone or with the gift givers. Whether we are warm or cold. Life and memory keep us in the one place of grace, truth, and wholeness. Thank, God.