If These Tables Could Talk
The living room, the very words denote the place in a home where life is lived, and families come together. This may be true in most homes, but not in mine. Earlier this year, I was given a table that holds a very sentimental place in my heart (more about that later). It made me realize that my whole life, and each of its many chapters, has taken place around a table.
Sure, there have been some good meals shared, but when the food is all cleared away, it’s the conversation around these tables that has been invaluable. From childhood to my teenage years and now, raising my own family, the table still stands as the focal point in my home and my heart. Memories have been made, lessons have been learned, and family has come together—all around the table.
I grew up next door to my grandparents. It is a blessing that I wouldn’t trade for anything. To add to that blessing, I had two cousins who lived on the other side of my grandparents, and three more cousins lived a whopping two and a half miles away on the other side of our small town. Because of our proximity, those five cousins, my two sisters, and I grew up spending lots of time at my grandparents’ house. The eight of us ate many Sunday lunches there. I can remember the food being spread from one end of the dining table to the other.
My whole family would surround that table and listen to my Pawpaw thank the Lord for the food and for the ones standing there. During those prayers, I vividly remember staring intently at that long, dark wooden table. I’m hoping God gave me a pass for keeping my eyes open during some of those sacred Sunday moments. I felt it was survival of the fittest and had to make sure my cousins hadn’t made strategic moves to get ahead of me in line.
After plates were filled, the cousins would spread out to eat because the dining room table was also the grown-up table. It was a place where only the VIPs (parents, aunts, uncles, and grandparents) could sit. However, a couple of times a year, my grandparents would invite just their grandchildren over, and the eight of us would get to eat a meal (usually pizza) at the table like we were the VIPs. We would talk about what was going on in our lives and watch my grandparents laugh and smile, not understanding that they were soaking up every minute with all of us. Our childish minds also got to listen to the two people we still refer to as “Mawmaw” and “Pawpaw” tell us stories of the way they grew up. Even though one cousin is gone now, and the rest of us are separated by life and distance, I can still hear those young voices talking and laughing around that long dining room table.
The table in the dining room was one thing, but the kitchen table at my grandparent’s home was quite another. As my teenage years approached, it was there I spent more of my time. As teenagers often do, a few bad decisions were made on my part, and my dad would always take my sisters and me over to my grandparents’ house to confess our wrongs. My Pawpaw would sit at one end of the table, and I would sit at the other. Usually, through tears, I would recount what I had done.
Please understand that my Pawpaw is the epitome of a family patriarch. I would rather have stood in the church pulpit and confessed my sins to the entire congregation. After staring at the dull finish on that kitchen table for the duration of my confession, I’d lift my head only to see Pawpaw looking at me. He rarely said anything to me in a disciplinary tone. He didn’t have to. The “look” was punishment enough. All he would ever say was, “We love you.” So, as a teenager, the most important lessons I learned at my grandparents’ kitchen table were mercy and forgiveness, something the rest of the world needs a little more of.
That same kitchen table saw me into adulthood. As a young mother with three stair-stepped babies, a 40-plus-hour-a-week job, and little money, I once again found myself (several times) at that table, either beating my head against it or crying my eyes out. I remember telling my grandmother how guilty I felt for leaving my children every day to go to work to take care of other people. I would tell her how I could not see a light at the end of the financial tunnel and how I was just about to break from exhaustion.
Mawmaw would put a glass of tea on the table in front of me and look at me with eyes that resembled my own. She would remind me that working outside the home didn’t make me a bad mother, and the guilt I felt was just a distraction from my blessings in life because my children were healthy and happy. She’d say she had been where I was financially and that not knowing how we would make it to the next payday was where faith came into the picture. More than once, in the midst of a pity party, Pawpaw would walk into the kitchen and say, “You don’t know it yet, but the best time of your life is when all of your children are at home, and you don’t have two nickels to rub together.” It turns out he was right. That kitchen table was a place of encouragement and where the wise words shared still ring true today.
When my husband and I had children of our own, we thought it was very important to eat dinner together at the table. Of course, I remember the stage when highchairs replaced their regular chairs. Then, through their childhoods, there were lots of declarations such as, “You don’t have to like what your mother cooked, but you’re at least going to try it,” from my husband. The five of us took turns praying. We taught table manners. Expectations for school were discussed, and conversations about the most random subjects were followed up with laughter. “Hey, Mom! Will my lungs explode if I stick a leaf blower in my mouth?” is a specific question I remember my boy child asking one night at dinner. I may or may not have told him to go try it and see. Being together around the table each night brought consistency to my young family.
During their teenage years, it was harder to gather around the table every night for the evening meal, but my husband and I were determined to keep our tradition going. There were several times we didn’t eat until 9 pm when my teenagers finally got home from their many extra-curricular activities. That was okay. There were no phones at the table, and though dinner didn’t last long, it was the 15-20 minutes a day where we, as parents, could find out what was going on in their adolescent world. It kept the lines of communication open and our family close during a time when distractions from the outside were at their peak.
Sure, there were times of devastating news shared at that table, but mostly, there was love, loyalty, and respect. Looking back, I’m convinced one of the reasons we survived parenting was because of our family time at the table. It is literally the place we raised our children. Now, when those adult children come home to visit, they don’t congregate in the living room. They naturally gather at…you guessed it, the table.
The end of last year brought back a long-forgotten table that holds a very sentimental place in my memory. It’s the coffee table that has been in my grandparent’s house for as long as I can remember. It has a round tabletop, it’s very heavy, and quite large, and it’s the place my cousins and I would retreat to when we were banned from the adult table and left to our own devices.
There were Christmas cookies made on it and forks jabbed into the wood when one of the cousins would get their feathers ruffled. This coffee table also saw its fair share of crayon marks and orange juice stains. It even stood strong when my cousin, Simon, would run through the kitchen into the living room, sliding across this coffee table onto the couch. He did that impressive Dukes of Hazard slide across that tabletop until his legs got too long. I could go on and on, but let’s just say it held its own over the years and became quite a coveted piece of furniture. In fact, it was so coveted that earlier this year, my grandparents, now in their 90s, decided to give it to one of us. To be fair, they drew names out of a hat. My aunt did the honors of recording the event and texting it to the cousins.
I need you to know that the only thing I’ve ever won in my 46 years was a donut for being the one-thousandth customer on the first day Krispy Kreme opened its doors in Little Rock, Arkansas. So, you can only imagine my surprise when the name drawn for the well-worn coffee table was mine! As expected, I immediately began receiving cheeky text messages from my sisters and cousins saying things like, “You better lock your doors. I’m coming for that table,” and, “Mawmaw told me that the winner of the table has to host Thanksgiving at their house.” (The hazing in this family never goes away. It’s how we show love.)
Anyway, when my dad brought the coffee table to my house, he told me he could sand it and refinish it for me. I politely declined. There are lots of memories tied up in that old table. I love every scratch and every blemish. It reminds me of a childhood spent at my grandparents’ house and that no matter the imperfections acquired along the way, the foundation stands firm…just like the table.
Someone once said, “To share a table is to share everything.” So, all this to say, be intentional. Take time to sit with your family at the table—talk, laugh, cry, and love. It’s time you’ll never regret spending. I’ve wondered, if the tables in my life could talk, what would they say? After all, they’ve heard a lot. I think they would tell me to pull up a chair. This life of learning around a table isn’t over yet.
