My Table

This is my table.

We bought it when our eldest was still in my belly.

I wanted to take care of it but didn’t want to be fussy.  I wanted it to be used.

And boy did I get my wish.

It’s got dings and little divots from tiny hands banging tiny forks and spoons.

Or cups.

Or blocks.

Or crayons.

Or whatever kitchen utensil or toy I handed them in the hopes of placating for just a few more minutes.

It’s got permanent marker when a child used one and shouldn’t have.

It’s got gold food coloring spray from a cake I made for a friend.

It’s got who knows what stuck in the cracks.

…and how long it’s been in there.

The varnish is peeling and worn off, from the chairs too.

And paper plates with hot food will seal themselves to it and have to be peeled off. 

Pizza boxes too.

This is my table.

Its hosted friends and family and friends that were like family.

Halloween parties and pumpkin carving and candy wrappers.

Thanksgiving dinners and Christmas dinners and Easter dinners.

And everyday dinners.

It’s been lounged at.

It’s had games played at it.

It’s had more crafts and art projects made on it than I can count.

It’s had spills and clean ups.

It’s had babies sitting at it and on it.

It’s caught tears and shook with others laughter.

This is my table.

It’s a little dingy now. 

Definitely not the same color as when it came to live with us.

And someday I know I’ll scrub it properly.

Someday.

Every mark is a story.

Even that leftover sauce from the other night that I missed.

It’s a story.

And now?

Now my table is a school room.

It tasted this life before but now it gets to really be a part of this feast.

It’s covered in papers and markers and crayons and folders and iPads and headphones and water bottles and, most importantly, little hands.

Little bodies surround it.

Little feet kick its drawer or the legs.

Elbows rest on it.

Either listening or waiting or zoning out. 

It’s already comforted a forehead or two when the connection didn’t cooperate.

Or when it vanished completely.

It doesn’t groan under this weight, this burden.

It can handle the challenge.

This is my table. 

It is a focus of my home.

Just an object made of wood and yet…

Full of history and memory and belonging.

Its presence is spiritual as well as physical.

As all tables should be.

I know the Spirit has sat my table and maybe angels too.

Let the scratches continue as we scrape our plates and forks across it as we feast.

Let the varnish continue to give way as we drink and spill on it.

Let the stains continue as we create and make on it.

Let the marks and dings continue as we keep living on it.