As an interior designer for most of my life, I was invited into many residences over the years. I advised clients how to turn their houses into homes. Whether it was a bungalow or a mansion, the most significant piece of furniture was always the dinner table or “supper table,” as we called it when I was young.
The other day, I was sitting in my kitchen and realized my supper table needed a makeover. My husband and I spent the weekend sanding, painting, and creating a new look for our eating area. It turned out beautifully, and we gave each other “high fives.”
He returned to watch the ball game as I put the final wax on the tabletop. I glanced at the old hutch that resides next to the table. On its top shelf was my grandmother’s tea pitcher next to a blue vase my mother loved. On the second shelf lives a crazy ceramic fish my son made in school many years ago.
There is also a picture of my father as a young man holding a large bass he had just caught. The bottom shelf holds my father’s 100-year-old creel trimmed in rich, brown leather. Plates scatter in between pictures and mementos.
My children all have tables of their own now, but there was a time when all of life happened around this piece of furniture.
I sat in one of the chairs and stared at my old “new” table and the cabinet holding its treasury of yesterday. My mind raced back to when my three children were small.
I implemented one of my most intelligent “Moms” rules early in their lives. “No TV or phone calls allowed during meals” unless something extraordinary was on air. I encourage all new parents to adopt this rule. The reward is priceless.
My children all have tables of their own now, but there was a time when all of life happened around this piece of furniture. It was where kids threw books at the end of a school day, and somebody eventually completed homework—the table where little children wrinkled their noses at anything green, and everything required ketchup.
As they grew, someone else’s children also sat at our table. Nightly, one of my children always brought a friend to eat. I remember once when my son was beginning high school, and I didn’t recognize the face across from me.
“Hello,” I said, “and who are you?” Corey interrupted, “Oh, Mom, this is Ray! He heard you were a great cook, so I asked him over!” Those kids knew they could win me with a compliment like that. We clasped our hands, blessing our food. We laughed, ate, and discussed what was up among the group while our dog made the rounds under each foot, begging for food. A typical evening in our home. Chaotic, unusual, and usually hilarious.
Ray was killed a few years later in the Value Jet crash over the Florida Everglades coming home from a mission trip. I am grateful he dined at our table often. I am thankful to all those kids who visited to share a meal, felt at home, and called me “Miss Lynn.”
Many hard talks happened around our supper table, along with spilled tears. Numerous heartaches worked out, many life chapters turned, and memories made. We said countless prayers while clasping the hands of those who will never return. However, I am so appreciative that I once held their hand.
The things that remind me of a grandmother who poured tea, the hand of the father who caught the big bass, and the mother who put flowers in the pretty vase are priceless.
I watched people gather around the table in every home I entered during my career. It was all the same. Those who took the time to unite around this dining workhorse have the closest relationships. No TV or phone to distract this precious time from communicating, loving, forging, and sealing a memory to share in later years.
All my children return home for Christmas. A few weeks ago, 20 family members gathered to eat supper. It was so loud, and laughter so boisterous I thought that table would move right out the door! Then they were gone. Silence and empty chairs were all that remained.
At first, I was sad until I studied the art hanging above the hutch. My mother bought it one day in an antique store for 50 cents. It is a small wood etching of a man sitting at a dinner table with 12 followers to share His last supper.
After studying His face, His hands outstretched, and His disciples listening intently, I was no longer sad. I knew He had blessed our family with loving and precious times around our supper table.
Whether your table is of beautiful wood or a card table with a cloth, it is the most priceless piece of furniture you will ever own.
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Lynn Walker Gendusa is a Georgia author and columnist. Her latest book is “Southern Comfort: Stories of Family, Friendship, Fiery Trials, and Faith.” She can be reached at www.lynngendusa.com. For more of her inspirational stories, click here.
