The best kind of kitchen table is an old one. Preferably round and made of solid wood. One that can be made to accommodate a large crowd when needed by adding a board or two. One that creaks when you lean on it. One that needs refinishing.
Things of great importance happen at the kitchen table. At get togethers in my fathers family the men ate first, the children second and the women ate last. It would be easy to have a feminist fit over this arrangement but I have come to realize that it was their preference. The women chose to eat last so they could linger at the table. Sitting at the kitchen table with a glass of sweet tea in hand and a full stomach lends itself to some wonderful things. It is easier and more comfortable to speak, share, confess, question, laugh, cry, pray and love at this sacred place.
Growing up our kitchen table was filled every night with my mothers wonderful food and the chairs filled with all four members of our family (and quite often an extra or two). It was necessary to gather at the end of the day, hold hands, give thanks and share a meal together. There was no reading at the table, no arguing at the table and much to my dismay no singing at the table. It was a time for talking, connecting and most often a place of great laughter.
In the early morning our table was the place where my parents came together and talked about plans for the day. I seldom ate breakfast without my father's open bible on the table across from me. Although I was never privy to these meetings, I know they always included prayer.
During the day and often late at night our table was the place where my father wrote sermons, journaled his thoughts and prayers, or graded papers. When my mother was a child, she did her homework on that very same table when it lived at her grandparents house.
When the table came to live with me, its corners were chewed on by my boys as they were teething. Spelling words were learned and forts were built beneath its shelter. Hands were held and prayers were said. When we moved to a different house, the table was sent to the basement where it was used to feed teenagers and hold the Thanksgiving overflow of family and friends. It is now a holder of pizza boxes, jackets, guitars, picks and notebooks filled with song lyrics. All in all, not a bad life. I am hoping that it will live with my grandchildren some day and their teeth marks will be added to the edges and their laughter and prayers will be soaked into its grain.
