My Parent’s Table

by Elysse Barrett

My parent’s table has been a part of the family for longer than any of us children have been. It’s a neat story actually. When Dad and Mom were first married they lived on the East coast, and being poor newlyweds, they didn’t even have a table to eat on. So, they used what they had–cardboard boxes–until a compassionate neighbor took pity on them and gave them a second-hand dining set with mismatched chairs.

I wasn’t around then, but I’m pretty sure that this occurrence had a lot to do with why Dad and Mom pinched and saved their nickels and dimes to buy a big, beautiful, old-fashioned table for their family. It’s not the traditional kind either.  It’s the kind you read about in storybooks with a seat on either end for Mom and Dad, and two benches on either side for the children.

They hauled this table all the way from Connecticut, to Idaho where they believed God wanted them to raise a family. And raise a family they did, around that table. As we were growing up, children had various seats. If you were going through a rough time, often your seat was on the end of the bench, right next to Dad or Mom. There were times when the girls didn’t want to sit by the boys, so they were banished to the “other side of the table.” Or, sometimes we’d sit beside our assigned “buddy” for the week. Eventually, though, we settled into a comfortable seating pattern that hardly gets changed anymore these days. It’s safe to say that we have our favorite spots.

Honestly, I don’t think there’s a topic that our table hasn’t seen discussed. Family stories have been told around it, doctrinal questions discussed, dreams and plans shared, even challenging words spoken. Often times while sitting around our table, with friends or just with my own family, I’ve reflected on the legend of Martin Luther and how many came to his residence hoping for a meal-time invitation, just so they could ask him a question or hear his advice on a topic. My guess is that table — and the conversations that took place around it — had a lot more to do with the Reformation that swept Europe and beyond than most historians will ever acknowledge. So sometimes, instead of keeping up with the conversation swirling around it, I let my imagination take me to a few generations from now and the possibility that maybe – just maybe – our table will be just one starting point of a new reformation. Maybe, in the Lord’s time, some of those dreams will have become realities…and the world will be pointed towards Christ because of it.

More than just conversations have taken place around the table–lots of memories have been made there as well. One of my most vivid memories is the day that Dad realized my “first love” had broken my heart (unknowingly, of course) and his little girl was hurting. He, of course, comforted me once I had finished crying, and the table became a place of healing and restoration.

As the family grew (and grew up), so has the uses for our table. It used to be scattered with Phonics books and math lessons, but it’s seeing less and less of that these days. Sometimes now, it holds four laptops and piles of work projects. Or, maybe it will be drafted as the card-and-craft making table a few times a month. More and more these days, I try to keep it as clear as possible and place some flowers in the middle as a sort of break from the chaos and an honorary gesture for all it’s been through the last 3 decades.

As I’m sure you can imagine, our table has many dings and scars — most the result of years of use, some the result of silliness or laziness, but each could tell a story — probably several. My brother and I often talk about getting it refinished, but we always decide against it. It just wouldn’t seem like the same table that creaks and sighs every time it is washed. Though others may view it as just a tired, worn-out piece of furniture, I see something much different: character, stamina, endurance. Every time I look at it, I see a part of what has kept our family together.

No, there’s nothing magical about our table. In fact, there’s nothing extra-ordinary about it at all. It’s just a symbol of life the way that God designed for it to be — filled with togetherness, community, tradition, endurance, strength, hope and healing. These days families don’t have symbols of what they believe in. They don’t have places where their children can turn to and remember what life — real life — is all about.

I hope and pray my parents never get their table fixed. That way when, Lord willing, my children and their cousins come and visit Grandma and Grandpa we can sit around the table. And when someone leans on it and it groans, I will take that opportunity to tell them about when I was a little girl growing up…around that table!