Not all that long ago, the kitchen was described as the heart of the home and the table as the heart of the kitchen, often being centered in the room. It was the gathering place for the family, for meals, giving a loving send-off in the morning, and catching up with each other at the day’s end. Or sharing the day’s activities, doing homework, family devotions, and entertaining.
Do you recall that old saying that went something like this: if such-and-such could talk, what a tale it could tell? I wonder what tales the kitchen table would tell, if it could talk.
They were an up-and-coming young couple with a bright future ahead of them and two adorable small children; moving from the first home the children had ever known into a newer, more modern one closer to his employment. And as discussions progressed on what they would take with them to the new home and what they would leave behind; they finally arrived at the old wooden kitchen table; though worn from many years of use by just such families as theirs, it continued to be as solid as the rock of Gibraltar.
Although they hadn’t purchased it themselves, instead, finding it left in the home when they had bought it, they had used it; and it became one over time that they all had grown attached to all but him, that is. He didn’t think that it would fit into the alternative lifestyle he envisioned for them; and she loved the fact that it had a history, a history that oozed from every Mortise, Tenon, and blemish on its surface, although she never realized just how much.
But as the discussion wore on and their feelings became stronger for what they believed and thought that they wanted; they found themselves at a heated impasse. One that had seen him walking out the door and her sitting down at that same table that was at the center of the debate, with her face buried in her arms as she cried.
While he just walked away, lifting and returning each foot to the sidewalk with a force that he didn’t recognize; it was as if his anger were in control of each step, pushing its way out through the soles of his feet. And as he walked, he thought about the harsh words that he had spoken, his anger, and the last view he remembered before storming out the kitchen door; the one of his wife standing there in tears; how this had been their very first heated argument, and it was over a stupid kitchen table.
Immediately upon realizing what a mistake he’d made, he stopped walking and turned around. Running as if his feet had wings and all the wind in the world was beneath them, he ran with all his might until he reached the kitchen door; where he caught sight of his wife, with her head buried in her arms, which lay on that stupid table, as he had called it, sobbing.
With a heart full of remorse, and feeling crushed at the sight of his wife sitting there sobbing; and only able to imagine what she must be feeling, he walked in and took hold of her hands as she freed them to turn around at the sound of his return. Then he sat down at that same old table with her, as he and the children had so many times before, but this time with an apology. While she looked on through tears filled with so many emotions, ones that had not presented themselves previously; just listening before saying that she too was sorry, as they held each other close, promising never to let anything come between them like that again.
All the while, the table, still and silent, sat, storing another memory away within its grains.
What kinds of stories do our tables hold? Would they be ones of love and forgiveness, reconciliation, or heartache? Or would they be stories of strength and joy?
Would they tell of a tale, as so many could, about a family that sat down together each evening for supper? Praying and thanking God for the food they were about to receive, knowing full well it was meager, but still thankful just the same? Or would it be the story of the family that gathered around it, later in the evening, after their supper each night; with everyone listening intently as dad read from that old black bible, which lay up on the mantle?
Or would it be a story of the time everyone sat around it in tears, holding hands one with the other; while the preacher in his long black suit coat led such a powerful prayer that the table shook, as everyone around it joined in for mother’s sake; as she lay in the other room, as the doctor with his small black bag stood over her, shaking his head no?
Or, maybe it would tell of a night when a mother, somewhere, made a supper from a bag of noodles and a bottle of ketchup; seasoned with tears, as she had nothing more to add to it. Or the time when the children came in after burying their dog Sam, with mom and dad at their sides and sat down around it while tears streamed as rain down their faces. While Dad tried his best to explain to them that Sam was now in a better place, no longer sick. A place where he could see the morning sunrise and feel its heat when cold; a place where he could sleep safely out in the open while watching the stars as they twinkled in the late night sky; free of pain while enjoying the soft, gentle evening breezes, he had once so enjoyed, again.
Or might it choose to tell of the night a mother somewhere stayed up late after her children had all gone to bed; sewing their clothes by hand so that they had something nice to wear to school the next day for pictures? I wonder.
There are so many tales from which to choose, all stored up in its grains, and yet, we never give a thought to what stories the table could tell of us.
