The Table

I want to lime wash my house. I have been watching Instagram stories. I have admired the before and afters, positive that I could do the work myself. I am not scared of work or sweat or learning how to do something new. Jake and I talk about this, and I can see that he would rather be inside the house reading his new collection of C.S. Lewis books than turning our little brick house into the envy of the neighborhood with its new trendy facade. I also have dreams of painting our kitchen cabinets and, if I am honest, painting our countertop. I am positive it would turn out amazing. Every Instagram tutorial shows fabulous results. I have big dreams to upgrade, upgrade, upgrade. 

But then. I think about how my grandparents lived in a 906 square foot house from the time I was born until I was a fully grown adult. We had Sunday lunches and Christmas dinners and sleepovers at that house. There was dark brown paneling and a cramped pink tile bathroom. And no one ever stopped to say that we shouldn't meet there because it was too small. It was fine. We made it work. And in the corner of the tiny kitchen, right next to the large black telephone that hung on the wall was the table.

The table was always a fixture in my grandparents' home. Most of the time it was shoved into the corner so that chairs could only sit on two sides of it. We played many games of dominos at this table. I have photographic evidence of my sitting on top of it, helping to make breakfast. I have a thousand flickers of memories, pieces of my past that took place in that kitchen, running through the kitchen with my cousins, making biscuits, eating Jello out of gray Tupperware parfait bowls. These memories aren't complete anymore. They are pieced together with fragments from my mind and old photos and conversations with my siblings. But the feeling that comes with the memories is one that makes me sad for what was. Simpler times, I guess. And that is why the table feels important.

The table became mine seven years ago. One of my cousins had it restored a decade before. By the time I got it, it needed reinforcement to keep the legs on. In fact, at one point, the legs collapsed in the middle of my kitchen, right in front of a guest. Rather than buying a new table, I ran to Home Depot and bought more things to fix it. The table moved with us to Tennessee, Delaware, and back to Texas. We have eaten hundreds of meals at this table as a family. My son and daughter ate their first meals here. I was sitting at this table when I got news that we lost our third baby. We have blown out birthday candles and eaten dozens of ice cream sandwiches, which are our favorite. We have played endless games of Candyland, Hi-Ho Cherry-O, and Go Fish. We have hosted friends and neighbors and squeezed extra chairs around it to fit all of the grownups. My son learned to read and write at this table. My kids have memorized Bible verses. It has been our classroom and our church and our gathering place. It's still a little unsteady and occasionally, I'll reach underneath and tighten the legs by hand so we don't have a repeat of the Great Collapse of 2016. 

But this week, we said goodbye to the table.

My brother and sister-in-law moved from their home, and they were selling their dining room set. And so we played a round of musical furniture, moving their furniture into our dining room and moving our dining room hutch to my other brother's house and passing along the table to my nephew, who will be moving into his own place in January. There has been a lot of moving. And the table was passed along with strict instructions to offer it back to family members when he is finished with it. I have five siblings and 14 nephews and nieces. I believe there will always be someone to take it as long as the table lives.

The table is just a thing. It is replaceable. It doesn't count like people count. But its removal from my home made me a little sad. There are so many memories attached to it. So many happy things. When the table was redone by my cousin in 2003, he carved his name into the bottom of it, complete with my grandparents' names, lest we forget where it came from. Or where we came from. So before I passed it on, I took a Sharpie marker and wrote our family name on the bottom of the table, complete with dates of use and one of our favorite verses, Colossians 3:15. I hope the trend continues. I hope my nephew will write his name on the bottom when he is finished, and that our messages will live on for the next family. 

"Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts... and be thankful." And I am.