tables.

                                                   

When I had a "bakery," it was, to me, a no-brainer that its name would have something to do wth a table. Tables are often the hub of a home, a classroom, a business... life so often happens at a table.

Jesus broke bread throughout his ministry at numerous tables, eating and drinking with women, despised, outcasts, "the least of these," and prohesied traitors; supped for the last time, reclined at a low table the night before his arrest; and tables were flipped when Jesus had significant points to make at the temple-turned-marrketplace. Tables are where we sit to commune, where we dine, where we help with homework, where we celebrate, and where we grieve. Memories are made at tables decorated or empty, food is where and how we connect, and at the table, we can serve one another. We often cry at our tables, poring over bills and debt, foreclosures, messy homes and loss. Chairs sit empty where family members once shared the space, reminding us of the giant holes left there and in our souls.

                                       

Some tables are a catch-all for all the life that enters. In my home, our table sits right by the back door, less an eating space now and way more a spot to dump our mess. It's pretty horrendous, actually, now that I'm sitting here looking at it. A flannel drapes the back of what's probably supposed to be the "head" chair. Bottles of cleaner and folders to organize (ha ha) ironically juxtaposed against magazines, battery chargers, glasses, hats, elderberry syrup, fishing tackle, myriad books, paper bits and writing implements. Painted boxes intended for iron superhero greatness but stuck in the role of defeated victim, lay smashed in a chair at the other end, waiting for new life.

                                         

In looking at this table, I see the opposite of what it's supposed to be. How do I even begin to straighten this out? Unearthing even one corner is sure to bring with it a host of new junk, distractions, more to address. More to remember, more to clean, more garbage to take out. Memories, markers, reminders, fossilized layers of this messy thing we do every day. On repeat. Ironically, I love food, meals, and every connection that a dining experience has the possibility to cultivate; in looking at my table, though, it's clear that this level of interconnectedness cannot happen here, and on the contrary, it creates a weighty sad in me to think I've reached this level of life-jumble.  

    

Underneath that clutter and all the disarray, though - probably much like dusty Bibles residing on shelves or in drawers of many of our homes - is that centerpiece of our lives. Stalwart and stained, storied and lifeworn. Waiting to be dusted off, unjunked, and uncovered. We should find our rightful spaces; they're there, and those empty chairs are seeking our warmth again. The table longs for the clatter of utensils, drinks sloshing, tale-telling, life-sharing mumbles, giggles, resolutions, and tears.  

I'm in a season of dust, big mess, and tons of junk. Maybe my table is a tangible representation of the brain-full and the thought swarm; it sure seems like it, and it makes me ache. I ache for a seat again, at the table full of stories and sustenance, with family and friends, pulsing with the beat of a Jesus-heart. There's a lot going on right now- loss, change, trials - and I think a great place to start would be at my table, one corner at a time. Tidying, straightening, taking off the weight of the unnecessary burdens, revealing our spots, chairs beckoning. 

                                           

Jesus is there, too, at that table- underneath it all, and above it all. Buried in the mire, looking down, arms wide, dusty and glowing. He's waiting for us to return to our spots, eager for that connection, ready for us to get the junk out of the way so we can see that He hasn't left us. He will never leave us nor forsake us, says that dusty Bible. Uncover it, wipe it off. Read the rest. Talk about it at your table.