The Table

I'm sitting at the kitchen table that Aaron built for us. He made it from pine two by fours, sanded and stained with black steel legs attached. The blemishes in the wood were made by the carpenter. This was not a reclaimed wood situation. As unromantic as it sounds, he purchased the wood at Lowes. Its edges curve unceremoniously. The cuts in the wood give life to their craftsman with intention rather than by accident. This table's purpose was designed for something beyond mere aesthetic appeal. Its maker's hope was that its hearty beams would balance many feasts filled with laughter, delight, ease and plenty. In times of famine, it would provide a place for us to give thanks for our daily portion however meager it may be. In times of sadness, the table's stain would withstand the tears of heartbreak and disappointment that life inevitably brings. And in times of joy, its sturdy legs would hold up to the enthusiasm of our limbs, the bounty of friends at our table and the overflowing of love in our hearts.

It cost Aaron about $80 to build this table. It's a small price to pay for what it means to me in this moment. As I reflect on this past year of life together, it has been one of the hardest. I think that maturity for me has meant letting go of perfection. I'm loyally devoted to the idea that everything and everyone can be improved upon. I even stood over Aaron as he crafted this table and pointed out the blemishes and what he might do to cover them up. I learned a profoundly difficult lesson this year. We were born into imperfection, we live in imperfection and we will die from imperfection. My year was filled with a string of nouns in this order: fear, doubt, hope, promise, exhaustion, disappointment, anger, bitterness, rejection, defeat, redemption. It was a raw year. I dealt with a wide range of emotions that were inflicted upon me and inflicted by me. Good people hurt me. Kindness was in short supply. Stress was aplenty. There were no tables like this one to rest my head on. I couldn't make reality something better than it was. The question I needed to ask in that moment of hardship was not: what are you going to do to make it better? But rather: who are you going to be in the midst of it all?

And so I sit with my husband at this table he built. Our feathers are ruffled, we have a few more wrinkles than we would like, our youthful energy runs low. Our ship has changed its course. But we are more in love more than we have ever been. I am so thankful for that. May I never say with certainty, "we are doing the work that God has intended us to do". So much of our good work is driven by pride and selfishness and it can change on a dime. It's really about authentically saying, "we are trying to be who God wants us to be". We grow deeper roots and we love harder than ever. The most profound thing about Jesus was his way of loving people, not for their faults or because they were without fault, but deeper still in spite of them. I hope this table lasts us for a while. We are going to need every inch of it. This life is hard, and might I say, a lot harder on others. I am deeply thankful for the close group of family and friends who let us rest at their tables. Those few people are like silver and gold and held my head above water.  

Make a table for the weary to come and feast like never before.