Until last spring, my dining room table was a slender oak relic I found at a garage sale for fifty dollars. We had refinished it along with its extra leaf and replaced the sliding mechanism underneath. It was never a beauty but it served our family faithfully for many years. It was a gathering place for every meal (with the exception of pizza night in front of the tv). It accommodated schoolwork and artwork, cookie-decorating and game-playing. Over time it developed several cracks that added to its character along with a distinctive creaking sound it made whenever it was even slightly bumped. It was the table I sat at with my daughter stuffing her wedding invitations and then, before I blinked twice, there were son-in-laws and grandchildren and our table was full—too full. Despite the fact that we constructed an additional leaf to expand it further, it was evident to everyone who sat squished in for a meal that we needed a bit more space.
So when we lost our 80-foot white pine several years ago during an enormous blow down,—the one I used to find Alyssa climbing as a little girl—the one that guarded the east end of our house for decades—we slabbed the wood and stored it in our garage to make a new dining room table one day.
That day came last spring when the global pandemic confined us to our homes and we decided to make use of our suddenly-cleared calendars. After much discussion, measurements were carefully taken and plans were hatched. Every slab was scrutinized for size, grain, live edge, and general character. Selections were made and work began—leveling, precision cutting, joining, sanding. Piece by piece it began to take shape, the once massive tree becoming a beautifully massive table to gather our family around in comfort.
Somewhere mid-project I wood-burned our names and the year on the underside of the table, in keeping with a tradition for us. I began to talk about wanting the entire family present for the table’s first meal. Everyone seemed excited about the idea. And so it was decided. No one would eat at this table until we could all be seated around it together, sharing a meal and the love that binds us so deeply.
When summer arrived, my old oak table moved to its new home in my daughter’s kitchen where it continues to creak for the next generation. In my dining room a brand new table took up residence—this one with a shiny surface and edges that remind you it was once a tree. It is a thing of beauty, thanks to my husband’s fine woodworking skills. And we have enjoyed its beauty now for several months—without ever sitting down to eat a meal there.
The pandemic has prevented my family from sharing an indoor meal together. So my husband and I have been eating elsewhere for many months now (usually in the living room with plates on our laps). But with Thanksgiving approaching it seems fitting to adjust our plans (something we’ve all become accustomed to doing this year) and sit down to our first meal at this table in a time of giving thanks.
It’s not a perfect plan. It won’t be our entire family gathered together as we had hoped. But, even in times of hardship and imperfect situations there is so much to be grateful for. God continues to bless us with care and provision and love that transcends our circumstances.
“So this Thanksgiving, we will break bread around our new table for the first time and it will become our table of thanks from now on.”
So this Thanksgiving, we will break bread around our new table for the first time and it will become a table of thanks from now on—when we are together in person or only in spirit—in seasons of plenty and in seasons of want—in times of sorrow or those of joy. There will always be blessings in our lives and reasons to give thanks to God. My hope is that this table—grown in our backyard and built to gather with those we love—will always remind us of God’s love, provision and care for us in every season to come. In that way it will always be our Thanksgiving table.