The Kitchen Table

Growing up, there were two things my mother was famous for, hospitality and sweet tea. So, for me, I cannot think of a more fitting topic, at Thanksgiving, than to share with you a story about my mother’s kitchen table. She believed there was always room for one more, especially at Thanksgiving. I have seen my mother lay a piece of plyboard over two sawhorses, cover it with a tablecloth and connect it to the kitchen table. It would stretch from one end of the house to the other, but everyone would be together and for her, that was the only option.

It wasn’t anything fancy, just a standard dining room table that seated four. What I wouldn’t give to have that table now? I can still see the kitchen towel resting on her shoulder. My mother was never without it, using it to wipe her hands instead of an apron. The reminiscent smells in the kitchen as she cooked are never far away. If I listen carefully, I can hear her holler down the hall for us girls to, “come set the table and put ice in the glasses!” My mom wasn’t a cookbook star, but neither was she willing to give “take out” the star award. I cannot remember every meal served, or every conversation had, but their faces and their laughter are imprinted on my heart forever. Our kitchen table was not cluttered with household bills, piles of laundry or the day’s dirty dishes. It was always prepared for its purpose, the gathering. Supper was at five-thirty, and no one was ever late for meals in our house. This was a time for eating and talking, laughing and sharing about the day. Yes, even correction occurred at our supper table, but it was never a place for fighting or bickering. Every meal began with prayer, then dishes were passed, and the meal commenced. The phone was not answered during mealtimes. It could wait; we were valuable. Our kitchen table was precious. I heard my father say once, “There are a lot of things said around a kitchen table, leave them there.”

Plastic was not used in our home unless it was an extremely rare occasion, like an outdoor birthday party or dying Easter eggs. The plastic industry thinks they are doing us a favor by giving us more “quality time” with easy clean up, but the truth is, plastic robs us of family time and interaction. Work builds relationship, setting the table, washing dishes, peeling potatoes and stirring the beans. The memories of heart to heart talks while clearing the table or drying a dish are endless, for me.  I cannot even begin to count how many lessons I have learned just by a broken glass. It’s because of a broken glass that I knew how to handle a broken egg. No amount of plasticware can give me those kinds of quality moments. Because of my mother, there is not a large plastic section in my kitchen nor do I offer guests in my home a plastic bottle of water, but a glass of water. It spells hospitality. It spells home.

This Thanksgiving, I am thankful for the Godly example the Lord placed before me in my mother. What a legacy to pass down! Not to mention the recipes, her biscuits, cornbread, and pecan pie are incomparable. Ordering pizza is fun, and we enjoy it, but it is a treat, not a staple. Eating out is equally enjoyable, but it will not produce what your kitchen table will.

Psalms 128:3 says, Your wife will be like a fruitful vine within your house. Your children will be like olive trees all around your table.

This development and fruitfulness will take time. Olive trees spend seven to ten years maturing. That sounds an awful lot like a child. By age ten, you have established the groundwork for your children. Leave a foundation worth building on, so as they continue to grow, they will want to meet you at the kitchen table.

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