The Tablecloth

I want to stop long enough to enjoy chocolate chip cookies and carrot cake with my grandchildren. You will never have time. You must make time.

Jim Stockdale

Preacher, why do you pull a camper behind your pickup truck? You could stay in our home and take your meals with us after you finish preaching each evening.” My father, a young traveling evangelist, looked back at the older gentleman and said, “Because I must provide a home for her.” He convincingly reminded him that he was first a family man before a preacher and had to offer my mother some stability in their early traveling years.

I asked my mother if Dad’s family convictions had always been so strong. She concluded, “I have never found an equal.”

I can still see her sweatshirt pushed over her elbows as she worked, laying the tablecloth and setting each place. Her hair was curled and sprayed out to the sides, and makeup was gently applied. They didn’t have much money, but a table setting doesn’t require that. Mom had a knack for decorating on a dime.

A centerpiece always graced our family table, and many times, especially in the winter, a crocheted tablecloth would lay across it. I found one in an antique store and had to have it. It reminded me of my mother and our table long ago. Now, each winter, after Christmas, I drape it across my own table.

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Mother’s table was set every evening, and we gathered around for a home-cooked meal. There was always time for guests to be invited, and conversation passed with ease. Monotony notwithstanding, the centerpiece was removed for the meal and repositioned after supper.

I can remember one centerpiece we had for years. My grandpa made it. It was a layered wooded heart with three candle holders for slender candlesticks.

I model my mother’s behaviors and keep them close to my heart. She was the heart of our home and held to it with tight conviction. Ice in the glasses and the clanging of dinnerware happen in our home today because of her. The table is set and cleared with scowls upon little ones’ faces (that’s fine; they will thank me one day).

I had a lady tell me recently that I was an old soul. I took that as a high compliment. She said, “When my husband and I were looking for our home, I told the realtor I wanted a front porch with a house attached.” She leaned over and said, “You can come sit on my porch anytime.”

Listening to my mother retell the story about Dad and the camper made me ponder my convictions. I could hear the remanence in Mom’s voice. She continued as if no one was even listening. “I have always been content to be by his side and chase his dreams with him. I have had a few of my own, but it has mostly come back to just being with him. His dreams became mine. We have had a wonderful life together thus far.”

When traveling out west last summer, my parents saw the daughter of an old family friend. She looked at my mother and said, “You always set the table as if everyone coming was special. You spread a tablecloth and passed the dishes as if it mattered.”

I called this lady to ask her thoughts on the matter, “Honestly, I think she did it for you girls and your father. You were her world. She wanted to leave an impression.”

I can tell you wholeheartedly she did. When people ask me why I write my books, my answer is easy, “Because of my mother.” Having tea and setting the table seem long past. “Please pass the green beans” and “How was your day?” are echoes from long ago. Anyway, my mother didn’t think so. In a world of fast food and tight schedules, she was still ironing the tablecloth to slowly set each place beautifully. She had time. She taught her girls where home is. A home worth living in takes time. She didn’t mind the hours it took to make our house a home.

Jesus was never in a hurry.

Stacie Newton

I love driving in the late evening when I can see lamp lights shining from windows and people living on the inside. One evening, I was pulling into our drive and saw the lamps flickering from the inside, casting a golden glow onto the front porch. I stopped for just a second to savor the view. Charlotte ran down the hall, and Chuck got up to find her. Eva was happily coloring in the living room, and Tyson’s swing moved from side to side. I could see a glimpse of decorations on the walls. It was like watching a silent movie, only better. I spoke out loud (I do that sometimes), “I like to think the people living here have a wonderful life.

One evening, after I readied for bed, I walked into the living room. I caught a glimpse of the table in the kitchen and noticed the tablecloth and centerpiece had been put back on in a childlike manner—very crooked and off-centered. I thanked Eva and Charlotte for a job well done when they piped up and said, “We didn’t do it. Daddy did it!” I smiled broadly. Maybe I, too, am leaving my mark on my family with a tablecloth.

There, they made him a supper, and Martha served.

John 12:2

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