I’m moving out of my house next week. It’s been one of many moves over the years and despite the regularity with which I do in fact move places…I still don’t like it. I get sweaty and irritable because my life suddenly involves a mountain of details that need to be put in detailed places at a detailed time in a detailed way. I suppose you might say I’m often more of a big picture sort of person. Sometimes to a fault, but hey…that’s life.
What I noticed the other day is that our table was gone. It had been moved. It wasn’t mine and I certainly did not expect (or want) to keep it, but the moment it was gone my house felt like not a home. I came home to empty space in a room that was slowly losing all definition.
When the table was gone I thought to myself “Well, I guess we’re leaving and I don’t want to stay here past then”. When the TV left I was secretly glad. When my computer left I didn’t miss it terribly (kudos to the Seattle Public Library for this blogging moment.) Yet, when the table left I wanted to just have the whole process be done and go with it. I didn’t really want to live in a house without a table.
For me the table might be one of the most important things in a house. It means a place to eat comfortably, but moreso it means a place to gather. It means a place where people come together and sit and talk and share life. We see Jesus at a table a lot (both in the gospels and in real life). When we welcome someone to our home and pray before the meal we welcome the Lord into the space we are sharing. It’s very seldom that other spaces in life have the same reverence/holiness blended with a sense of laughter, fun, and often seriousness that a table brings.
So, when the table left home didn’t feel like home anymore. I ate my foods on a counter/dresser of sorts and felt out of place. It’s like camping, but without the fire or anyone else around…though…6:30am isn’t a popular hour to have people around anyway.