After my husband and I married, we lived in a cozy and quaint 500 square foot apartment at Luther Seminary in St.Paul, MN.
There was no dining room and barely an eat-in kitchen, yet somehow we managed to squeeze in an old oak kitchen table and some chairs that had been refinished a time or two.
And through the years, while managing on two graduate student incomes, we'd host gatherings with friends and family.
Simple dinner parties, holiday gatherings, our annual super bowl party, and game nights managed to bring in a crowd well beyond what you'd imagine the square footage of our apartment could hold.
And yet there we would gather.
Some on a mismatch of old creaking chairs.
Other's perched upon garage sale furniture.
Some even finding the last square of carpet to claim as their own.
We'd gather, with plates carefully propped up on knees, filling our bellies with an abundance of food and our hearts with overflowing laughter and joy.
And the most sacred part of these gatherings, as we broke bread together, was the stories shared.
And in the evenings after our apartment had quieted and our attention turned to packaging leftovers and carefully washing Grandma's china, my husband and I would stand in the stillness of our home and dream of a day when we'd build a bigger table.
A space to gather.
A space to be community.
Now, fast forward a few years, and after gathering lumber, nails, wood glue, polyurethane, and a few weeks of time, my husband and I now have an eleven foot dining room table.
A table crafted in love to hold the sustaining nourishment of food and friendship.
A space to be welcomed, and to welcome others, as we share the stories of our hearts.
Stories of connection and grief.
Stories of celebration and everyday life.
And in this continued COVID-19 pandemic time, oh how we miss gathering together with our friends and family, our neighbors and church community around this sacred space.
Yes, how we miss piling the table with an assortment of summertime goodies, and filling the air with the kind of laughter that heals the weary soul.
Yet there is one thing that has remained throughout this season.
That though, for now, the extra chairs around our table are empty, the power of story remains.
For without fail each night as we gather for dinner, our toddler carries over an armful of books. And setting them beside each open chair, he asks us to read.
Stories of music and adventure.
Stories of creation and grace.
Stories of freedom fighters and faithful witnesses.
Of proclamations of peace and calls to action.
Stories which remind us of God's abundant love for the world.
Yes, around our dinner table each night we hear and learn these new stories.
And dancing off of these colorful pages, opening our minds and hearts to the beautiful diversity of God's world, these stories of courage and witness, of resiliency and joy remind us of the greater community to which we are connected.
Of the bigger table to which we are welcomed.
To God's larger table of community, grace, compassion, and life.