Table Wait

March 2004, K. Hawker

More than a year ago now I began the search for a new table.

Tables are important in our family life. We cherish meals spent together around them, especially with friends and family gathered. One of our tables came from Gary’s grandmother, another from mine. Elsie’s was bought midlife in time to host all of her grandchildren, Irene’s a "late in life" find that brought delight. Gary and I have enjoyed the memories born around these tables in our homes.

Yet as our family has grown the antique tables have become increasingly wobbly and difficult to maneuver. So last winter I set out on a journey to find a table that is our own, a table that is an expression of our family today. To this end I searched. And I searched. I wanted a table which was nurturing for four, easily accommodates 6-8, and can stretch to comfortably seat 12. Preferably this table would also speak to me and for me. As I began the search last winter I quickly realized the loftiness of my goals. The options for extendable tables (as I learned they are called) are somewhat limited to begin with and my demands for ease and ascetics were even more limiting. I discovered that Americans tend to buy small tables and large televisions, large tables have been relegated to European or Amish furniture makers. Finding brokers became a challenge and I suspected my mission to be in vain. And then I found it.

My table. A wooden base, like the tables of our grandmothers. A glass top that speaks to the peace of I find in the ocean waves. Sliding panels on strong steel tracks that promise endless space and safety. This is my table.

Of course finding the table is only the first step. For many months, while I was saving money, I busied myself preparing the dining room (with a lot of help from Gary!) and visiting the store occasionally to commune with the floor sample. At Thanksgiving I finally made the down payment and was promised delivery in 10-12 weeks. I entered the season of Advent filled with anticipation, an air of excitement that carried through Christmas and even Epiphany. As Ash Wednesday neared I received word that my table was leaving Europe and would be in our dining room for the first Sunday of Lent.

But when the delivery truck arrived on the Monday morning after the first Sunday of Lent, the driver unloaded only the wooden legs, steel tracks, and extending panels. There was no top. The week passed and then the next and no table top. This 40"x70" sheet of glass has disappeared and negotiations are underway between the shipper, the broker, and the manufacturer. Now I’m writing a sermon for the fifth Sunday of Lent and still there is no table top.

As I prepare for Easter with a wobbly memory-filled table, with my own dreams unrealized, I am reminded that faith is not destination but journey. Someday I may revel in the beauty of the glass table in my dining room, indeed I may come to rue the day I ordered such an extravagance. But today includes a generously scratched wooden table filled with memories of homework questions and spilled milk, bread broken and wine poured. And I smile as I see the beauty of the table that is before me.