While You’re Planning Your Perfect Table

The cassette player hidden on the convenient shelf on the underside of the kitchen table was already recording. My older brother and I, the innocent-looking, clandestine reporters, hoped to catch some conversation we could later share for laughs or some kind of proof, I suppose. The only intelligible words we got were Dad saying “Pass the salt” about fifteen times.

Mom’s birthday is in a few days, and I can’t remember her without recalling that table. Of course, we ate every family meal around it (never in front of the TV), but we also shared hard news of extended family accidents, hard diagnoses, and cancelled plans. We studied spelling words, wrapped gifts, and dyed eggs on that table. The table brought so much more to our home than I realized until I was grown and seasoning a table of my own. 

With so many planning a perfect table for Thanksgiving this month, I wanted to share the five lessons from Mom’s imperfect table that have lasted my lifetime. 

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Once you’ve lived a head full of memories, you find you can only hang on to the most important ones. And sometimes, it’s not the ones you’d expect to keep.

Once you’ve lived a head full of memories, you find you can only hang on to the most important ones. And sometimes, it’s not the ones you’d expect to keep.

I still picture that plate from my childhood: a common white Corelle plate with tiny green flowers circling the rim, always appearing on our kitchen table. It was sturdy and familiar, the kind of plate that could hold a mountain of mashed potatoes and a hefty chicken fried steak without flinching. 

Here’s what an unremarkable dish and a broken-in table taught me:

1. HONESTY IS ESSENTIAL

“Whose turn is it to set the table?”

Mom never could remember the exact rotation among her children. But it was Wednesday, so I knew it was mine. My older siblings knew, too. I could have passed the chore off to my naïve younger brother. I didn’t, because one thing Mom always insisted on was honesty.

2. FAMILY IS FORGED IN THE MUNDANE

“…as for me and my household, we will serve the Lord.”

Joshua 24:15, NIV

We set our massive oak farm table every day with those ordinary Corelle plates, for Tuesday’s leftovers and Thursday’s casserole. Folded paper napkin, fork on one side, spoon and knife on the other. No one special was coming. Just us. Pass the salt.

Day after day, quietly reminding: You belong here.

Eighteen years of the same rhythm: set table, load dishwasher, unload, repeat. I learned that the value of family is revealed not in grand gestures, but in daily obedience, during our mundane co-existence and shared responsibility. 

“The very ordinariness of these acts makes them special because it means they’re constant—which is its own kind of extraordinary.”

From Divine Detour by Lori Ann Wood

3. GRACE GROWS WITH USE

I remember passing my plate to Dad under the table—tear-soaked roast beef, cold peas—while Mom fetched iced tea from the fridge or crescent rolls from the oven. His undeserved, silent rescue taught me grace isn’t diminished by constant use; it’s proven by it. 

Be patient with each other, making allowance for each other’s faults because of your love.

Ephesians 4:2b, NLT

Like that plate passed hand to hand, I learned grace multiplies when shared freely.

4. WHAT’S AROUND THE EDGES MATTERS MOST

It’s true that food is tangible love. But still, it should never be the main concern. And neither should the dishes. Mom knew the value of the plates didn’t matter. She never owned a set of china or “good dishes” until her children started her one during her later years. (So we’d always have a gift idea for her.) Yet, even then, on most holidays she would use that same set of Corelle plates edged with green flowers. And when those came out, we all knew anyone was welcome.

And it was because that plate wasn’t precious or pretentious that soil-stained farmhands, stranded delivery drivers, and nervous new boyfriends could slide a chair up to our table without apologizing.

Turns out, that hidden shelf under the kitchen table was meant to hold not cassette recorders, but leaves to EXPAND the table. To make room for more people to join.

Though we often think the food itself is the star of the show, God has always had a different idea. It’s actually who’s pulled up a chair that matters most. A table’s fullness is not measured by the food on top, but rather, by who’s around it.

A table’s fullness is not measured by the food on top, but rather, by who’s around it.

I’ve learned what’s around the edges matters so much more than what’s on top. 

Throughout the New Testament, Jesus does some of his most transformative work around tables. At the table, foes become friends, strangers become family, family becomes familiar, and those on the fringe of society and the edges of our lives are welcomed in.

And then there’s the empty chair. Sooner or later, every family gets one. I suppose that’s when the table’s perimeter comes into clearest view.

From my journal:

Ads for Thanksgiving turkeys make me realize it’s closer than my mind wants to admit. And as has been the case for several years, it’s my responsibility to see that the table is filled. Not in the everything-homemade way of the past, but in a new adapted-for-reality kind of way, post-heart-failure. Hard to believe eleven years ago this month, my chair was empty at Thanksgiving as I was first diagnosed with end-stage heart failure. More than a decade later, this isn’t the Thanksgiving I thought I’d be hosting in 2026. Most of the crazy prep hours are gone, and possibly some heirloom recipes have been lost, too. But when I blink back tears now, it’s because I’m seeing my familiar table with not only some empty chairs but  a couple new—smaller—ones, too.  

5. LETTING GO CAN BE LOVING WELL

At my parents’ farm auction, I had already kept so much: quilts and toys, family photos and amateur artwork. So I sat on my hands as that Corelle plate—lone survivor of the set—sold in a $2 box of kitchen gadgets. A stranger’s truck carried it away with rusty rakes and mason jars. I wanted to quickly reach in and rescue it—then I remembered Mom’s honesty lesson. 

And Dad’s words echoed, too: More than wanting to farm, I want the farm to continue.

Now, my own version of his sentiments and its application to my out-of-state grown children: More than wanting the plate, I wanted the plate to continue—teaching about honesty, responsibility, grace, hospitality, and letting go—whatever table its tiny green flowers serve on now. Even if it’s not my own table.

Speaking of my own table, as I’m anticipating my faraway grown children and small grandchildren returning home for Thanksgiving, I’m considering getting new batteries for that 1980s cassette player in the attic, inviting a neighbor, and serving something special on a familiar, ordinary plate…

Listen to this post read by the author HERE.