We had holy communion last night at church, and were more than once reminded that there is room for everyone at the table. I never hear those words without recalling our own dinner table as a child. My mother and father personified that concept in ways that brings them to mind every time I hear the words,” room at the table,”
Almost every day at noon, Mom spread out a feast of every vegetable and meat that we grew or raised , and it rivaled any buffet at a restaurant. What was so strange about that table was that usually there was someone that I didn’t know, or knew them from prior meals, that were always welcome at our table.
Several older men without family were frequently there, and any lost soul Dad encountered on the public road while working in the fields was invited home with him to eat. No questions about deserving, or if they smelled ok, or were lazy, or moonshiners, or any other qualifying behavior. They were hungry, and that’s all that mattered.
I admit, my table has never been that open. I tell myself that it’s a different time, such practice just doesn’t bode well in today’s environment.
I take comfort from the fact that our church hosts Open Doors every year where the homeless can get in from the cold and find food, a warm bed and acceptance. I’ll find my way of helping with that and hope this small effort makes me even more aware of what it means to have room at the table in every phase of my life.
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