becoming the woman God needs me to be
Some inherit them. Others sit pretty in rooms that children are not allowed to touch. Some are counters. Or foldable. Or expandable. Some are high tops. Or glass tops. Or low to the floor tops. Some sit two. Or four. Or eighteen. Some are empty. Or cluttered. Or properly set. Some are props. Or decoration. Or works in progress.
My kitchen table is different.
It is where we hold hands each night while my husband prays and thanks God for the food that has come to us so easily.
It held countless batches of decorated butter cookies I made with my Mom and friends.
It was our first major purchase after our home.
It proudly displayed the first Thanksgiving turkey I ever cooked, after I turned green and nearly passed out preparing it.
It is where I sit to put on heels in the morning so I can walk with confidence during the day, only to sit right back here and take them off joyfully at the end of it.
It has witnessed the wins, losses and dealer deceptions of euchre.
It held up my neat little stacks for tax preparation.
It silently judged my cooking faux pas, and silently cheered my chef like victories.
It carried the weight of our snail mail from amazing and long travel trips.
It is scratched and weathered from my mistakes.
It supported my laptop as I feverishly typed reports and performance reviews.
It is often a place that collects randomness.
It is wide enough to display a large pizza and cheesy garlic bread when I don’t feel like cooking.
It witnessed hours of some of the most difficult, loving, important, heartfelt, sobering, idea generating, tear inducing, political, societal and Godly conversations I’ve ever had with my husband.
It is a place where memories sit.
And I am so thankful for that.