A few years ago, we gathered to celebrate the incredible life of my husband’s uncle—a man whose kindness stretched across decades, touching more people than I think he ever realized.
The day of the graveside service was heavy with quiet emotion. After the final words were spoken and the embraces began to linger, we were welcomed into the home of a lifelong family friend for lunch—a warm meal served with care and intention, just as it had been for years.
As I moved through the house, I admired the hand-painted portraits that lined the walls, each a quiet witness to a life fully lived. But what I heard from the kitchen drew me in: soft laughter, low voices, the familiar rhythm of dish clearing and food being packed away.
I peeked around the corner and saw a small group of women gathered—not just in service, but in community.
These were the same women who had brought the food, kindly served it, and were now tending to every detail with ease and grace. But what struck me most wasn’t just what they were doing—it was where they had gathered.
They stood around a large table—sturdy and worn in the best way. In this home, it must undoubtedly be an antique, or at the very least, a piece with years of history. The kind of table that had hosted hundreds of meals, held countless cups of coffee, and absorbed the elbows of those deep in conversation, grief, or joy.