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.
The Kitchen Table That Held Us
And it occurred to me then: so much life happens around a kitchen table.
They’re not just furniture. They’re hubs—command centers of the home. They catch everything: the mail, the mess, the meal prep, the stories.
They’re the silent witnesses to late-night talks, school projects, shared burdens, and unexpected laughter. They hold birthday cakes and casserole dishes. They steady our elbows when we don’t have the strength to sit up straight.
These tables are where people make plans, share news, and whisper prayers. They celebrate births and mourn deaths.
Kitchen tables don’t just hold what’s in front of us—they hold what matters. Over time, they become the quiet heartbeat of the home, steady and familiar.
That day, the table held not just the weight of dishes and leftovers—it held the weight of friendship. Decades of it.
These women moved with a rhythm formed long ago, built on years of weddings, funerals, and everything in between. As they passed plates and traded quiet jokes, I took a photo—not staged, just real—because I knew I was watching something sacred.
There are people in this world who hold us together in times of sorrow. They arrive without needing to be asked. They bring food, clean up, and fill the space with a presence that steadies us.
We all need people like that. The ones who know that care isn’t always loud. That grief doesn’t need fixing, just holding. That sometimes the greatest kindness is simply showing up and standing beside you—around a kitchen table.
So today, I’m thinking of those women.
And of the table that held them.
And of all the tables that have held us.
May we always have people who gather with us around them.
And may we strive to be those people for others—present, loving, and quietly steadying the world one meal, one moment, one table at a time.
That day, the table held not just the weight of dishes and leftovers—it held the weight of friendship. Decades of it.
