I breathe in the fresh garlic-y scent and catch a hint of tomato in the air. It's spaghetti night and our stomachs are telling us that we might need to go back for seconds. We lower ourselves into the seats around the dining room table — which is one of those indestructable plastic tables that folds in half — to us it's the most beautiful table we've ever seen. It's the first time this year that we've had a table that we all fit around, where we can sit and talk and laugh and munch and share our highs and lows from the day. We can scoop seconds onto our plates and we always ask Kelly for the recipes.
Tonight, spaghetti night, as we sit down at the table, we hear a knock on the door. Eleuth, one of our new Honduran friends, goes to get the door. I look around the table and note that everyone else's salivary glands appear to be working just as hard as mine. A thought breezes through my mind, "Aren't you going to invite him to the table?" But we already prayed. So we heap spaghetti onto our plates and smother it in meat sauce. We sit and talk and laugh and munch and share our highs and lows from the day. When we're done, Eleuth is still sitting in the living room talking to our guest, Samuel. We tell her there's enough food for her bowl of spaghetti and sheepishly apologize that there is not enough food for Samuel. Eleuth replies,"Don't worry, we can share it!"
I felt like somebody jab-crossed me, hitting me simultaneously in the cheek bone and the ribs. This deep conviction came over me. "How could you not invite them to the table? It is not your table, it is Mine. There is always room at My table."
There is always room at the table. Who are we to decide who is worthy of extra meat sauce?
I brought this conviction before the Lord and pleaded with Him for forgiveness. We made a kind of deal. "Lord, Whenever I have the opportunity, I will invite people to the table. It's your table, not mine." I shared this conviction with my team and they agreed to buy into the invitation as well. We want to be people who invite others to the table. Always.
So that was that. Simple and settled. We sat down to dinner the evening after this conversation having made a fourth box of Mac n' Cheese because we were extra hungry. We sat down at the table and sure enough, there is a knock at the door. We all kind of laugh-grimaced at each other and somewhat reluctantly offered up our food to the guests that came to the door. "Is there enough?" They asked from the other room. "YES!" I'm glad they couldn't see our faces, because they might have communicated otherwise. We laughed awkwardly at how the Lord can be so funny sometimes. I guess when we pray for specific things, He doesn't hesitate to give us opportunities to practice. We were persistent in offering our food to the sweet family that came over. We ate our fill. And then we had seconds. And then they ate. And there was enough. There is always room at the table.
Shauna Niequist writes about gatherings in her home where they "pull a love seat up to the dining room table for extra seating" cause "that's where we belong, — around the table." Shauna gathers with five of her dear friends around the table once a month. They share more than a meal. They share life. "I can't imagine life without a table between us," Shauna writes. "The table is the life raft, the center point, the home base of who we are together."
I think about life at the Port last year. Whenever Abby took a bite of her eggs while we were standing in the kitchen I playfully scolded her, "It tastes better when we sit at the taaaable!" I really believe that. There's something about golden brown toast covered in melted pepper jack cheese and spinach, topped with an over-easy egg with raspberry goat cheese crumbles and the perfect amount of Sandwich Sprinkle on top. This next to a freshly french pressed cup of coffee — Abby's in the brown clay mug with mountains etched in the side and mine in the earmuff wearing snowman mug. That's what set the scene for us to share life together. Those breakfasts and weekly house dinners are some of my most treasured memories with my housemates and whoever happened to be in our house at the time. Those moments we shared around the table are what I still remember ever so fondly. The enchiladas, the perfectly crafted cups of tea, the almond pound cakes we made from the mix Abby's mom sent us, the Christmas cookies and frosting, the quinoa surprise, the poetry readings, the grammar study parties, the attempted math tutoring, all around the table.
There must be a reason the Psalmist says, "You prepare a table for me in the presence of my enemies." In the middle of the valley of the shadow of death, in the times where we are full of fear, we feel threatened and attacked and insecure, He invites us to the table. Instead of taking away all of those horrible circumstances, He says, "Come and dine with me."
I am thankful for tamalitos and the half day process of preparing them. Everything from chopping down the banana leaves from the tree outside to rolling each ball of masa, to carefully wrapping each pocket of goodness into its banana leaf shell. At dusk we sat down to consume the beautifully made tamales, and Samuel knocked on the door.
"Please, Come to the table."
