Love is served here....

Like most newlyweds, when my husband and I started out, we had next to nothing. Well, I suppose that is not exactly an accurate statement.

We had God. We had each other. We had our extended families. In the family ties alone we had more than most. With the good LORD, we had everything.

On the day we married, my Nana told me that we had the world by the tail- we were young, we had our educations (my college graduation a scant three weeks before and my husband's one astronomy class and a capstone paper away), and we were hardworking. If we kept God first in our lives and loved each other, everything would fall into place.

Still, when it came down to it, we were young and in love and we were living on love, but we worked like crazy to get established. For two and a half years, we lived with my in-laws in a basement apartment. They graciously allowed us to live there to save for a home of our own. ("Delayed gratification," my friend and mentor called it, but that's another blog for another day.)

When the much-anticipated time finally came, God had blessed us and made a way for us to purchase furniture on time. Keep in mind, it wasn't the 'buy now, pay later' kind of deal. This was a local, family owned store who did things the old-fashioned way. We chose our furniture, put a down payment and paid on it monthly. It was ours when it was paid for. (This was another lesson in delayed-gratification. The 'having' it was so much sweeter because we had worked for it and owned it free and clear, a lesson we wish all young people knew.)
Every month I went to that oak furniture store to make our payment. I suppose I could have mailed it in, but I went to visit and admire that floor display. It sounds silly, I know, but every month I would go in, make my payment and tell the owner I was just going to take a look around. I'm sure he thought I was crazy. I'd stand and admire the long solid oak dining table with the clipped ends. I'd run my hand along one of the heavy chairs, and I'd dream of the meals we'd have at that table. I'd imagine storing the leaf turned upside down under our bed, just as my parents had done when I was a kid, and bringing it out to add table-space for Sunday suppers where our families would gather.

Only, the first meal I served at that table was not exactly the one of my daydreams. The first meal we ate at that table, surrounded by our parents and sisters on the night we moved into our home, was quick and filling. There were not many words exchanged, just comments here and there punctuated by sighs following a day of moving. No one wanted to sit their plates or red plastic cups on the freshly polished surface. Of course, for my husband and me, that would not do. Tables were for eating on. We'd scrimped, saved, worked, and dreamed. The moment we'd waited on was finally here. We were in our home and love was served (albeit, pizza and Coca-Cola), and so our dining table was christened.

I'd always heard that a kitchen was the heart of a home, and so it was in my childhood home. Growing up, the child of a world-class Southern cook, the heart of our home was our kitchen, where my momma's presence, even in her absence, seemed to linger.

So, naturally, when we chose our houseplans, we chose an 'open floor plan'- one where entry, living and dining room and kitchen were all connected, separated only by a wall for a fireplace and another for kitchen cabinetry. I wanted the heart of our home to be as large and as encompassing as possible, where those in the living room would still be connected to those in the kitchen.

Funny thing is, the heart of our home is not the kitchen, nor is it the living room- the two places I'd thought love was most likely to be found.

It's at our dining room table.

This space has become almost sacred. Yes, it's where we say grace and eat our meals. It's where we laugh, talk, share, and cry. It's where we teach our son (and where our other children, good LORD's willing, will be taught). It's where my husband and I linger over coffee on our all-too-rare-mornings together at home. It's where every Christmas Santa leaves cookie crumbs, an empty, milk-stained glass, and a letter to the children who live UTRTR, reminding them all of life is about Jesus and to keep their eyes and hearts focused on Him. It's where spring baskets are found. It's where Valentine cards are made. It's where the day's events are recounted. It's where empty bellies are filled, but, more importantly, hungry souls are satisfied.

It's where love is served.