conversations at tiny tables
I remember that little red coin-purse like it was yesterday. Small enough to fit in a pocket or a hand, big enough to hold my lunch money for the day. I was in elementary school, and pizza day was my favorite. (It's still my favorite.) There was a small but acute pleasure about that routine process each week that I still remember clearly - getting out my money from the coin-purse, handing it to the cafeteria lady, taking my tray with both hands...
And finding a place to sit down.
From my entire recollection of elementary school lunches, I have retained only a few distinct memories of personally engaging with a friend at the lunch table. What I have retained much more are the plethora of observations I made as a kid, about other kids at lunch - or the emotions I felt and processed during the lunch-hour.
I can tell you the boy's name who got picked on every day, and the way he looked when I offered him part of my sandwich one day. I don't think I'll ever forget the way he looked scared. I can draw you a picture of a certain girl's outfit, and the pattern on her favorite shirt. She always wore scrunchies that looked like the "Bold" colored Crayola markers. I knew she wasn't particularly nice, but I remember how much everybody seemed to like her. I didn't understand how she could get away with it.
I can remember the day my friend didn't save me a seat like she said she was going to. I can remember the way my shoes looked, as I walked to the end of the table.
Permeating most of the lunchtime memories I have is this vague feeling of not quite knowing where exactly (or if) I belonged. Other girls always made it look easy. Other boys always seemed to be the center of attention - always cutting up, doing gross things, but making others laugh. I would sit there quietly at the lunch table and munch and process. I remember getting up the courage to tell a joke once, and nobody laughed. I remember being relieved when the bell rang.
Let me be clear - I went to a great elementary school, and I was far from miserable there. I loved school, I had good teachers, and I was in no way bullied or made to feel lesser. I had some school friends, and I remember hanging out with them. But as life has continued, it's been interesting to recognize the memories that have stayed... the ones that prove God was already drawing me to His heart, even at such a young age. It's been humbling to recognize how much I was paying attention at the lunch table - and how firmly He was grabbing hold of my heart, even before I knew it.
- - -
These days, I have most of my lunches at a tiny table in my living room. While my youngest daughter sleeps, I sit in a little green chair and my eldest daughter sits in a purple one... and we have our lunch together. (Or more commonly, I sit and talk with her while she eats). I'm always invited, and that's certainly a part I cherish - but it's not the best part. We sit in front of the window, and we talk. We talk about little things like happenings in her pretend worlds, plans for her LEGO creations, things we've read in her books, places she likes going...
And we talk about Jesus. He is there, and as He often does, He slips into the conversations quietly but with authority.
We talk about the Bible, we talk about sharing. We talk about being pretty on the inside, not just on the outside. We talk about sitting at tables alone. We talk about being a friend to someone who is hurting, and we talk about never laughing at someone who falls down.
And I tell her my stories - because as I'm constantly reminded, the time flies by. It won't be long before she and her little sister find themselves sitting at tables and being in a position to invite others, join others, or even sometimes be excluded. And during those moments as they're observing and processing their own lives, they'll be observed and cherished by a big God who knows every tiny detail that happens in their heart. And He will be trying to draw them, as He drew their mommy. He will be there, through all of it.
And when they are grown, they will remember.
- - -
Sometimes it will hit me as I'm swapping food and stories with little hands and little hearts... this is it. For right now, this is building His kingdom here on Earth. This is legacy. This is what will matter in 10,000 years. Not the day's menu or how much sleep we all got (or didn't get) the night before. Not the toys on the floor or the way the morning went. These conversations across tiny tables that try, insufficiently but humbly, to point them to Jesus again and again - these are the things that matter.
It levels me to think of it. How many of the biggest things in this world started out as tiny thoughts, tiny steps, memories and stories shared across tiny tables.
Lord, let your kingdom come.
And finding a place to sit down.
From my entire recollection of elementary school lunches, I have retained only a few distinct memories of personally engaging with a friend at the lunch table. What I have retained much more are the plethora of observations I made as a kid, about other kids at lunch - or the emotions I felt and processed during the lunch-hour.
I can tell you the boy's name who got picked on every day, and the way he looked when I offered him part of my sandwich one day. I don't think I'll ever forget the way he looked scared. I can draw you a picture of a certain girl's outfit, and the pattern on her favorite shirt. She always wore scrunchies that looked like the "Bold" colored Crayola markers. I knew she wasn't particularly nice, but I remember how much everybody seemed to like her. I didn't understand how she could get away with it.
I can remember the day my friend didn't save me a seat like she said she was going to. I can remember the way my shoes looked, as I walked to the end of the table.
Permeating most of the lunchtime memories I have is this vague feeling of not quite knowing where exactly (or if) I belonged. Other girls always made it look easy. Other boys always seemed to be the center of attention - always cutting up, doing gross things, but making others laugh. I would sit there quietly at the lunch table and munch and process. I remember getting up the courage to tell a joke once, and nobody laughed. I remember being relieved when the bell rang.
Let me be clear - I went to a great elementary school, and I was far from miserable there. I loved school, I had good teachers, and I was in no way bullied or made to feel lesser. I had some school friends, and I remember hanging out with them. But as life has continued, it's been interesting to recognize the memories that have stayed... the ones that prove God was already drawing me to His heart, even at such a young age. It's been humbling to recognize how much I was paying attention at the lunch table - and how firmly He was grabbing hold of my heart, even before I knew it.
- - -
These days, I have most of my lunches at a tiny table in my living room. While my youngest daughter sleeps, I sit in a little green chair and my eldest daughter sits in a purple one... and we have our lunch together. (Or more commonly, I sit and talk with her while she eats). I'm always invited, and that's certainly a part I cherish - but it's not the best part. We sit in front of the window, and we talk. We talk about little things like happenings in her pretend worlds, plans for her LEGO creations, things we've read in her books, places she likes going...
And we talk about Jesus. He is there, and as He often does, He slips into the conversations quietly but with authority.
We talk about the Bible, we talk about sharing. We talk about being pretty on the inside, not just on the outside. We talk about sitting at tables alone. We talk about being a friend to someone who is hurting, and we talk about never laughing at someone who falls down.
And I tell her my stories - because as I'm constantly reminded, the time flies by. It won't be long before she and her little sister find themselves sitting at tables and being in a position to invite others, join others, or even sometimes be excluded. And during those moments as they're observing and processing their own lives, they'll be observed and cherished by a big God who knows every tiny detail that happens in their heart. And He will be trying to draw them, as He drew their mommy. He will be there, through all of it.
And when they are grown, they will remember.
- - -
Sometimes it will hit me as I'm swapping food and stories with little hands and little hearts... this is it. For right now, this is building His kingdom here on Earth. This is legacy. This is what will matter in 10,000 years. Not the day's menu or how much sleep we all got (or didn't get) the night before. Not the toys on the floor or the way the morning went. These conversations across tiny tables that try, insufficiently but humbly, to point them to Jesus again and again - these are the things that matter.
It levels me to think of it. How many of the biggest things in this world started out as tiny thoughts, tiny steps, memories and stories shared across tiny tables.
Lord, let your kingdom come.
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