Dear List Friends: Below is my Christmas Eve meditation for the 11:00 p.m.
service at which we will have communion. The reflection will be the
introduction to communion.

From: Pamela J. Tinnin <PamT481@AOL.COM>

Come to the Table
Pamela J. Tinnin
I’d like to tell you about a kitchen table—not just any kitchen table, but
the one that sits in my mother-in-law’s house. Made of oak, with sturdy,
carved legs, my favorite table is about 48" square, its surface worn and
scarred. Like most family furniture, it has quite a story—or should I say,
many stories. It was at that table in 1907 that my husband Zack’s grandfather
first tasted a new and strange dessert, something cool and sweet called
"jello."

Over the years we lived at the ranch, I spent many an hour at the table. I
ate a lot of meals there, but it was also where we gathered to to exchange
the latest news; where we prioritized work, wrote down lambing statistics,
laughed at our mistakes—well, at least sometimes we laughed. When we started
publishing a small weekly newspaper, the table is where we folded and
bundled the newspapers for delivery.

Best of all was Christmas. When Christmas came, we moved the table out into
the middle of the livingroom, the biggest room in the house—the table had
enough leaves to stretch to 12 feet, and there were years when we needed
every inch and more.

Christmases in that house were always an event, and you never knew who was
coming. In those first years, there was Great Uncle Byron and his wife
Wealthy. Great-Uncle Byron was—well, we called him eccentric, but Byron’s
grasp of reality was shaky at best. He told us tall tales, all with himself
as the star. He never failed to ask why we weren’t using the well he’d
discovered on the ranch, the one he said pumped pure brandy. One time he got
a little confused and used the utility closet for a bathroom—we would never
have known except he became enraged, shouting and cursing because no matter
how hard he flipped the handle, the vacuum cleaner wouldn’t flush.

Sometimes we’d have six or seven around the table, and we’d only need two
leaves. But the year we had twenty-three, we used all four leaves, and then
placed another table at the end. That was the year when Zack’s stepbrother
Wally and his Korean wife Ton-Yee came with their daughters Un-Hui and Helen.
Ton-Yee brought appetizers—sushi—sticky white rice wrapped around bits of
meat and pickled cabbage, tangy and hot. In the sleepy after-dinner hours of
the afternoon she taught us how to play a Korean game with ornately decorated
tiles that we slapped down on the table with a sharp crack.

Visits from our friend Mitchell were a welcome treat when every 3 or 4 years
he’d drive up from San Diego. He was a good sport about "roughing it,"
although he never volunteered for barn duty—sheep manure was a bit much for
Mitchell, city boy through and through. I remember the year our son Ty was
seven and he asked Mitchell if he could touch his hair. Mitchell is
African-American and his afro fascinated Ty. Mitchell only laughed and leaned
over so Ty could pat the fuzzy flat-top he’s worn since his Marine Corps days
in the 60s.

For holiday meals, the table was covered in a plain white sheet, at least it
was plain white in the beginning. But after dinner, usually when the
grown-ups were drinking coffee and eating my mother-in-law’s homemade pumpkin
cheesecake or mincemeat pie, a pencil was passed around. Each person signed
their name on the sheet. In the year that followed, my-mother-inlaw would
spend a lot of evening hours embroidering the names, choosing a different
colored embroidery floss each year.

The signing tradition started Christmas of 1984. Last time we were there for
a holiday gathering, Christmas 1995, it was getting harder to find an empty
space on the white cotton. I brushed my hand over the names, tracing the
letters with my fingertips—teal blue, emerald green, darkest ruby, royal
purple, a shimmering gold. I thought about all those dinners, and all the
folks who shared them—Crazy Uncle Byron and my beloved father-in-law, both
gone now; Aunt Shyla, shy like her name and with a gentle, giving heart;
John, macho member of Zack’s brother’s Navy SEALS unit who caught us by
surprise with carefully chosen gifts for each of us; Ty—how different his
later signatures were from that crudely scrawled T-Y when he was three;
Mitchell’s flamboyant, swooping lines; Ton-Yee’s simple, spare letters; my
friend Barbara’s elegant handwriting—how hard it is sometimes to believe
she’s dead these nine years.

Over the years the faces changed—we all grew older, new friends were added,
loved ones died. But no matter who came, no matter what food we ate, plain or
fancy, there was always room for one more at the table—old folks who were
alone, friends and family from near and far, and sometimes a stranger who had
nowhere else to go. Some years we had to put the living room furniture out on
the porch, shove things back against the wall, bring in an extra card table.
Whatever it took, we wanted to make it possible for each person to join the
circle, for each person to have a place just their own, for each one to share
the meal that would not have been the same if even one of them had been
missing.

Thinking back over the Christmases on the ranch, I don’t remember much about
the presents I got or what decorations we put up or how poor we were. What I
remember are those meals around that table, and the people who shared them.
Touching those names that last time, for just a moment it seemed like the
faces of those who’d come and gone were with us still, shadowy and faint, the
sound of their voices soft echoes of our own laughter. I thought about how
the people we’ve known and cared for, even those we have lost, will in some
ways be with us always. I thought about how whenever we gather in love,
Christ is there also.

God’s table has an infinite number of leaves. God’s table has room for the
latest arrival. God’s table is filled to overflowing with good things. Best
of all, we can bring all that we are and offer it here—our work, our play,
our anger and fear, our laughter, our tears—and we are loved and welcomed and
transformed by grace.

Come—we’re all invited to the table.