The Table has always been here, as long as I remember, set beneath the trees, seats for everyone who comes. The Table is, in fact, many tables—lined up, one after another, stretching across the grass and around the corners, beyond sight and familiarity—but the Table is one.
I remember my first seat at the Table, snug between my parents—warm, familiar, safe. The Table was home. I belonged. Everyone was family, regardless of blood, and smiles across the broken bread enveloped me in love. I visited other seats at other tables as life went on—different settings and different seats, different smells and tastes and smiles. Yet all were part of the Table because, I was told, the Table is His and H