It’s been five years now since Marilyn and I sold the home we’d built in the 70’s (all but the foundation and structure…with our own hands and with a little, ok A LOT, of help from some of our dearest friends and family). The home in which we raised our sons, established and operated a classic car business and grew into a family. By God’s grace, we were able to experience each of these milestones with a reasonable degree of success—certainly with a high degree of personal fulfillment.
We sold our home to a wonderful couple who had themselves been raised nearby. We were more than ready to leave our largess home with its out buildings and vast yard. With the help of our now grown sons, we packed up and moved 150’ up the hill into Marilyn’s widowed father’s home. Wayne is Marilyn’s father, who at age 89 remains strong and healthy and whom I trust will be there to care for us into our old age.
Moving only feet away meant we now live next door to our former home and the wonderful family who purchased it. Five years ago, their children were very small, making it a joy for us to leave pieces of our children’s furniture. One item in particular was a miniature dining table and four wooden chairs purchased in the 1970’s. I’m talking about real wood furniture here, built by craftsmen proud of their work and built to withstand the rigors of multiple generations.
Today, even though its February, the temperature promises to reach 60 degrees. So I decided to drive my antique British roadster to the office. As I left the driveway, feathering the throttle, I played the exhaust like a trumpet, allowing the high revving four cylinder to break into full song causing its free flowing chorus to resonate off the neighbor’s barn…heaven on earth!
But then as I motored past our neighbor’s driveway (we anglophiles don’t drive…we motor), I was taken aback by what I saw in their driveway…my old driveway. It was trash pickup day and there resting forlornly beside the trash cans was the little dinette set.
I can’t lie, I choked up. I looked at those tiny chairs and saw little boys waiting for the bus on their first day of school. I blinked and refocused to see white knuckled sons straddling tiny bicycles wobbling for their balance. Blinking back tears, again I focused only to see a Dukes of Hazard birthday cake with four blazing candles surrounded by bright eyed youngsters. I was looking straight into the past.
I down shifted and idled slowly passed, numbed by the vision. Regaining my composure, I turned around in the next driveway and returned to snap a picture of the table and chairs, careful to frame our former home in the background. I texted the photo to Marilyn and each of our sons with the caption “life goes on…” and I waited for their response.
I’ve learned to measure the importance of a text is by the immediacy of its response. I had no sooner hit “send” before my phone chimed three times in rapid succession. Each responded with affection toward the table and chairs. We were experiencing an electronic group hug…a genuine family moment. Grief is probably too strong a word to describe our combined reflections; perhaps nostalgia would be more appropriate. But without question, even with hundreds of miles between us, we instantly shared a Rockwell-ian moment around that tiny castoff table and chairs.
I considered squirreling the table and chairs back home. But it occurred to me, the important thing wasn’t the table but rather our loving remembrance of those who gathered round it—it wasn’t the furniture but the family, not the chairs but the children, not the pieces but the people.
The bible says on the night before he was crucified, Jesus gathered around a special table with those he dearly loved. That particular table no longer exists, lost to the centuries. But that doesn’t prohibit us from experiencing powerful moments around the communion table of our churches—to bask in the glow of His love and forgiveness—remembering not the table at which he reclined all those years ago, but rather remembering Him as we obey his simple directive,
“As often as you do this, please remember me…”
I am so grateful that our connection to God is not based on artifacts or religious keepsakes but upon our loving relationship with His Son and the sacrifice we humbly acknowledge each time we approach His Table. Meet Him at the table and share in His blessing—RG
Read Ron’s column, Simple Faith, each Saturday on the Faith Page (page 3) of the Lancaster Eagle Gazette, or visit www.lancastereaglegazette.com.
(Photo by Ron Grubb)