chair. I sat cross-legged on the living room floor next to the old coffee table. That’s when the magic happened.
Conversation danced like the vivid warm flames of our fireplace. Topics shifted from work and play to theology and technology. We exchanged honest stories of heartaches and celebration. We laughed hard and often. The connection I craved in friendship was satisfied. More than anything I didn’t want the evening to end. I experienced the wonder of friendship, and I never wanted to let go.
Lying in bed after all we experienced, I reflected on what made that night together so special. I dismissed the food as an option. The sugary barbecue sauce burned one side of the chicken. The potatoes turned out too firm. Remembering stories about their close friends and family, I ruled out that our guests were lonely. What could it be?
Maybe the magic lay in the table.
The rustic tabletop that anchors our living room is an antique barn door made of hand-carved mesquite and marred by years of heavy use. One of the corners of the table boasts rusty barbed wire used to hold the frame together; another is rounded wherethe door used to hinge. The table’s surface is wildly uneven, scarred by knots and holes. If you’re not careful you can easily tip a glass on one of the four railroad spikes that connect the four-inch-thick wooden slab to its base—a rustic yoke for oxen. The table receives support from two sets of bowed pieces of wood acting as legs. In one of the narrow pockets where the wood is hemmed together rests the remnants of previous owners, including an assortment of crumbs, a dried leaf, and a red poker chip I’ve never been able to extract.
I adored our living room table from the moment we purchased it. Having sold most of our furniture before leaving Alaska, the hunt for comfy couches and contemporary lighting began as soon as we arrived in Colorado. I spent most of my time looking for one-of-a-kind pieces on Craigslist and sorted through hundreds of ads each day looking for the treasures that would transform our house into a home.
One day I stumbled on a post for a brand-new California king-size mattress. I dialed the number and arranged for a time later that morning to connect, assuring Leif the drive would be well worth the effort. Unfamiliar with the area, I was surprised when the address led us to an expansive mountain getaway overlooking the valleys below. Walking up the stone stairs to the front door, I tugged on Leif’s sleeve, “We should ask if they’re selling anything else.”
“It’s just the mattress, honey,” he said.
“We should still ask,” I persisted.
When I posed the question to the grey-haired, middle-aged businessman who greeted us at the door, he pointed his fingers upward, looked in both directions, and declared, “Everything’s for sale!” Then he handed me a price list.
As an executive of a large telecommunications firm, he had been transferred to Los Angeles, where his wife was already purchasing furniture for their new glass house. In awe, we walked through room after room, handpicking everything we needed—from the brick-red bench now resting in our entryway to the armoire in our living room that looks like stacked luggage. But of all the pieces we purchased, I most prize the old, thick table we gathered around with Mark and Leslie.
The morning after our new friends joined us for dinner, I called Leif into the living room.
“There’s magic in the table,” I said, thumping the wooden frame with confidence.
“Maybe last night was a fluke,” Leif said with a skeptical eye. “Let’s invite more people over and try again.”
A few nights later we hosted Andy and April for dinner. When the time came to eat, we conveniently “forgot” to set the dining room table again and gathered in the living room instead. Once more the conversation brimmed—chockablock with life and laughter and authenticity. We felt the warmth of human companionship and delighted in the
Conversation danced like the vivid warm flames of our fireplace. Topics shifted from work and play to theology and technology. We exchanged honest stories of heartaches and celebration. We laughed hard and often. The connection I craved in friendship was satisfied. More than anything I didn’t want the evening to end. I experienced the wonder of friendship, and I never wanted to let go.
Lying in bed after all we experienced, I reflected on what made that night together so special. I dismissed the food as an option. The sugary barbecue sauce burned one side of the chicken. The potatoes turned out too firm. Remembering stories about their close friends and family, I ruled out that our guests were lonely. What could it be?
Maybe the magic lay in the table.
The rustic tabletop that anchors our living room is an antique barn door made of hand-carved mesquite and marred by years of heavy use. One of the corners of the table boasts rusty barbed wire used to hold the frame together; another is rounded wherethe door used to hinge. The table’s surface is wildly uneven, scarred by knots and holes. If you’re not careful you can easily tip a glass on one of the four railroad spikes that connect the four-inch-thick wooden slab to its base—a rustic yoke for oxen. The table receives support from two sets of bowed pieces of wood acting as legs. In one of the narrow pockets where the wood is hemmed together rests the remnants of previous owners, including an assortment of crumbs, a dried leaf, and a red poker chip I’ve never been able to extract.
I adored our living room table from the moment we purchased it. Having sold most of our furniture before leaving Alaska, the hunt for comfy couches and contemporary lighting began as soon as we arrived in Colorado. I spent most of my time looking for one-of-a-kind pieces on Craigslist and sorted through hundreds of ads each day looking for the treasures that would transform our house into a home.
One day I stumbled on a post for a brand-new California king-size mattress. I dialed the number and arranged for a time later that morning to connect, assuring Leif the drive would be well worth the effort. Unfamiliar with the area, I was surprised when the address led us to an expansive mountain getaway overlooking the valleys below. Walking up the stone stairs to the front door, I tugged on Leif’s sleeve, “We should ask if they’re selling anything else.”
“It’s just the mattress, honey,” he said.
“We should still ask,” I persisted.
When I posed the question to the grey-haired, middle-aged businessman who greeted us at the door, he pointed his fingers upward, looked in both directions, and declared, “Everything’s for sale!” Then he handed me a price list.
As an executive of a large telecommunications firm, he had been transferred to Los Angeles, where his wife was already purchasing furniture for their new glass house. In awe, we walked through room after room, handpicking everything we needed—from the brick-red bench now resting in our entryway to the armoire in our living room that looks like stacked luggage. But of all the pieces we purchased, I most prize the old, thick table we gathered around with Mark and Leslie.
The morning after our new friends joined us for dinner, I called Leif into the living room.
“There’s magic in the table,” I said, thumping the wooden frame with confidence.
“Maybe last night was a fluke,” Leif said with a skeptical eye. “Let’s invite more people over and try again.”
A few nights later we hosted Andy and April for dinner. When the time came to eat, we conveniently “forgot” to set the dining room table again and gathered in the living room instead. Once more the conversation brimmed—chockablock with life and laughter and authenticity. We felt the warmth of human companionship and delighted in the
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