A Seat at the Table

As a child I took on a superstition I once heard my big sister state. That if I breathed while passing by a cemetery, I would somehow take on the heart/lungs/spirit/I don't remember what exactly of a dead old man. So for years I held my breath. Through stop lights and long stretches. It probably contributed to my swimming career, now that I think about it. 

I've recently started going for walks past a cemetery, and breathing is simply a necessity it turns out. Today I even slowed to a stop, and breathed it in. I stood and held on the the wrought iron fence, and then I passed through the open gates. 

I saw a lot of names and dates. 

Dates that were too close together... one family in particular that lost a baby every couple of years, and each old fashioned name had "Little" in front of it... Little Bea, Little Lois, and a handful of other Littles, all under two years old.

There were stones with two names, but only three dates... two from long ago, one from recently, and a blank space waiting for a fourth. 

I have no clue who these people were. Maybe they were like me, maybe not at all. 

But I felt a connection to them. To all of us. I read the names and envisioned the space left behind by the people who belonged to them. 

Tomorrow you and I will be sitting at a table. And there will be empty seats at our tables, at least metaphorically. Perhaps it's by chance, that the high chair or wheelchair or even plain four legged chair was left out this year. Our loved one wasn't able to be here like they should be, and it's just not right. We might see them at Christmas, or we may have to wait until heaven. Or maybe they chose not to be there, someone you thought would always be there. 

But at our table there may also be seats that are full, that seem loud and close and at times too much. In and of our very own selves, there will be unwelcome guests and fondly remembered dear ones of days past. Jealousy. Inadequacy. Uncertainty. Why didn't I have XYZ together by the holidays this year? Why am I still the things I didn't like about myself last year, and why did my fresh start of this new year and resolutions get away from me so quickly?

As I continued slowly walking, absorbing a somber reality check of how much hurt we bring with us to the table, I also sensed a refreshing reminder that we are truly not alone. The human experience of pain is unique in every instance, and yet a common thread between us. Call me morbid in saying so, but we all bring baggage to the table.

I then looked past the concrete blocks, shaped and carved in unique ways to represent the unique lives they memorialized, over the flowers and paths and mounds in the dirt, and saw trees. Autumn is finally falling upon Texas, and the leaves were changing. I saw tall trees with wide roots and strong branches, and smaller trees bravely growing more branches of their own, all changing. Complementing each other in their color scheme, but moving at their own pace and in their own pattern. The thought crossed my mind that if trees were to be sentient beings, surely this change would hurt. Like the growing pains I got in my thighs when I was growing up, or maybe like a bruise spreading and changing color. The forceful change of existence, leading up unto the falling off. They were all very different, but they were in this season together. 

I pray tomorrow you can look into the eyes of those around your table and be thankful they are able to be there. That whatever season you are walking through: of joy, of change, of loss, of confusion, of sameness or dullness; you can see the ways in which those around you can complement your colors and change alongside you. 

I pray that the things that are different from previous seasons can be looked upon through a lens of beauty and gratitude, even the empty seats. Beauty and gratitude don't always look like happy clappy things, so eliminate that pressure and expectation now. 

I pray that you know that you are loved, your story is beautiful, and you are always welcome at my table.