THE KITCHEN TABLE

            I’m a week late on a Mother’s Day message, but I couldn’t miss the opportunity to share a little bit about my wonderful mother whom I dearly miss.  She is in my thoughts every day and there is joy in my heart for I will see her again.

The Kitchen Table

            For the life of me I don’t know why that little yellow kitchen drew me like a moth to a flame.  It wasn’t just the endless cups of tea or the large soft homemade sugar cookies; it was far more. The kitchen was tiny and compact.  It wasn’t at all convenient; the sink on one wall and the stove on another.  The refrigerator was in the attached ‘back room’.  A very small round table sat in front of the one window which was framed in yellow organdy.  If you were sitting at the table, the back of the chair would touch the sink on one side, while the other chair barely had room to pull it out from the table.

            Cozy was the word for this oasis in an otherwise darkened house.  Everything was yellow from the solid wood door that led to the Michigan cellar, to the yellow metal sink unit; even the electric range was harvest gold.  Day or night it seemed as though the sun was shining through the window and splashing the room in sunlight.  A little vase of flowers always adorned the plastic covered table.  If it was not filled with flowers of the season, then tiny red or pink plastic rose buds were used.  A fat green frog holding a lush African violet hung suspended from over the kitchen window.  It was amazing how year around the plant was covered with bright purple blooms; a reminder of the beauty of life.

            When people like me dropped in for a visit, no matter where the conversation began, it would always end up in the kitchen.  Around that little table some of the greatest problems in life were solved; world crisis, social ills, marriage problems, personal struggles, as well as deep spiritual truths brought to light.  Presidents were put in the oval office and some taken out.  The government could have improved if they would have listened in on some of the conversations.  Children were among the most important issues discussed; how they needed to be loved, disciplined, taught, and understood.  You could believe that it was possible for anyone to be able to succeed at anything, if they had a mind to do it.  It was here that a quick cure for depression was discovered; ‘just begin thinking about others and then do something for them.'  It worked every time.

            There were times when small things became important, such as discussing a new recipe, what herbal tea was the best for arthritis and for helping you sleep; what would get stains out; how to mend a rip in your favorite jacket; how to bake sugar cookies so they would stay soft, how to water your plants and which window was best for them.

            Concern for others was a big topic at the little round table.  How important it became to drop a card or note in the mail to comfort the ill, the lonely and the elderly.  You could envision a little old lady sitting in a rocker waiting eagerly for the mail; hoping desperately that someone cared.  You could suddenly see into a hospital room where sadness invaded every corner and then see a face light up when the card arrived.  Then too, you might see that unpainted house on the next street with the unkempt yard and a bunch of dirty-looking, uncared for children playing there.  You would realize that if someone dropped by with a basket of cookies and some yard sale Golden Books (almost like new), maybe a little used toy car, or an older doll in a new dress, it would bring a bit of joy and hope in an otherwise hopeless situation.  A bouquet of flowers from the garden standing in a fruit jar transformed a dingy dark room into a cozy haven of a forgotten nursing home resident.

            Speaking of flowers, how many times flower books were spread out on the table and gone over from cover to cover.  I learned never-to-be-forgotten lessons on growing flowers; the importance of where you planted them, which colors were old-time favorites; how day lilies could be eaten, or that rose petals were delicious when added to certain foods.  It made sense to have a friendship garden that held only those bulbs and plants that were given to you from another’s garden.  Flowers were not grown just for your own enjoyment, but to decorate an old soldier’s grave on Memorial Day, to cheer up the sick, for placing in the church sanctuary and for a birthday.  The list went on and on.

            If that little kitchen table could talk, it would tell of family history that traced from the far country of Scotland to Nova Scotia; on to Canada, New York and finally to Michigan.  It would tell about dark-eyed Indian maidens and French fur traders.  It would tell about homesteads, hunger, harsh winters, lost loves and family reunions.

            Many slivers were removed from little fingers and band aids applied at the little table.  Of course the real healing came from the hugs and kissed administered along with the practice of medicine.

            Countless widows sat there and shared their loneliness and grief; their fear of the future, the sorrow of the neglect of their grown children.  They almost never failed to leave there with spirits lifted and hope renewed with a cup of tea, a sugar cookie and a sympathetic listener who gave words of hope.

            The scriptures that were studied and read at the table were endless.  Never a day went by without a least the reading of devotions.  The table was bathed in prayers.  How many children’s lives were spared, souls saved from destruction, lives changed, disaster averted, due to the prayers sent heavenward from there.  Perhaps some day we will know.

            I have a small picture of that table in the little yellow kitchen.  The tears always come to my eyes and a deep longing to once again sit there bathed in the yellow light floods my soul;  How I long to hear again the soft, gentle voice and see the sweet smile as I walk through the door.  I look at the picture once more, knowing it really isn’t the table that I miss; it’s the one sitting there.  It’s My Mother.