I am sitting at the ancient dining room table writing. As happens far too often, my concentration wanes and I look around the room. My gaze lands on the surface of the table and I notice the many scratches and stains that now live there. It has become worn and scarred from its years of use, not just as a place for meals, but as the central focus in my house.

I study the shabby veneer from my seated vantage point and then stand to see the damage more closely. My hands rub the once shiny surface as if I was reading Braille. I find one daughter’s name  scratched into the spot where she so often sat. I feel pits where impatient toddlers once banged their utensils. I see ink stains where frustrated hands accidently pressed straight through their homework papers.  I touch the burn marks made by meals served hurriedly to quiet hungry voices.

I smile as those voices and visions come to life in my mind. I hear Neil’s impersonation of Prince Charming, teaching the girls manners and etiquette. I see spaghetti covered faces, spilled glasses of milk, morsels of undesired food hiding under napkins to be secretly given to dogs waiting patiently below. I hear lively conversations, no topics taboo at that table. Politics, periods, boys, teachers, friends, grades, world news, local events – all fair game. I see first-time guests overwhelmed by the quick humor and honesty that characterized those dinner discussions. And I remember how many a meal went on long after the food was eaten.

I sit back down and get back to writing, but I am still smiling. I realize my table is perfect just the way it is. Every chip and dent tell part of a story, just like the laugh lines around my eyes and the scars of countless adventures on my skin. Even though we’re both a little worse for wear, my dining room table and I have both been greatly blessed. Thank you, dear God.