Come To the Table: Part 5 in Old Tables and Old Times

26 Monday May 2025

Posted by in In Memory, MONDAY MUSINGS

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Recall the kitchen table of your childhood — the one you knew held your next meal and where you’d find your people. Are you picturing a chrome table with armless chairs? Perhaps a large modern one, with a highly polished finish and upholstered chairs; or a dull oak table, worn with serving generations before you, comes to mind. If you are fortunate, you have something firmly seated in your mind where loved ones (whether two of you or twenty) gathered to share a meal. Perhaps like me, you also recall sitting at the same table doing homework, listening to the AM radio station, telling your teacher in your imagination, oh yes I can concentrate with the music playing. Are the children in your memory stifling giggles because daddy said “you don’t laugh at the table“; or are they racing to see who gets dessert first? Was there a greasy pair of salt and pepper shakers, a butter dish with little finger prints? Was the blessing asked; was the food cooked by one, or a team effort? Were there paper napkins, or paper towels; a tablecloth, or a bare table under your plates? Did everyone get matching glasses, or was there a mix of mishap leftovers, as mine are now? Was there chaos, or peace? Each of us will likely remember something different than the next. I am willing to bet, however, the one thing shared by all, is that there was a particular time for this gathering. The time may have been something-o’clock on the dot; or not timed by the clock on the wall, but understood by all concerned, that it would be according to the sky. When the work load consumed all the daylight hours, supper was timed when you saw dark approaching. Such was often the farmer’s suppertime. But, most importantly, in spite of it all — with the members around that table being imperfect — was there a sacrifice made and love shown, by the presence of the table?

This Sunday morning of Memorial Day weekend, our wise and kind brother who presided over the Communion table, appropriately pointed out how Memorial Day reminds us to remember the sacrifices that have been made. At the table of communion, we are also remembering — remembering the life and love, the sacrifice and selflessness in the death of our Savior Jesus Christ. Unlike our home kitchen tables, where everything and anything in our arms lands on the table, our Lord’s table has been cleared of everything except the unleavened bread and the fruit of the vine, the body and blood of Jesus. A place for His children to gather, at the appointed time, to share the meal prepared by the Father; this is our memorial time to honor Him — Jesus. Where I worship, we do this every Lord’s Day. I look forward weekly, to gathering around this table and quietly seeking Him.

As for the table of my childhood, I looked forward to being called to that table too. Even in the midst of complaining and criticizing, falling apart and falling from grace, there was an abundance of laughter and love, gratitude and grace offered, sharing and shining, as our family gathered to partake of Mama’s good cooking and live out the forgiveness we always sought from one another.

Sitting on my vinyl covered chair at our chrome kitchen table, I heard my daddy promise me fifty dollars if I was the valedictorian of our eighth grade class. In the spring of 1967, I scooped up that fifty bucks. Many promises were made and some were broken around the table; birthdays were celebrated and vacations planned at the table. Tears were shared, but so were stories of achievement; Weekly Reader was enjoyed, report cards discussed, as were articles in the Ledger and Times. No matter what the mood, regardless of the activity, one thing stood sure — we were part of a family who shared in a common meal, and everyone ate the same thing because that’s what Mama had fixed. And when Sunday morning breakfast was finished, we left the table to fight over the bathroom time, to get ready for church, where we would be gathered around the greatest table of all time. I urge you to hear His call and come to the table.

And when He had given thanks, He broke it and said, “Take, eat; this is My body which is broken for you; do this in remembrance of Me.” In the same manner He also took the cup after supper, saying, “This cup is the new covenant in My blood. This do, as often as you drink it, in remembrance of Me.” For as often as you eat this bread and drink this cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death till He comes. (1 Corinthians 11:24-26) NKJV

The reason we observe Memorial Day each year is to set aside a time to formally remember and honor the sacrifices of American military personnel who have died while serving their country. My sincere gratitude to them for taking from their lives, to make our lives more secure, free, and enjoyable! Thank you, to those men and women, for what you have brought to our tables; for the homeland where we gather around these, our tables; and for the privilege to gather freely in our churches.

Running From Bears and Hiding in Hope

19 Monday May 2025

Posted by in Faith, MONDAY MUSINGS

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An excellent lesson last evening on fear, and conquering it through the promises of Isaiah 41:10, reminded me of a draft I had started a few years ago. I brought it out and brushed it up, so we will take a break from the “Old Tables and Old Tales” series.

“Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” (Isaiah 41:10) ESV

Stifled sobs from my shaking body awakened my husband, who in turn woke me from a nightmare. I couldn’t stop sobbing, even after getting to my feet to shake the troubling images from my head. I went straight for my phone not even caring what time it was. My son answered quickly, and by that time I was in the kitchen where I saw it was only 10:45. But the depth and distress of the dream made it seem like the middle of the night.

The question of where do dreams come from has never been answered to my satisfaction. It seems the mind just goes on random thought tangents with no boundaries. While common sense is sleeping, the little imps of imagination play. Obviously, some dreams are the result of fears – even those we have hidden away. Like dreams, real life can surprise us around any corner with a jack-in-the-box, either scary or funny. It’s only natural to hide from one and hope for the other.

I recall a recurrent nightmare from childhood. Three times at least, over a span of time, I dreamt that I was in my aunt’s house, the square-style house with four rooms all connected without a hall. You can start in the kitchen, go left into the bedroom, turn left into the next bedroom, turn left and enter the living room, then left again into the kitchen where you started. In my dream, there was a wooden highchair in the kitchen. A bear would begin to chase me, through the circuit of those rooms, around and around. Just as it was gaining on me, I would dive under the highchair.  The bear in my dream would stop, sniff around the chair, and the pounding of my heart would wake me. I’m pretty sure I know the fear behind the bear; and the hiding place being in that particular house, had to be that I always knew I was safe and loved there. Love conquers fear.

The gut-wrenching fear that spurred my more recent nightmare is one I believe all parents have in common. We do not want to see our children lose their hope – oh not the hope of Christmas Eve or birthday eve when kids know a fun-filled morning will follow – but true hope, an expectation, a belief that some yet unseen, good thing can and will happen. As adults we have seen enough ice-cream cones plop, to make us guard our hope. We’ve had earthly plans and hopes fall through, and we’ve also seen promises from God fulfilled as He held our world together. This is our hope to keep on trying. That’s what we want for our children isn’t it; to experience enough good so that good becomes their expectation. And to know their hope is tethered to the sure promises of God.

I believe the incidence of mental illness, suicide, and physical ailments are directly related to the loss of hope – hope that there is something, someone, greater than this shaky world. The natural tendency is to hope in this world’s goods and accomplishments, because that’s where we started as children, when we thought hope was in wishes. With maturity, the hopes and losses get bigger. Love, friendship, trust – the big ticket items –  hurt much more if lost, than getting the wrong Barbie, or having your birthday party rained out. I remember my Mama telling me it was so much easier to treat my skinned knee with a bandaid and a kiss, than to treat my heart aches. I didn’t appreciate that until I had children of my own. After enough bumps and bruises from this world, we gain appreciation for stability – yoked, tethered, and anchored to our true and living God – all-knowing, unmoving, and strong enough to stop the bears that cause our fear. And we want to see our young realize this true hope – the strengthening, helping, upholding hand of God. (Isaiah 41:10)

What we never want to see as they grow up, is one slap, one punch, one blow after another, until they don’t feel they can get up. We want them to keep being excited about life; to know that good overrules evil, and right is never wrong. We want to see the gleam in their eyes until we close ours the final time. Their happiness is more important to us than our own. That is why we must, MUST show them the hope that never fails. We must take the time to talk our God knowledge out loud, to show them real hope lives, and it sure as shootin’ ain’t in the shifting times we’re living! God gave us a world of beauty, fun, friends and abilities; but more than that, He has promised that no matter how this world goes, His children have Him walking them through it all.

I’ll wake up one morning, far from those nightmares, where fears are no more. No sobbing, no shaking, no heartaches and no dashed hopes. I know this because I have read God’s promises, along with the proof of His faithfulness. No matter how much we have now, we will never have it all, until we rest in the Lord. Until then, nothing in this life is certain. We’ll keep running from room to room until the bear dies and the house is turned over to God.  I thought I had turned my fears over to God, but apparently some still simmered in the background, producing bad dreams of lost hope. If my hope is really in the Lord, I won’t be hiding in fear with my heart pounding, but hidden in hope, away from fear’s chase, secure in Jesus Christ.

So, who is the bigger giant here? Is it hope, or is it fear?

Fear is big that is for sure! But hope stands higher as the cure

Fear chases like an angry bear. Hope is the rock that seals his lair.

Fear is strong, but stronger yet, is the hand of God – the help we get.

Fear can slap you to the ground, Hope in the Lord will make you sound.

Fear is daring, I can’t deny. But for our hope the Savior died.

My first favorite verse of scripture was Isaiah 40:31. But verse 30 includes our youth, so I have amended my favorite to include both verses. I love my children, and my nieces and nephews so much; and I pray their fears are conquered, their hope in this life realized, and their true hope in the Lord to be more than they dared ever dream.

“Even youths shall faint and be weary, and young men shall fall exhausted; but they who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings like eagles; they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint.” (Isaiah 40:30-31) ESV

A Hebrew lexicon explanation of “but those who wait” is the word “Qavah” meaning “to wait, look for, hope, expect”. (Strong’s Hebrew 6960)  My prayer is that we, all generations, will hope in the Lord, that we will run, walk, and soar with the eagles.

The Round Table: Part 4 in “Old Tables and Old Times”

12 Monday May 2025

Posted by in Children, Family, MONDAY MUSINGS

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Roundtable discussions “are informal gatherings characterized by equal participation, active listening, and the exchange of ideas…roundtables encourage a more open and interactive dialogue, often facilitated by a moderator.” That’s what the internet says. In a child’s world, it is an endless sphere of participation (play-like or real), activity (of reaching, climbing, circling), and interactive ideas (imagination as troops and trucks run their courses of construction and destruction).

As the 1960s were ending, people were starting to see the value in antiques. Not museum people with historical antiques – regular Joes who had the new age, moderate-income, furnishings of the 50s and 60s. Such was the time when my mother was led to an auction by her friend whose son had gone into the “antique business”. Looking for old gems hidden by dust and paint, in need of some repair perhaps, became the weekend hobby for many. Sadly, folks were realizing grandparents had given up real value for light weight, inexpensive furnishings. In my family’s case, fires had taken most of the keepers, and the thought of finding something similar, was enticing. One find for my mother and her friend that day, was a sizable table covered with what we called antiquing, which was enamel paint covered by a dark glaze. Covered in, I believe, early 70s green, with a small chip out of one hinged area, was a coffee table with leaves dropped to the floor, which when raised, made a complete circle. A drawer in each end made the table even more useful. Mama bought it. And the seven grandchildren of her future benefitted from the purchase in the many decades to follow. Her great grandchildren, as well as friends, continued to find pleasure in the playground of the roundtable world. I am so thankful the table was saved from the fire that took my parents’ home in 1978.

Before the round table went to live at my parents’ house, her friend had her son to “strip and refinish” it. This brought out the beautiful solid maple finish of its original state, which is still its condition today – plus the many scratches, dents and wear of four generations since then. I believe my son was the first to put a scratch in Granny’s lovely table, with a toy (seems like it was one of those little silver-colored pistols, but could easily have been one of the hundreds of little animals that have trekked the terrain of the table land; he thinks it was his Hot Wheels racing). My daughter stashed “office papers” and crayons in the drawers as she opened and closed them a thousand times in her world of teaching and office work.

Next came my sister’s first child, a girl, who I am told, turned a long handled bell (another of Mama’s collections) upside down and hammered it into the table top several times. Sister’s second child, a boy, added his own marks of character, playing many sessions of Old Maid; as well as adding his sons (you see the younger one on the table in the photo above), to the activity of his Nanny Betty’s/Aunt Trisha’s table. I recall my brother’s first daughter especially enjoying the Christmas trinkets and music boxes Granny placed on the table. By the time he had more children coming along, Mama had passed the drop-leaf table on to me, and redecorated her living room. How in the world did she have the courage to place a new glass-topped table at child level? Surprisingly, it did survive. OH! That’s right, it wasn’t a round table. Far less activity could be had with four corners in the way, a smaller surface, and – like the glass-bottomed look-out towers – who can put their weight on something that looks invisible?

In my house the old drop-leaf round table continued to supply new ground for race cars, farm equipment, horse racing, army battles, board games, play-doh creativity, coloring and painting, checkers, and climbing in general. Six of my great nieces and nephews have made their own history of discoveries, battles, and masterpieces on the round table. Our friend ‘little man Ryan’ had his own activity for a short while before potty training, but we will just leave it at that. He also drove Match Box cars around and around that table, giving me great pleasure as my mother’s table continued making happy days for those we love.

I see the days of discovery for our round table coming to a close. I do hope the “informal gatherings characterized by equal participation, active listening, and the exchange of ideas” continues over this, as well as all our tables, for years to come. But it was the endless imagination of those tots who made this table so precious to me. Complete with its dents and dings, one drawer now out of function, and one detached slide-out leg that holds the leaf on that side, I have plans for repair and passing it on to someone who appreciates solid value. It is truly vintage now, and due to age, likely could soon be antique, but surely has some good days ahead in her. She now holds books, pens, and the trappings of an avid John Deere man. She comfortably holds the weight of great nephews; she doesn’t mind our feet being propped upon her, nor popcorn, coffee cups, and sippy cups.

Well, my coffee has grown cold but I have enjoyed my short trip back over the 55 or so years since my mother brought the round table home. Her own nieces and nephews will testify that she had a roundtable approach to life that carried over into the grandchildren years. If she loved anything, it was children and watching them learn. Imagination spurs learning and she was delighted to turn her house over to them to grow and learn all they could. Her love surrounded them as they surrounded the table; her guidance encouraged them as they found acceptance and inspiration to be their best. I look at the softly curved feet of the table, the scratches and dents, the missing pieces; and I long to see a world that is as willing to sacrifice parts of itself for the good of others; a world that is strong for its children and softly holds them when they need it; a world like its Creator intended it to be.

Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ. (Galatians 6:2) NKJV

The Do-all Table – Having Its Purpose, Earning Its Keep: Part III of “Old Tables and Old Times”

03 Saturday May 2025

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Dreary, cool, and not what we want to see for the first weekend of May, is this Saturday morning weather. So, with a cup of Maxwell House, I am looking forward to telling you about my Do-all table.

I may have mentioned before that I have a profound fondness for old tables. I have made myself – ok, inadequate space made me – remove a few tables from the house in past years. My daughter now owns the square parlor table that came from my great-aunt and uncle’s home. I’ve sold the mahogany version with metal ball feet, that my husband and I found in an antique store (oh how I loved that table)! And, there is a smaller, walnut side table still in the attic. Why, I do not know. The little oak and metal ice-cream parlor table and chairs were taken by the mom of my son’s good friend. I bought it in an antique store for our breakfast nook while we were building, but it wound up in our sunroom, where I accumulated a couple more tables, and as you can see, it needed a much more worthy home – which it found. Now, our house is not large, so a table needs to pay for its room and board with some practical purpose in order to remain. Thus, the old painted drop-leaf table (you’ve seen a many of them in all kinds of used furniture stores) has kept its footing, by being so versatile.

Usually seen in its original dark varnished finish, mine had been painted with a cream enamel, as were the four chairs we bought with it in a flea market/antique store. Four chairs were not enough for a table that expands to seat 8-10! But with the two drop-leaf sides down, and the middle extension kept hidden under the table, it becomes a table for two, and a nice work table for puzzles, plant potting, mini green-house beginnings, bunco playing, and of course, having lunch in the sunroom. The expandable feature made it a good breakfast table-turned family-gathering-table, when odd chairs were added. But, when the original chairs proved unstable, my husband (had he caught my penchant for adopting tables?) replaced it with a very stable, perfectly sized, used, table-for-two for the breakfast nook- complete with two sturdy matching chairs. Parting with my old slide-out, drop-leaf, work table was not an option, and it resides in the sunroom to provide all the aforementioned duties.

I have visions of restoring it to the natural beauty it was before the wood and metal-tipped feet were covered with paint; but then where would I put it? There would be a heated discussion if I tried to replace the table my husband bought. I would lose the battle; because I really like it, and couldn’t let it go, either. Do you ever want your cake and eat it too?

I’m sure there are worse things to love than tables; although, I doubt there are many loves as hard to place in your home. You know it’s funny – with all these tables – I still drag out my old card table so often. Seating for the littles when company comes; putting puzzles together in a warmer place while March Madness rages on; and bunco seating, are the times I find the card table most useful. However, I do not like the feel of a card table; it is unsteady. I dislike the touch – cold metal and plastic. I do not like having to fold and put it and the chairs away; closet storage space is as much at a premium in our house as is the floor space for a stable, comfortable, pretty, old table that came from who-knows-where, with a story to tell. The card table was brand new, bought with S&H green stamps, oh so many years ago. No story to tell.

Wood tables, on the other hand, had a story to tell even when they were brand new; they came from a live tree, likely among a forest of friends, and being sawn and planed into a piece of furniture, deserve to be remembered – not ditched. (I do not need to digress into what a wasteful society we are.) I find myself wondering what meals were served on my do-all table, and who first saw it in a catalog or display window perhaps, and said, I must buy this one. Who and why was it distressed with new paint? Would they have guessed it made it perfect for my sunroom? I enjoy giving new purpose to old furniture, whether worthy or not, like us. God’s plan for us, continues to create and recreate in us, a heart of purpose for His glory, and a purpose in our world.

For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope. (Jeremiah 29:11) ESV

I hope you’re enjoying an old table somewhere, with a story to tell and a purpose to serve. Would you believe I have yet another drop-leaf table to share its story? The old maple standby has many years of service and stories to tell. See you then.

The Drop-Leaf Table: Part 2 of “Old Tables and Old Times”

28 Monday Apr 2025

Posted by in Life, MONDAY MUSINGS

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Chess and Gertie Wilkins

By 1968, my maternal grandparents were pretty much set in their ways. Grandma still drank her coffee with a piece of biscuit dropped in it and sipped it from the saucer. Grandpa still shaved at the breakfast table, and shared a little coffee-milk with me. They liked things that were, like themselves, dependable, substantial, even durable – things like his old felt hat and a good iron skillet. A stout little wooden container for pipe tobacco for him, and rose colored rouge for her, were about as frivolous as they ventured. Oh, I do recall Grandma fitting into a nice girdle with the help of her two daughters, but maybe it was a necessity; I won’t call that one.

From my earliest memories, even before the 1968 photo, there was always the small, dark, drop-leaf table you see between my grandparents. In the living room where they had family Christmas gatherings, there was usually a fresh-cut cedar tree in the corner where two large picture windows came together. But as they aged, Grandpa and Grandma used the little table to hold a less conspicuous Christmas tree. I’m sure this was solely for the enjoyment of the grandchildren, as their only pleasure in life was, by then, just being there for their family, as much as they could.

When I was small, and I mean small enough to play under that table, I enjoyed feeling like I was in my own room, with the leaves, or sides, of the table dropped, partially enclosing me from the rest of the room. Betsy McCall paper dolls cut from the McCalls Magazine my grandma saved for me, were lined up along the baseboard, as I played the time away. I remember Grandpa sitting nearby, never interfering with my play. Just there, with me.

As Grandpa grew older, he sat for longer periods of time in a rocker in the den. Grandma spent more time in the kitchen, as good cooks do, and where the den television was in sight. But I’ll always remember him best in those picture windows, at the end of that long, scarcely furnished living room. Inexpensive furniture – a couch, the 60’s trio of two end-tables and a small coffee table, a couple of chairs, and that wonderful table – barely filled a room of hardwood floors and beige walls. A built-in, but fake, fireplace with a modest mantle completed it, and was the only decorative part of the room. Even the table I loved was plain.

I think I always knew this drop-leaf table was from Grandpa’s family, but until my adult years, I didn’t realize it was made by his father. The table had stayed with my mother who displayed it in her own living room. It, like my grandparents, is substantial, quietly fitting in with any decor, solid and dependable. It was knowing my great grandfather made it, and the memories of playing under it, that made me ask if I might own it after Mama.

I like knowing some things never change – things like a mother’s love, the taste of good coffee, the smell of pipe tobacco and a real Christmas tree, the look and feel of solid wood – old wood. My table has no carvings other than a minimal turning near the bottom of the legs. I have searched underneath for any sign of dating, and I’ve concluded it was possibly salvaged from some other pieces of good substantial furniture, or perhaps doors. The supports for the leaves are primitively made, being cut from the center of both side skirts, and swivel to support each leaf as they are needed. The finish is just as it always was, too dark to identify the kind of tree sacrificed for the life of the table. I doubt I ever refinish the plain little drop-leaf table. Many good times lie under that finish.

Not surprisingly, the table is like the ancestors who left it. Substantial, modest, and sensible in form and function, Grandpa was our rock, and Grandma our cushion, for so many sessions of life-building trials. They loved God, and did their best to follow Him. They wanted to be as unchangeable and dependable as the God they loved and served. Life is about change for the most part; I am just so thankful some things – especially God – never change.

Speaking of change, (although I wasn’t really speaking of change), but now that I think of it, the development date stamped on the fading photo is June, 1969. Pictures were snapped back then without knowing for months whether or not you got a good shot, or even if the film would develop at all. Many important events and times weren’t written about, and forgotten, because the people who were living those times either didn’t think it was important, or they had faith that photographs would last a lot longer than they do. Thanks be to God that He provided a written record, His Word, of our grand inheritance and His unchangeable nature.

So when God desired to show more convincingly to the heirs of the promise the unchangeable character of his purpose, he guaranteed it with an oath, (Hebrews 6:17) ESV.

I’d still like to hear more about your tables. I enjoyed the pictures Linda Pugh sent of her great-great-grandfather, two very old and beautiful side tables, and an unusual chair that I believe is from the days of worshipping in folding chairs. Next coffee break blog, I plan to reminisce about the coffee table in my husband’s office/John Deere room/den. It’s had a heap of living around it. Until then, have a great week!

It’s The Little Things

21 Monday Apr 2025

Posted by in MONDAY MUSINGS, The unexpected

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Standing cross-armed beside the small hummingbird feeder, I watched my Yorkie walk through the grass to do what little doggies do. Suddenly a faint buzzing blew past me and the owner of it hovered at the feeder. Not even an arm’s-length away, a ruby-throated male hummingbird began stabbing the plastic blossoms, drinking the nectar inside, and holding me captive – and captivated. It probably lasted no more than a minute, but it was a nice long southern minute, and I enjoyed it immensely. As they say, “it’s the little things”.

Inside an old weathered wooden bluebird box, are five little helpless baby bluebirds. I watched the parent birds build their neat little nest; then I soon counted one, two, three, four, and then five beautiful little aqua blue eggs, one egg per day. Fifteen days later, I raised the door to look inside, finding five scrawny fuzzy little heads barely bobbing about. Since then, I’ve looked inside to find tiny beaks wide open, awaiting the anticipated meals delivered so faithfully by the parents. They are too near fledging time for me to look inside now, for fear of causing premature fledging; but I feel pretty sure we will see an empty nest soon, and the world will be blessed with five little beauties looking for their place in the wild. I cannot keep myself from sending up a little prayer for their safety. It’s the little things, you know.

My husband has been on a frenzied mission lately. With an old badminton racket in hand – sometimes a battery-powered insect swatter – he is determined to get the carpenter bees before they riddle the framework of his outdoor buildings. Sitting on the front porch where the little buggers have tunneled through my swing, he is totally distracted from all else by these little things. I hope he wins. I like my swing. Little things – some good, some not so good.

It is only the end of April and I am about to start thinking all is not well with springtime. Just before a rain, during the rain, and after the rainfall, a trail of misery finds its way into the kitchen. By way of the minuscule crack where woodwork meets the wall, or under the baseboards, the tiny black crawling invasion makes its way onto any surface attached to the floor. The dog dishes are the first to be attacked; next, the countertop becomes their goal. Ant traps, spray cans, and constant cleaning seem to occupy way too much of our time. It is, sometimes, the little things that bother us most.

We enjoyed a lovely Easter weekend. I kept thinking of the big things – our daughter and son being near enough to spend the time with us; the table full of food and the ability to prepare it; the big-beyond-words sacrifice God made in allowing His perfect son Jesus to be the atonement for our sins; and ultimately, the enormous and wonderful morning of resurrection, making eternal life possible for all. “He is not here; for He is risen, as He said. Come, see the pace where the Lord lay” (Matthew 28:6) NKJV. For all this, I am truly thankful. The big things genuinely are amazing. But what I found myself commenting on most, was the beautiful weather – a seemingly little thing. Rain had been forecast for the weekend; what we got was sunshine and a good breeze. Something unexpected – even something small – can be such a pleasure that we just can’t stop mentioning it. I guess it’s the little things that keep us pacified and occupied, while the big things – the strong important things – hold us up and carry us through. Could be, we are all just a bunch of little kids, being pacified and occupied; and God looked lovingly at us, and said, “It’s the little things that count.”

Have a great week! Watch for the fascinating little things.

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Old Tables and Old Times

30 Sunday Mar 2025

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Seated in the sunroom, at an old library table, I pull my hand along the worn bare boards, oak I think, that form the top of this substantive table. It is its own distinct personality, unlike common styles of furniture in today’s homes. I long to know the story it owns. I bought it from my mother’s estate auction; she inherited it, along with some other belongings left to partially furnish my grandparents’ house, when it was rented out after their passing. As a child, I knew the table was there to provide a study table for the twin bedroom, as we called it. The room contained a pair of mahogany twin beds with pink chenille bedspreads, a beautiful old bureau, and this one old library table; surely there were a couple of chairs that I can’t remember. This room, while my grandparents were living in the house, became housing for college boys as it was less than two blocks from campus. Can you imagine a time when one could allow strangers to come and go through your front door, share the one bathroom, and sleep in the next bedroom! It was a good time in many ways, those 1960’s.

Grandpa, or maybe someone before he came to have the table, had glued linoleum flooring on top — no, it wasn’t even pretty linoleum. The legs, and a shelf that runs the length of the table just about shin-high, are still painted with a dull espresso color, worn and scratched terribly. I pulled off the linoleum, and — though ashamed to admit it — used a pressure washer to help remove the black glue. As it dried outdoors, the sun pulled the boards apart slightly. As you can imagine, it is a pretty rough-looking sight. Why do I keep it, you may be asking yourself. I wish I had an answer worthy of your asking. There is something within the grain of the wood that asks me to understand; to accept it as it is, even though I do not know its whole story. (Maybe we all feel a little like that?) I like the old table because it is something of my grandpa’s. Although, knowing how frugal he was, Grandpa likely found the table at a bargain, and its actual worth, even today, can’t be much. Knowing that the damage it has already suffered prevents it from being one of those “nice old pieces of furniture”, I still feel compelled to leave it as is, other than the linoleum of course. There is a carving in the end pieces between the legs; this is the only thing that keeps me from calling it a primitive work of furniture. Is it a bit of folk art?

If you have any ideas about this carving, or old library tables in general, please share in the comments.

Like the old table, I am quite worse for the wear in appearance. And, like the dear old thing, there is a story — my life’s story — same in basic shape and function as all who are born to their mommas, but different in detail; just as there were probably a score of other tables built like this one and shipped out in the same shape and function, but definitely different in the details of its life story. Don’t we all want to be seen for what lies beneath the surface? Under the wrinkles and age spots, under the flattened arches and flabby abs, and under the thinning gray hair, is a head that still thinks, and feels, and knows its own story. We want to be understood for our worth, not our wear. This old table is worth something to me because my grandpa saw a value in it for his purpose — actually for the college boys’ purpose, but who’s keeping score? It matters to me because someone I cherished bought it, or at the very least, cared enough about it to haul it home. That, for sure; plus I just have a foolish love for old unique furniture.

Feeling the oak boards once again, smoothed by the years of my arms and computer and books, and whatever else one puts on a sunroom table, I begin to understand why I still have it. Or, like Grandpa, maybe I’m too cheap to buy a real desk when I already have a substantive one — one of practical importance to me.

There is a table in my dining room, a prettier, albeit more primitive one, which I plan to talk about in my next coffee break. If you have an interesting item of furniture with a story behind it, please share with us here at the coffee break. Until then, remember, we are all given our worth by the greatest love ever to walk this earth. “Knowing that you were not redeemed with corruptible things,…but with the precious blood of Christ, as of a lamb without blemish and without spot” (I Peter 1:18-19) NKJV.

What A Friend I’ve Lost

09 Sunday Feb 2025

Posted by in Friendship, In Memory, Uncategorized

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The quote is from ” C.S. Lewis’ Little book of Wisdom”.

On February 9, 2024, I jotted in a journal, “I visited with Dana, took Apple Crisp. Her MRI report doesn’t sound good”. The visit was following several episodes of illness, visits in and out of hospitals for her, and they were beginning to hone in on the culprit of her suffering. The apple dessert was made with apples she had picked and shared from her backyard and I had canned them. She shared first. All the time.

It wasn’t supposed to be this post. I am supposed to be planning a celebration of cancer remission with the many friends who have prayed for her, visited with her, and hoped with her. But she had lived long enough and served in the field of nursing long enough to know there are no absolutes or guarantees in life. Other than the one she voiced several times: “God is my strength”. On the sunny morning of February 23, I received a text from Dana saying malignant cells were found in her liver. It was not to grieve, but to ask for prayer, and to keep me from having to hear from anyone else what she knew would not be easy to hear. I cried a lot. On the 28th she was home, waiting for a plan; as always, optimistic. As February turned into March, information for plan of care was not as good as she had hoped. Supper, flowers, prayers, encouraging words all seemed so little; so very very little in effort to make the news feel better. A roller coaster ride was to be her life with talk of transplant, then no; surgery, then no; port and biopsies; finally a Vanderbilt team and a chemo plan. Dana was so relieved to finally have a plan. Two Fridays in to Nashville and one Friday home; wash, rinse, repeat.

Throughout the following months we swapped plants, plant pictures and conversed about plants. It was our favorite of the many things we had in common. Time for me passed in the mundane ordinary stuff of life; never take that for granted. NEVER take it for granted. The beautiful ordinary uneventful day to day life that Dana would have loved to be doing, was put on hold. But she kept being the beautiful thoughtful friend she always was.

With each new test/image/plan of care, Dana Lynn Bazzell looked it in the eye, chin up and walked straight forward bravely to meet her foe. I never heard nor saw a moment of wanting pity. In fact she worked to keep the conversations about everything else. And there were a lot of everything else’s to keep us busy because she just loved life. Plants, people, animals, cooking, nursing career memories, nurse assessment of her lab values, and what to eat when we reached our destination, were some of the topics. As many others know, Dana herself made the trips to cancer treatments an adventure, not a job to get done. She just didn’t see how allowing her friends to drive her to treatments, blessed us. She couldn’t stop saying thank you. On June 21, my last time to get to take her to Nashville, she took cookies to my daughter, and gifted me samples of my favorite perfume. I will always think of Dana when I smell J’adore L’Or. It is a beautiful soft gardenia-type fragrance; like her friendship. Gardenia’s were one of her specialties. I hate so much that my knee replacement bumped me out of the travel posse.

I want to say how much I hate cancer. It is a thief, an evil, like sin, straight from the devil himself. Since the fall of mankind there have been sufferings to endure and battles to fight. Dana would be the first to tell us Jesus died to defeat sin and death. Sometimes a cancer cannot be defeated in life, and requires a life to be given to stop it. Dana defeated her cancer February 7, 2025. I lost a friend who encouraged me, taught me how to be a better friend; how to save and transplant seedlings; how to share life. And I’m heartbroken that I didn’t get to keep her.

In one of her last texts, January 29, she said she just needed sleep. Rest now my friend. We will miss you Dana Lynn Harrison Bazzell.

Out With the Old, In With the New

02 Thursday Jan 2025

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Saturday, 12/28/24

Empty stockings, bulging refrigerator. Dog toys and dust all over the floor. Silent Saturday, children have gone home. Instructions to read for the new gifts we own. Stacks of laundry, and weight growing too, we lied we wouldn’t eat for a day or two. A few strings and dust scattered under the tree; lights off, old and new ornaments smiling at me. Moments of “what happened to the time”, blend with new plans for new year to unwind. New candles to light, burned ones to store. In a week 2024 is no more.

Happy New Year, dear reader. January 2, 2025     

What a joyful surprise today! An unexpected visit from our previous neighbors who moved ‘up north’ a couple summers ago. The Opferman family, Michael, Karen, Joey, Tim and Megan were the sweetest neighbors ever and I miss them so much. This visit was the crowning touch to my holiday season! As the new year approached,  I’d had such varied thoughts flying around in my head.

Like new years and old; laughter, tears and being bold; hope and disappointments and blessings untold; fear and faith, sadness and joy and the world we face. All swirling and trying to make sense of each other as they occupy the same space. Focus, I need to focus!

Like a wind among autumn leaves as they mount upward around and around trying to reach the top of their swirling funnel, so have been my thoughts and until today I could not plant myself at the keyboard to focus on one new year’s message. Now I know it – no, it is not ‘may all your dreams come true’; nor is it ‘may you prosper in all you do’; nor is it any resolution for myself. (I am reminded each new year of my previous new year’s resolution some 20 or more years ago, which was to never make another new years resolution. I have kept it quite well.). Although, I’d be happy for you if all your dreams came true. But then what would there be left for you to hope? Oh, and I will celebrate every prosperous season of your life, but perhaps you need to continue striving in some things, to grow stronger in faith, in confidence, and have a reason to hope. 

My message this year, brought by today’s surprise visit is this – may each day hold some joy for you; one or many, small or big, a joy that you may be able to hope and work with a purpose. My joy is knowing Jesus loves me unconditionally, and wants me to succeed in every worthy endeavor. It makes working a joy. It makes hope against this world a joy. This joy brings new chances after failures. This joy offers new journeys for closed doors, and forgiveness for regrets. It is a win/win deal; His strength for my weakness; His wisdom for my lack of it; to know at the end of any failed effort or any rejection of good intentions, if I can say I did my best when the day is done, there is joy. Joy in peace, in knowing God continues with us, bringing joy in big and small ways and finishing the things we’ve begun. He lights new candles for us as He sees the need. Last evening I stepped outside to see an amazing sunset of fiery red and orange behind the thousands of dark bare tree branches reaching upward out of the woods into a navy blue sky. There was the slightest sliver of moon and above it was the ‘star light star bright, first star I see tonight’. Now THAT’S a candle! Shivering in the cold I felt joy in knowing that I know the creator of all this! Pure joy.

A few highlights among many personal joys for me in 2024: our son bought his first house; sweet friends Nan and Tonya beat cancer; another dear friend Dana has courageously beat obstacles in her journey toward healing; my brave mission leader and friend Beth had a successful first surgery before upcoming ones; my husband asked for a new bible for Christmas; and my husband is finally really and truly for sure and certain, retired from farming.

May each day hold for you at least one joy. Happy New Year! Trisha

“My brethren, count it all joy when you fall into various trials, knowing that the testing of your faith produces patience. But let patience have its perfect work, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking nothing. If any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask of God, who gives to all liberally and without reproach, and it will be given to him.” James 1: 2-5 NKJV