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.