Walking into my mother’s house on Sundays after church meant we were met at the door with hugs, the sweet aromas of brisket in the oven, black-eyed peas on the stove and dark roasted coffee brewing in the drip pot. I often think that heaven might smell like that. Sunday dinner at my parent’s house was a tradition. There was no “meeting our friends at Jason’s Deli after Sunday School” in those days. Our teenage/college children were expected to be there as well and they were always more than welcome to bring their friends, who also called my mother..”MawMaw.” There was always a place for others around my mother’s table. Quite often our children would bring their international friends. “Delegates” from places like, France, UK, Germany, India, Japan and the Czech Republic enjoyed delicious meals and warm conversations around my mother’s table. It delighted her who always dreamed of traveling to those places. Instead of traveling the world, the world came to her. My mother was a praying woman and you can bet she told those visitors that she would pray for them, as she did, around the table before Sunday dinner.
When she went to heaven 15 years ago, it was difficult for me to part with that table. So it sat alone, collecting dust instead of memories in our large garage. But recently as we start packing up for our move, I knew the table would need to find a new home. I was ready to part with it, but not with the memories. I listed it on a social media page with a photo of it in her dining room, but even with the beautiful crystal chandelier cascading above it, no one commented that they wanted it. Instead the post received comments from family and friends who had eaten around that table..comments about unforgettable moments and how welcomed and loved they always felt around “MawMaw’s table”.
My brothers and me with MawMaw at the table.
I wrote in my previous blog about how our extra refrigerator was placed in the home of a Congolese refugee family from our church. I asked that same family if they might need a table. I knew the perfect one for them. It was small enough for intimate gatherings and it could always be extended to make room for guests. It was accustomed to welcoming people from all over the world who prayed around it and enjoyed rich, uplifting conversations. Two men from our church staff picked up the table and delivered it to the refugee family, so I didn’t get to see the look on their faces. But, I can just imagine them saying grace around my mother’s table on Sundays after church. I can almost smell the brisket and black eyed peas and see MawMaw smiling from heaven.
