The Stories We Tell Around the Table
If there’s one spot in my house that sees it all—the spilled milk, the giggles, the crayon masterpieces, and the occasional meltdown—it’s the kitchen table.
We gather there at the end of the day, sometimes with enthusiasm and excited chatter. Sometimes, with a cold cup of coffee left over from earlier in the morning, that will help me power through bedtime. But somehow, in that beautiful mess, something sacred happens. The table is where stories tumble out.
Sure, the table is rarely spotless and never quiet, but it’s always, always the place where our family’s heart shows up and stays a while.
No, my table isn’t perfect. My life isn’t either. But the stories being told around it? Those are what I’ll carry forever.
Stories Created In The Candlelight
A while ago, I read Sally Clarkson’s suggestion to light candles at dinner. Honestly, it felt a little ridiculous at first—like, who has time for ambiance in this stage of life? But I decided to try it anyway. (Okay, fine, I also used it as an excuse to buy a cute candelabra from Target I had my eye on.)
I lit the nine candles, placed the giant, ornate candelabra in the middle of the table, and called the kids to dinner. It felt… peaceful. Like we were marking this meal as significant, even with the background noise of “I want ice CREAMMMM.”
Sanity eventually won, and that candelabra is long gone. But our candle ritual stuck (now simplified with three black candlestick holders).
Fast forward to the other night, when we’d all sat down, said grace, and were seconds from digging in. That’s when my three-year-old shot out of her chair and yelled, “WAIT! We haven’t lit the candles yet!”
Her tone was so serious, it made me laugh, and honestly, it made me proud. It wasn’t about the candles themselves—it was about what they represented. A small tradition. A small pause. A small way to remind us that this moment mattered.
What I’m learning is that these small, ordinary rituals have power. They give us moments to pause and delight in being together—even if chaos is banging on the kitchen door. Lighting a candle might seem simple, but it marks this gathering as sacred. It’s a gentle, flickering reminder of God’s presence in our everyday mess, an invitation for connection in the thick of real life.
You don’t need grand gestures for a meaningful family table. Sometimes, all it takes is a tiny flame and a chance to pay attention.
Food, Family, and Spaghetti Sauce
Once upon a time, in the oh-so-glamorous setting of my college dorm kitchen, I made dinner for a boy. (Spoiler alert, I married him.) At the time, we were still in the early stages of dating, and by “made dinner,” I mean I boiled some spaghetti and reheated a bag of frozen sauce my mom sent me back to school with. The sauce was her recipe—a staple for my sister and me when we were feeling homesick. I had essentially performed the culinary equivalent of reheating leftovers, but he raved about it all night. Raved. (I did not correct him.)
That spaghetti recipe became his favorite. And over the years, it became ours. Now, it’s what we eat every Christmas Eve. The girls dig into their bowls with the kind of gusto that guarantees tomato sauce in their hair and somehow maybe even on the walls. Last year, one of my daughters happily licked her high chair tray. Yep. Real life.
It’s wild how food makes its way into our family stories. It’s not really about the “fancy.” It’s about comfort, tradition, and the love that’s passed hand to hand (sometimes in the form of a freezer bag of spaghetti sauce, let’s be real).
It’s not just about what’s on the plate, but who’s gathered around it and the story that’s being passed down—often without us even realizing it.
Every bite is a reminder: God’s provision is in the simple stuff. That spaghetti isn’t just a meal—it’s comfort that fills bellies and hearts alike. Family meals become a quiet place to give thanks for the abundance, imperfect as it may look, that He places right in front of us.
Fingers Clasped in Prayer
For the past year, we’ve been saying the same simple prayer before meals. You know the one.
God is great. God is good. And we thank Him for our food. By His hands we all are fed. Give us, Lord, our daily bread. Amen.
When we first started, I honestly thought the words might just float right over my kids’ heads. That’s totally okay. I wanted to say the prayer for me, as my reminder to be grateful as we wound down the day.
But something amazing happened. My oldest not only started mumbling the prayer along with us but made it her personal mission to remind us to pray if we forgot. And my youngest? She stretches her little hands into a tight, white-knuckled clasp as if her life depends on it.
Watching them grasp the idea of prayer—even as toddlers—is a reminder of how sacred even the simplest moments around the table can be.
Embracing the Mess (and the Stories Inside It)
Here’s the thing: my table will never win any awards for tidiness (if you’ve met a preschooler, you know). But what I’m learning—slowly, sometimes stubbornly—is that it’s in the messiness, not the “put together,” that we find real connection.
When we stop chasing perfect dinners and start inviting each other into the honest, jumbled reality, that’s where the good stuff happens. That’s where stories get told and heard. These small rituals add up, layering meaning over the mundane, until one day you look back and realize: this is where our family story was built.
While we’re talking about hosting, a little confession: I love a pretty table. If you’re looking to add some fun or beauty to your own dinner routines, I put together a list of my favorite hosting and dinner finds right here. (You know—the things that make you feel like the hostess-with-the-mostest even if there are Legos on the floor!)
If you visit my home, I’ll do my best to vacuum before you get there and shove most of the toys from the floor into the hall closet. But the mess? You’re welcome in it, always. Because the best stories don’t unfold in spotless rooms; they show up in the middle of ordinary.
The table doesn’t have to be perfect. The food doesn’t have to be fancy. What really matters is the love, the laughter, and the stories told there.
And if your toddler decides to lick the high chair tray? That’s just another great story to tell.
