Wonderstruck (14 page)

After the dishes were dried, I sat on the couch in the living room, inspecting the table.
Maybe it’s the table. It can’t be the table
, I reasoned.
There’s no magic in the table. There’s absolutely no magic in this table
.

Wait a minute!
My mouth cracked open. I traced the last ten months in my mind. From waving to neighbors across the street to bolting out of their driveways after dropping off a loaf of bread to trite conversations in stiff settings, we had kept others at arm’s length. Up until that point, I knew
what
we were missing but not
why
we were missing it. I embraced the shallowness of a hundred “Hey, neighbor” conversations without ever letting my guard down. Even when I delivered challah bread, I never entered anyone’s home. The encounters were brief, limited, safe. Though I beckoned people with one hand to come closer, I extended the other palm out holding them back. Instead of creating appropriate boundaries with people that allowed for healthy, life-giving exchanges—as my counselor recommended—I built walls that kept people out.

In our living room, however, I risked vulnerability. This room is the space where I take naps, snuggle with my husband, cry after a bad day. In the kitchen, I’m “Margaret, the affable host,” but in the living room, I’m just Margaret. Just me.

To rediscover the wonder of friendship, I had to change. Rather than holding people back, I needed to invite them in. My hands required unclenching and my soul exposing. I had to learn to be more freely myself—more focused on the rewards of good relationship than the possibility of being hurt. When we gathered around the table in our living room, my heart laid out a welcome mat.

The temptation to live a guarded life allures everyone, but walls constructed for protection ultimately lead to isolation. When we develop healthy boundaries and a sustainable rhythm in life, we have more—not less—time for deep, meaningful relationships.

Receiving the life God has for you requires vulnerability. God wants you to build a life without walls—one in which he is your protection—allowing you to live with arms wide open, where you can know and be fully known. Such a place doesn’t exist without moments of hurt, rejection, and misunderstanding, but in this posture, you lay hold of the wonder of friendship God intended all along.

Though our living room table isn’t magical, as I sit on the couch, feet perched on its wooden frame, and review its scars, I recognize the antique as symbolic of the wonder God had been awakening in my life. The table is physically composed of rich and meaningful imagery, its surface an actual door—representative of opportunity and invitation, hope and possibility.

Doors line our lives. Glance down the hallway of an apartment complex or a suburban street, and doors align in every direction. Some wait to be opened; others remain shut no matter how long fists beat against their frames. Much of life is spent selecting which doors to knock on, enter, and exit, and much
of our time around our table is spent discussing those choices.

Doors are not the same as a room. We don’t live in doorways; we pass through them. That may be one reason Jesus drew on this rich symbol in his teachings—he knew the temporary nature of this earthly life all too well.
I am the door. I stand at the door. Choose the narrow door
. Jesus himself passed through the doorway of two worlds when he donned the uniform of human flesh. He used the imagery of a door, maybe one as heavy and worn as our tabletop, to beckon people to communion with God.
¹
Through Christ, we can be ushered from the mundane and predictable to a whole new life and world.

When I reflect on my journey with God, I realize I’ve passed by a thousand doors in the form of opportunities but only entered a few. Glancing back over my shoulder to doors of opportunity I’ve passed, some marked by many prayers and others by far too few, I find myself second-guessing what would have happened if I had passed through.

I know that many doors are far better left closed. God warns Cain that sin crouches at the door, but Cain chooses to turn the knob, allowing the tensions of jealousy and anger to overwhelm him, and walks straight through. He kills his brother and passes over a threshold of no return.
²

Other doors testify to God’s safety. Protection. Grace. Like the door slamming behind Noah and his family after they are safely on the ark, or the door protecting Lot and his loved ones from being kidnapped.
³
To the spiritually tepid, like those at the
church of Laodicea, Jesus announces he’s standing at the entryway knocking. He refuses to kick down the frame and barge in. Instead, he waits—patient but persistent—for an invitation, standing ready with the spiritual nourishment our spirits crave.
⁴

On the night of his arrest, Jesus tells his followers that he is no longer calling them servants because those in the service of a master don’t have an idea what the one they serve is thinking or planning. Jesus renames his disciples “friends”—because he shares everything he hears from the Father.
⁵

Now, the title of being the “Lord’s servant” was already one of honor. Only a handful of people were given this privileged title throughout the Old Testament—including Moses, David, and Isaiah. Abraham alone received the titles of both servant and friend.
⁶

When Jesus calls his followers “friends,” he isn’t just speaking to those in the Upper Room before his death but to his disciples for generations to come. I find myself awestruck every time I consider that the Creator of the universe not only calls me friend but desires to walk in greater intimacy and affection with me each and every day.

God longs for both intimate friendship one-on-one and for us to discover friendship within a community. Yet experiencing the wonder of friendship with others requires us to let our guard down and allow others to pass through the doors not only of our homes but our lives.

I love the reflections and insights inspired by that rugged
old door-turned-tabletop. But the second part of the table offers lessons as well: the yoke.

The base is a yoke. I never dreamed of having a wooden yoke for oxen sitting in the middle of my living room. But this curvy piece provides the support for the heavy barn door tabletop. The frame also reminds me of the Scripture. In one of his most beloved discourses, the Son of God turns to those who are overworked and heavy-laden with the burdens of the religious leaders’ legalities and regulations and exhorts them to come, take his yoke.
⁷

The wonder of the invitation is that Jesus isn’t asking us to be his farm animal but his friend as our yoke mate. Jesus’ call isn’t to independence but interdependence—to plow, to pull together for the long haul. Through the mystery of Christ, a tool of oppression is transformed into a cloak of freedom.
⁸

When the old barn door and wooden yoke were fastened together, they formed a table—a symbol of connection, a holy relic of sorts. This is the rustic, battered-around-the-edges place we now gather for meals. The process of eating together reveals our humanness, pulling back the façade of our self-sufficiency. In the simplicity of asking someone to pass the butternut squash, we’re reminded we don’t just need food but each other. We cannot go it alone.

Gathered around a table, we fill our bellies and our souls. We feast as we taste and see the Lord’s goodness in our lives. The mystery of the table is that with mere wooden planks, a holy
intersection emerges where ideas roll, tumble, and somersault between souls. Together, we learn to speak the unspeakables and discover grace. In this place, we share the delight of renewed hope and opportunities as well as our burdens and responsibilities, even the ache of stillborn dreams. We listen to truths that are sometimes painful to hear. In such tender moments of fellowship and friendship, we sense the sweet presence of God in our midst.

Such relationships and moments of friendship don’t happen overnight. They take years to nurture and develop, but the rewards prove it is so worth the hard work. Over more afternoons and evenings than I can count since we’ve learned to let down our guard, I’ve sat before this table in awe of the wonder of relationship from which conversation flows.

Words are a gift through which we keep the past alive, the present bearable, the future hopeful. At this table I’ve encountered the mysteries of God, hearty questions of faith, breathtaking confessions of doubt. I’ve been reaffirmed that in the darkness of difficulties I face, I’m not alone—not the only one—and sometimes this simple knowledge gives me the courage to take the next step.

At this table I’ve seen a wellspring of tears unlocked, sometimes my own, and laughed until my belly ached. I’ve offered acceptance and received acceptance, being reminded that sometimes even the smallest changes are impossible without someone encouraging, “You are loved as you are.” Afterward,
I’ve tucked myself into bed marveling at the mysterious healing that took place.

But not every evening ends so well. Sometimes portions of the meal are undercooked, the flavors don’t come together, the conversation doesn’t connect. Ideas and tidbits of news bat back and forth without any spark of real intimacy or interest. What surprises me most is that our evenings around the table—whether they leave me awestruck or yawning—can be shared by the same people. Much like life, one night proves unforgettable while the next begs to be forgotten. Yet we continue to come together, offering our unguarded selves, because we recognize every table as a place where humanity can gather.

Without effort, the table testifies to the beauty of imperfection. Full of character, the weathered, dilapidated surface is part of what makes the table great. The wavy lines in the wood are blotched from far too many spills collected over time. Around this table we’ve learned to celebrate our flaws, finding hidden beauty in our faults and in our frailty.

When we purchased this old-door-turned-table, we never dreamed of the entryway it would become in our lives or the lives of others. Make no mistake, there’s nothing magical about the table; but when we gather around it we do so with the expectation
that we’ll share our hopes, our dreams, our lives with others as they share themselves with us.

Around this table, we forge new friendships and strengthen old.

Around this table, we mourn life’s savage losses.

Around this table, we share syllables—the most unsuspecting of which become transformative.

Around this table, we laugh, we cry, we remember.

Around this table, maybe more than any other place, we live.

When I’m at home, somewhere around this table is where you’ll find me most days. This table is where I share myself with God and others through a battered laptop, a place where I wrestle my fears to the ground in order to be known in the fullness of my humanity. This is the place I keep vigil on the deepest truths of my identity, a place where healing and hope are exchanged among longtime and soon-to-be friends.

We all need a table, a place where we gather to be fully and truly ourselves. Without such a place, we may lose track of our souls, embracing a cheap, snap-together fiberboard image of ourselves instead of the uneven, rustic, knotty reality that, when unveiled, reveals the mystery and beauty of the
imago dei
—the image of God. We need a place where we pray for a replenished wonder of friendship and wait for God to answer in unexpected ways.

When are you most tempted to hold people back at arm’s length? When do you allow the temptation of living a guarded life to get the best of you? What are you doing to grow and nurture the meaningful relationships God has for you?

If you want to seize the wonder of friendship in your life, find your table. Discover that place—whether it’s in your dining room or living room or favorite restaurant or coffee shop—where you can be fully yourself and warm your soul in the glow of both knowing and being known. And when you find this space, live with vulnerability. Pass freely through the doorway of friendship and bring along as many people as you can. Share your burdens, and give others a hand. Rediscover the lost art of conversation. Treasure the hidden wealth of comradeship. Know others from the inside out instead of merely the outside in.

When Leif and I waved good-bye to Alaska and said hello to Colorado, the uncertainty of our future both worried and energized us. Despite our quiet apprehension about the transition, we knew an adventure awaited. But we had no idea that the greatest exploits would unfurl inside our own home. Eating off our laps. Opening our lives to others. Gathering around a well-worn hunk of wood.

That table may not be magical, but it’s sure seen some miracles.