I’m currently sitting at my kitchen table. It’s the same table where I eat breakfast; write for work and write for fun; where I scribble out grocery lists, wrap gifts, and sit with friends. This maple table has two leaves that fold down at either end, making it much smaller. So really, it could be a side table, entry-way table, or, in my case, the sole table in my studio table. The jack of all tables, if you will. 

The fun thing about this table is that it hasn’t always been my table. This may seem obvious because we all know I didn’t come out of the womb with a large piece of furniture in hand. No one starts out with a table. Rather, this table is new-to-me. Before moving out of my sorority house in college, I didn’t have much furniture to my name at all. And while I’m just now getting acquainted with this fine piece of woodwork, it’s actually been around the block quite a bit. 

This is one of those magnificent pieces with a story. The best kinds of pieces, in my opinion. My grandpa was a big antiquer. His house and office held a hodgepodge of his miscellaneous pieces, yet somehow they all (mostly) worked together to create a western, traditional, mature style. He’d accumulated so many different pieces over the years that it spilled into his office, and this passion is one of the ways I remember him most. 

I’m not sure where he got this specific table that now houses my life (seriously, I use it for everything), but I know it was his, and I know there’s a story behind it. Even if I don’t know all the details. And this table that’s been in Texas and Iowa and who knows where else is mine to take care of now. 

It’s not a perfect table by any means. It’s sure seen a few bumps and bruises along the way. It’s scarred and vintage and so different from what I might have chosen for myself if I were to buy something brand spanking new. 

But whenever I set the table and sit down across from a friend, or whenever I sprawl out colored pens and markers and journals, I’m so grateful this is the hand I was dealt (and for the hands that built it). I wouldn’t have it any other way—this imperfect, retro table is somehow the most perfect thing for me, today. 

It makes me wonder. 

What are we handing down? What are we chasing, building, or collecting today that will stick with our kids, and their kids, and then theirs?

Some physical items, I’m sure. A table, a ring, a photo album, a marked-up Bible. Physical items can carry so much character and charm, unlocking enchanting stories and memories. 

But I wonder. 

What about our character? What about the women we are and the women we’re becoming? What, from our innermost selves, will we want to pass down? And a harder few questions:

What won’t we want to pass down?

What do we want to remove from the equation now so our daughters and granddaughters and great-gran littles won’t have to sort through for themselves?

These are big questions because there’s a lot on the line. It’s bigger than you and me. It’s about the next generation. About believing in something we can’t yet see. Sounds a lot like every other part of our faith, too. 

Just as we would with physical items, we need to take inventory of our hearts, our emotional, mental, physical, and spiritual health, and our habits. Brushing the things we deem ugly under the rug only works for so long. But when the next generation rises beside us, we’re not only handing them the rug—but everything we tried to shove under it for X number of years, too. 

Oof. 

In my experience, there will always be bumps and bruises in this life, on this side of Heaven. Moments, seasons, events, and conversations that are anything but pleasant. So we can drop the idea that we can hand anyone a perfect, seamless life and generational story on a silver platter. Influencing the next generation doesn’t mean we have to be perfect or achieve a perfect status of healing. We can chase that perceived state of perfection all day long, but there will never come an hour when we actually reach it. So much better to pass down a sturdy table that’s weathered a few storms than something that can’t stand on its own—or nothing at all. 

Your creativity, passions, callings, healing, health—they matter. They matter a great deal. And pursuing those things—living a full, wholehearted life—does not equate to perfection. There will be bumps and bruises. Scratches and stains. But not living at all? Choosing to live under fear and doubt’s reign? What kind of story does that leave behind? What messages does that send, what lesson does that pass down?

I hope the story of my kitchen table is just getting started. I pray there are many more hours of work, play, dinners and desserts, spilled drinks and spilled hearts, and charcuterie boards and dinner parties thrown together at the last minute. 

And I hope more than anything else that this table doesn’t end with me. That there are thousands more stories to be told around its stained surface. I’m not sure when it’ll be passed down or where it will live, but I will bravely march forward with the utmost care and intentionality to leave behind the heavy, unhealthy, and hard pieces of today so the future owner can delight in its magnificence, ready to live out their own wholehearted story.