Across the Table

If I could sit across the table from you, I’d tell you that it’s felt like forever since we broke bread together.

If I could sit across the table from you, I’d say that the cacophony of voices in my house — rising and falling with each minute — is the most beautiful song I’ve ever heard.

If I could sit across the table from you, I’d say that this lockdown has been lonely and long.

If I could sit across the table from you, then it might feel like the axis that has become so crooked is set right again.

There’s something about being together that tears away pretence and gives us permission to utter the words we’d only whisper to ourselves before. I’ve heard people say “its so good to gather even though we can’t be together,” when it comes to livestreams and Zooms and other digital formats — but my veins are screaming for a strong hit of caffeine and I’ve been handed decaf for the last four months and please, for the love of coffee, hand me the real stuff. I am done with the imitations.

If I could sit across the table from you, I’d admit that I’ve wondered where God is in all this mess and illness and isolation and death. I’d admit that I’ve watched seeds turn to sunflowers and their beauty has been enough to make me smile but not enough to draw me to praise. I’d admit that it’s dry here in the desert, and the land of milk and honey may be as simple as friends and family in the same room with silliness and seriousness.

If I could sit across from you, I think we’d all let out the breath we’ve been holding because it’s good to be together and to gather is to experience grace beyond belief — in which we hold one another and are held together. We’d know that somewhere in this season there has been grace too, even if we can’t see it or we may never see it.

If I could sit across the table from you, I would.

When this lockdown ends, we could.

Cheers to that. To you, and to me, and to us, and to gathering — to together.