I am a Southerner through and through.  Southern born and Southern “bread”, corn bread and biscuits, the staples nailing down the roots of all the dinners and suppers in our Southern home.  Flat cakes and round mounds of pure heaven on a plate fried, baked, salted, dipped and sopped we learned everything about God around the table.

Nobody preached, papa prayed a standard of “Thank the Lord for..(dinner or supper)” with a resounding sound of plates and forks making music swiftly at the final Amen. 

Women surrounded the table serving like a small covey of quail scattering in flight back to the kitchen only when the sound of an empty bowl or glass was heard.  God blessed us there at the table.

Papa’s cup was never empty always overflowing to the saucer underneath.  I recall the sound as he always drank from the overflowing saucer first.  Sad how today we take a cup of coffee for granted.

Not a thousand bucks could hire the star of this performance.  Love was the guest and our plates were always covered with plenty.  More than food was put away here at The Family Table.

Hard times were concealed here under the table.  Hands scarred from burns on the stove were wrapped in aprons and feet swollen from walking a long row to hoe were all welcome to find solace of rest at the table.  Tiny baby feet always dangled on a knee as new generations found a place at the table.  The table never lets you forget.  The smells wake you up in the morning and linger like a mist through the night.

How beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news to the world?  It’s like a good meal at the table.

Someone counted the cost.

Someone paid the price.

Someone prepared.

Someone served.

We all come and dine and that same one…cleans up the mess.

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