To Gather Around a Table

A single conversation across the table with a wise man is better than ten years mere study of books.

Henry Wadworth Longfellow

My love affair with the table began with an F in high school French class. The failing grade prompted my parents to send me on an overseas immersion experience in France, where open-air food markets, home-cooked meals with host families, and quaint bistros opened a new way of experiencing the importance of gathering around tables to share meals and life.

That summer I learned far more than how to conjugate verbs. The most powerful experience wasn't the language or the scrumptious new foods like chocolate éclairs and croque monsieurs ... it was the ritual of sitting at the table. People in France gathered at tables not just once a week, not just for holidays, but three times a day, giving a whole new meaning to "leisurely meal."

Their lunch lasted two hours; dinner could last all night. One night dinner with my host family was still going strong at 10:00 p.m. Gregarious in story, the father slammed his fists down on the table, the water carafe spilling over. The conversation was exuberant, although the details were lost on me, as I still hadn't mastered the language. Their heads were thrown back in laughter, and the entire family was engaged. I didn't need to understand the conversation to know I craved this kind of experience at the dinner table. My French brother, Phillipe, slapped my shoulder in a gesture for me to join in. I belonged at the table.

While I savored Brie and baguettes in the tiny French village of Ornans, I thought of our table back home. Adjacent to the kitchen, the dining room featured a modern, custom-made Lucite table with navy blue velvet, high-back chairs. The fabulously stylish clear table, however, was only used for special occasions such as Christmas, Easter, and dinner parties.

Sitting at the simple table in France I noticed the contrast immediately and craved the slower, authentic time to connect. I was a stranger in a foreign land, yet being at the table in France fed a basic need — a need every human shares — to belong. The experience at the table was more than a meal; it was nourishment for my soul.

France offered me a model of what could be.

LONGING FOR THE TABLE

Two decades later, as a busy wife and mom in a suburban neighborhood in Texas, I realized again how crazy life is and how laughable the vision of a long lunch seemed. I didn't realize you can't import a cultural value as easily as a jar of Nutella; and I struggled against a busy, hectic culture as I tried to create space to gather around my own table for laughter and conversation. Most days it was a challenge to get the Crock-Pot plugged in, much less to get my busy family of six to slow down and sit down at the table.

It gave me a pit in my stomach. Our four children were growing up in an era where handwritten letters and talking on the telephone were as foreign to them as those first few days in France were to me. They were beginning to use emojis and photos instead of proper sentences to communicate with their friends and each other. I was afraid to ask the question aloud, "Are we losing the ability to sit at the table and talk?" Forget learning a new language, I feared we were losing the art of conversation.

And having friends over felt impossible! Trying to coordinate schedules between work and volunteer commitments, school meetings, soccer practice, and band concerts was futile. All these were good activities — but they left little or no time to sit down and catch up.

There we all were, calendars beeping notifications while we texted our apologies to each other, waving a quick hello in the carpool lane. This isn't how it's supposed to be, is it? I wanted to recreate something rich and real again — like what I experienced all those years ago in France. I wanted the family table experience, and I wanted to extend it to other important people in my life. So I tried. I tried hard.

Because my brain was already on overdrive, I consulted Pinterest and flipped through Bon Appétit, Better Homes & Gardens, and other glossy magazines for recipes and decoration ideas. I overcomplicated everything and wore myself out. Instead of slowing down for a leisurely time with friends and family, I was busier than ever. The more I talked with people, the more I realized we all struggle with being too busy. We are living frazzled lifestyles, disconnected from authentic friendships in a society that idolizes busyness. It's taking its toll.

Somewhere along the way, exhausted and discouraged and coming unhinged, I scored another big fat F. Once again I was failing. This time I was trying too hard, focusing on the wrong things, worried about the food and the perfection of hosting people for parties. My effort to recreate the magic of gathering at the table bombed like a fallen soufflé.

I struggled to find my way back to a table that would welcome people with ease and create a sense of belonging. I cried. I prayed. I just couldn't see what to do, until one day, it appeared: the Turquoise Table. It literally landed in my front yard — an ordinary wooden picnic table that sparked a new way of seeing what belonging could look like. It didn't look quite like the tables in France, but it captured the essence of belonging as curious friends and neighbors stepped out to find out what this table was about, and they sat down to find out it was for them.

The Turquoise Table brought with it far more than I ever imagined. It led to a revival of community in the simplest place of all: a table in our front yard.

AN INVITATION TO THE TABLE

I'll tell you the story of the Turquoise Table and how It's led to a movement of Front Yard People-people just like you and me who want to create community right where they live. It's a story that flows from my experience as a Christian, and at the same time you'll see this table is not about a special person or a particular faith. The Turquoise Table is a place for everyone from every walk of life to sit down in safety, dignity, respect, and love-to be heard and to belong.

If you are busy and overwhelmed, the last thing you need is one more project, one more thing to do. Well, you'll see the Turquoise Table offers simplicity. It's more than a table; it's a symbol of reaching out and making room without all the fuss and frenzy.

In the following pages I offer simple ideas and tips so you can begin using the Turquoise Table in your community and provide solutions to questions you may have. I'll share stories from real people who are using their tables every day, all year long, to enjoy old friends and make new ones. You will see how uncomplicated life at the table can be.

Sometimes we are called far and wide on a mission, but more often we are called to love others in our everyday, ordinary lives ... right where we live: in our own front yards.

This book is my invitation to you. An invitation to join me at the Turquoise Table and to live as Front Yard People. Come to the table, friends.

Frazzled and Distracted

If there is room in the heart, there is room in the house.

Danish Proverb

Ten years ago I sat next to my husband, Tony, in the conference room of a title company signing a gazillion papers to purchase our home. The original homeowner sat across from us. Near the end of our document-signing marathon, she made a plea.

"We have a tradition in the neighborhood — an annual Memorial Day party." She began sharing stories about the "Party in the Cove," named for the cul-de-sac where our new-to-us home was located. "Promise me you'll keep the Cove parties going for the neighborhood."

I had no idea what I was promising, but a party sounded easy enough, and fun. "Of course," I said without much thought. Never mind that I didn't know anyone on our new street. Besides, it was February. I had plenty of time to figure it out.

We moved into our house, and I kept the promise to keep the Memorial Day tradition that had been going on for decades. The first year, we sent our young children door-to-door with handmade flyers touting barbecues and balloons. The Party in the Cove was such fun we continued the tradition in the years that followed. Each year the Cove party took on a different theme — we'd bring in magicians or bouncy houses, music and giant inflatable water slides. Spectacular events, these parties were loads of fun, luring everyone outside to relax and interact. They met a deeply felt need to connect, outside, where none of us had to worry about vacuuming our living room carpets or whipping up hors d'oeuvres. The party freed us from entertaining and invited us out into our yards. Though it was a huge effort for the organizers, our neighbors enjoyed the event and experienced a true sense of community.

We felt something special, together, but as soon as the coolers were emptied and the lawn chairs were packed away, we disappeared behind our fences, settling into the comfort of our backyards. Twelve months is a long time to go between neighborhood get-togethers. And it's embarrassing to admit, but even after several Cove parties I didn't know for sure if it was the Gerries or the Whitneys who lived in the house with the yellow shutters three doors down. What would it take for us to gather more frequently? Couldn't we do it without bouncy houses? Could we keep it simple?

About that time, I read a Bible verse that stuck with me and kept replaying in my head: "Take every opportunity to open your life and home to others" (Romans 12:13).

WHEN HOSPITALITY FEELS HARD

The part about opening your life and home to others I had heard — so much so that it started to sound a little like a Hallmark card. But the part that kept rolling around in my head was "every opportunity." Every opportunity. That's a lot! That sounds like always and constantly! What on earth? How in the world do you do that? Not just on Thursdays if the floors are clean and the laundry is put away. Not just on Tuesdays if you're having a good hair day and the kids are at school. Not just when you wake up and you're in the mood. But every opportunity.

I wanted to take Romans 12:13 to heart. I wanted to live it out in practical ways, but I was in the middle of raising and growing our family. During this time we welcomed our fourth baby, Sarah, into the world. As life was growing busier and busier, it became harder to imagine where those "every opportunities" were going to come from. I was trying hard to find ways to open my life and my home to others, both with neighbors and friends.

Over the years, I did what I thought the verse meant and managed to host parties, Bible studies, book clubs, and swim parties, but it was nuts. I was in survival mode, barely handling the carpool, and here I was trying to open my life and home at every opportunity; going wide, but not deep. I was craving depth but skimming the surface. In reality I was barely treading water, using up what little energy I had planning a play date. Clearly I was missing something about what Romans 12:13 really means.

Our kids' activities ramped up the older they got, and I kept trying to stack on another idea to open my home. It got to the point where I decided to slap a bumper sticker on the minivan that reads "Queen of Crazy." Most weeks I was wearing the cliché "It's all good!" like a cheap T-shirt. I only had time for so much and found myself screaming out to God in surrender, "Lord, edit my life!" If there was any silver lining to this craziness, it's that I wasn't alone. My friends were feeling frazzled too.

Our communication styles shifted as well. When our oldest son, Will, was born, there was no such thing as texts. But with the introduction of smart phones, we began texting instead of talking. Virtual communities were a quick and easy way to stay in touch on the go. Face-to-face conversations were often limited to the dairy aisle at the grocery store. We'd always say, "I'm fine," knowing there was more behind the pat response, but we had no time to stop and listen. We had to grab the milk and move on to the next thing.

Our culture idolizes busyness, and without knowing it, we'd fallen prey to a false sense of connection. And we continued to sit in the driver's seat of our minivans, scratching our heads, wondering, Is this it?

How Frazzled Are You?

CALENDAR QUIZ

Do you rule your calendar, or does your calendar rule you? Take this quiz to see how you're spending your time and energy.

Looking at my calendar stresses me out — there's no empty space! ____ Yes ____ No

I enjoy getting together with friends, but when I look at the calendar, the first available date is over a month out ____ Yes ____ No

I have a hard time saying no and end up overcommitting myself. ____ Yes ____ No

I enjoy getting together with friends, but when I look at the calendar, the first available date is over a month out. ____ Yes ____ No

No matter what I do, it seems every minute of the day is scheduled for something. ____ Yes ____ No

I often wish I had more time for things I enjoy. ____ Yes ____ No

Everything on my calendar is good and important. ____ Yes ____ No

I feel powerless over my time and commitments. ____ Yes ____ No

Someone important to me has said, "You've got too much on your plate." ____ Yes ____ No

I've missed important events because I'm too exhausted to add one more thing to the calendar. ____ Yes ____ No

My calendar is filled with activities and obligations for the people I love-spouse, children, parents. ____ Yes ____ No

Give yourself 1 point for each "yes" response

HOW'D YOU DO?

7-10 Welcome to the Frazzled Club. It's time to slow down and make space for yourself.

4-6 Looks like you are managing, but guard the space you have created for yourself or it will fill up fast!

0-3 Well done! Looks like you are doing great finding time to connect. Why not encourage others by sharing your secret with the rest of us? Permission to slow down and connect might be exactly what your friends and neighbors need.

CRAVING COMMUNITY

We live in the digital age — t he most connected era in all of history — yet statistics show we're lonelier than ever. We live in a chatty world, but we have lost the power to communicate. We're starving for connection that can't be found in a tweet or text, but only face-to-face in community.

Maybe the antidote to the frazzled lifestyle was rooted in that promise I made to continue our Party in the Cove. Maybe we needed to slow down long enough to step outside in the fresh air where our kids could run free, like we did once a year. That gathering offered hints of nostalgia, of a time before cell phones, before calendars ruled the world, when people gathered in front yards, hanging out and doing life together. It's as if the generation before us knew something we have forgotten about opening up their lives and homes to others through the simplicity of their front porch, a carefree lifestyle, being neighbors to neighbors. I felt the longing, but I was too busy spinning my wheels to open my front door and walk out onto the lawn. What would it take to reclaim community in a simple and authentic way? I wanted more for my family and our neighborhood, but I couldn't see how to fix it. Maybe you've felt this way too.

A Turquoise Table Story

I don't remember the exact words I spoke as my children arrived sleepily in the kitchen hoping for something warm to eat for breakfast. Busy with an e-mail, I was already distracted at 6:30 am I waved them away and muttered something to the tune of, "Get your own breakfast."

Seriously? I had no more than thirty minutes with the kids before they headed out the door to school, and this was how I greeted them? I didn't even make eye contact.

My children didn't give two flips about what kind of breakfast I served (as long as there was no visible spinach). They were just sleepy, hungry, and wanted some help getting food. Actually, what they wanted was me. But before the sun even lit the sky, I had already been about as inhospitable as I could be.

After the busyness of our morning routine and alone in our quiet house, I took a minute, sulking in shame, to think about what I could have done differently. For me, it hinged on one word — distraction. I've long forgotten the content of that 6:30 a.m. e-mail, but I'll never forget the feeling of distancing my own children. The experience served as a wakeup call.

I'd been distracted by my phone many mornings as well, checking my Instagram stream and scrolling through Facebook. Who's even on Instagram at seven in the morning? Who even cares?

I wanted to take a few minutes to turn toward our children, to give them my time, my attention. Whether I poured cereal, tossed a bagel in the toaster, or we worked together making sandwiches for school lunches, it was about being present.