An Ode To Tables
An Ode To Tables
The Story of Our Tables and Transitions
As you may know, our family spent the past decade living and working in Vancouver before moving to Victoria in March of last year. Initially, we stayed with my parents in their guest cottage while searching for our own place. It wasn’t until early May that we found a home. But we couldn't move in until July. As we began to imagine our life in our new space, Julia and I both agreed: we’re going to need a bigger table.
Tables are expensive (and don’t get me started about chairs). Our search for a suitable table that could fit the size of our new home and fit within our budget was already challenging, but on top of that, Julia and I had trouble coming to a consensus on which one to choose. However, our luck changed when we stumbled upon a Yeah, this will do table on Marketplace. We decided to purchase it with the plan that I would refinish it. I figured all I would need was an orbital sander and some stain. But I soon realized, in the words of Gob Bluth:
I’ve made a huge mistake.
The Refinished Table
The first challenge of the table was the finish. Naively, I assumed I could sand it off. But as I got to work I discovered it was a half-inch thick Polyurethane finish. Sanding couldn’t remove it. I adjusted my strategy and bought a chemical stripper—but to no avail. The finish just laughed at me. That is, until a friend suggested I try a heat gun. It did the trick. But the process was painstakingly slow. I heated the table inch by inch and as the finished crackled and bubbled I chipped it away with a chisel.
Once the finish was gone, I uncovered the unapologetic excess of Polyurethane was for two purposes. First, it was used to level the table which was far from level without it. Second, it concealed numerous imperfections. I chose to embrace the imperfections (because I’ve read Brené Brown) and focus on levelling the table. But after several passes with my trusty sander, I had to switch to a jointer plane. Slowly, but surely, I managed to (mostly) level the table.
I was then ready to sand the table, and sand it again, and again for good measure. Then I stained the table, opting for a water-based stain that looked promising. However, a thin layer of varnish reacted strangely with the stain. Unsightly blotches appeared everywhere. I had no choice but to sand the whole table back down to the wood and reapply the stain. (At this point, I lost count of how many times I sanded the entire tabletop. But if you ever need someone to sand something, I’ve got experience.)
The next step of my expert process was refinishing the underside of the tabletop. I unbolted it from the legs, flipped it over, and repeated the process with fewer mistakes. I was blessed with a pleasant surprise: the underside had less blemishes and was more appealing than the top. So I decided to fill the bolt holes and use it as the top. But then I faced a new challenge. Despite my efforts to level the table, it wouldn’t stay level. Because I hadn’t re-secured it to the base and legs, which caused the tabletop to bow despite my (multiple) efforts to fix it. Another rookie mistake.
After I finally fastened the table to its base and legs, the table agreed to become level, sanded, and ready for staining. But at this point, I wasn’t happy with the natural colour of the wood nor its imperfections (sorry Brené). So I purchased white stain which would be a little more forgiving than a clear finish. A few coats of white stain later, it seemed the table was finally finished and it looked pretty decent. But …
The following morning, brown rings that looked like coffee cup stains marred the table. Certain knots in the wood refused to absorb the stain. At this point, Julia couldn’t even laugh with me at my folly anymore. Lord, have mercy. But I was resolved. I aggressively sanded the knots and applied additional coats of stain—settling for the benediction of It is good … enough
Now, the kicker:
After countless hours of labor, afternoons spent, frustration accrued in bulk—a comedy of errors—neither Julia nor I found the table’s style to our liking. We decided to part ways with it. I listed it on Marketplace for the cost we paid plus the cost of materials. But weeks went by and I received no offers. I slowly lowered the price until I had it down to the cost of the table itself. I eventually sold it to a young family for less than what we purchased the table for—but at least they were excited about it.
The lesson of the story?
I have no future in refinishing furniture.
But if you stick with me a little while longer, I’ll get to the point.
The Sobótka Table
A decade ago, just after we relocated from Orlando to Vancouver, Julia and I purchased a small, round, extendable oak dining table on Etsy. It was the perfect size (40” diameter) for the limited square footage of our Vancouver townhouse. It also fit our aesthetic ideals. Win-win. But without realizing it, we had commissioned a woodworker in Sobótka, Poland to build the table for us. This wasn’t a problem. But shipping a table from Sobótka to Vancouver, well … it turned into an ordeal. After several months, we lost hope and committed it to the dead. But eventually our Sobótka table made its way into our home—and it was good.
This is the table we decided to replace when we moved into our bigger space in Victoria. This past August, I listed our old faithful table on Marketplace. Unlike the table I had refinished, offers quickly filled up my inbox. I ended up selling it to another young family who planned to refinish it (I can only hope they actually know what they’re doing).
As I cleaned the table for the last time and helped load it into the back of their pickup truck, a crack opened up in my heart. I almost started to cry as grief swelled up in me. Awkwardly, I tried to pretend to be someone who doesn’t cry over tables. To draw attention away from my feelings, I insisted the family take some of the pulled pork I had just pulled off my smoker. The husband was elated, the wife suspicious. It was wonderfully awkward in the unique way that God has graced me to make normal events unnecessarily abnormal.
Then they packed up our Sobótka table and drove away.
What was going on within me?
Selling our old table made our move from Vancouver to Victoria more real, definitive, final.
As I sat in our new home without our old table, I felt the weight of the ending and all that comes with it.
A new beginning—no matter how good and exciting—underscores the ending. I’ve had this experience in many different ways over the past year: the literal change of scenery and routines, schools for our kids, office spaces for Julia, distance from our friends, leaving the church we planted and loved, our neighbours and home. But selling our table touched the grief more deeply. (As an aside, when Julia and I moved from Orlando to Vancouver, going to a new barber had the same effect).
But the grief makes sense.
Our old table was more than a table. It was a memory album. I looked back and remembered all that had happened at a centre piece in a decade of our life. At our table, hosted countless meals with acquaintances, friends, family, and ministry like Alpha, Community Groups, pastoral care, marriage preparation and counselling, and more. Around the table, we hosted evenings of playing settlers of Catan and Rummikub not to mention Sleeping Queens. On most Fridays, our dearest friends squeezed around the table for Sabbath dinners. Over the years, the oak became stained and marred by crayons, paint, and markers from our children’s crafts. It was scratched and bruised and less pretty—but it was ours. At this table, we watched our kids grow from highchairs to chairs, from toddlers to little kids. It was the place where Julia and I often sat together late into the night talking and eating ice cream out of the tub with a single spoon.
Our table was a symbol of the fullness of life.
And just like that, it was loaded into the back of a pickup truck and gone into the life of another family.
There’s a point coming soon, I promise. Just not quite yet.
A New Table
Inevitably, Julia and I found a new table we both liked and that was within our budget. (It had its own ordeal and story too but I’ll spare you the details). It’s very nice, and unlike our old table, it can easily seat 10-12 people since it’s 9 feet long. It also fits the Japandi style we’re trying to pull off. We have resumed many of our rituals around the table—except now I insist on people using coasters. I’m embracing my age.
Last Halloween, my sister and her family as well as my Mom came to our house. For the first time, all of us could comfortably sit around the table together as we ate Dominos pizza and strategized for ransacking as much candy as possible from the neighbourhood. It was a new memory, and a delightful one as I looked around and took in the presence of my family. As I sat there, I looked forward with a sense of hope and anticipation: there will be new, albeit different, memories formed at this table. We will laugh and cry and celebrate and grieve and still eat ice cream out of the tub with a single spoon. We will host dinners, build friendships, talk about God and pray. Because any table dedicated to hospitality will be a symbol of the fullness of life.
Tables, Tables, Tables! What’s the point?
Now, let’s get to the point: why this ode to tables?
In his book Transitions, William Bridges talks about the three phases of a life transitions: endings, chaos, and new beginnings. But when we go through change, we often think we can skip past the ending, let alone the chaos it stirs and how these realities come with us into new beginnings.
When I look at all the afternoons I spent outside attempting to refinish a table, I was really working out my emotions (sort of like the man who keeps mowing his lawn to process grief). I was in a new place, but I felt the loss of the old, and the chaos of uncertainty too: What is next? Even now, a year later, I’m still not certain (albeit there are glimmers of more new beginnings). When we sold our Sobótka table, the grief became acute with a deeper sense of finality. As we’ve held space for endings and chaos, the hope and joy of news beginnings slowly emerged. Yes, I can see what William Bridges articulates as a transition.
I originally wanted to connect my ode to tables to the table of communion, but it felt forced. As a result, this article I wrote back in November sat and collected dust as a draft. But I return to it now and here is what I see:
Tables are much more than pieces of furniture. They are anchors in our lives, silent witnesses to our joys and sorrows, our growth and change.
Tables are much more than pieces of furniture. They are anchors in our lives, silent witnesses to our joys and sorrows, our growth and change. Each table tells a story, marked by the moments shared around it. From the struggles of refinishing a table to the bittersweet farewell of our beloved Sobótka table, I’ve learned that these tables are sacraments of sorts: they are visible reminders of our now invisible memories. They host our lives, our friendships, our experiences, our emotions. And quietly, they testify to the goodness and grace God lavishes upon us at each meal.
In selling our old table, I faced the tangible loss of a chapter in our lives. It was a reminder that life always involves letting go, the ending of a chapter, even when it’s painful. Yet, this process also made space for new beginnings—a new table, a new home, new memories waiting to be made.
Our new table, at least in this moment, is a testament to resilience and continuity. It signifies the ongoing journey of our family, the promise of future meals, conversations, and shared moments. It reminds me that while the tables may change, the essence of what they represent remains the same: connection, hospitality, and the richness and joy of tending to the presence of Jesus with us, the Lord who delights in reclining at the table.
So, as we sit around our new table, I embrace both the past and the future. I am grateful for the tables that have served us well and look forward to the stories yet to be written. In the end, it's not just about the tables themselves, but the lives lived and shared around them. And that, I believe, is the true beauty of our tables.
Thank God for life around each and every table.
P.S. I dedicate this article to my dear friends the Holdings, who have enriched our tables over the past decade. May God bless you and surprise you as you set up your table in Orlando—in the ending and beginning, and the chaos in-between, may there be beauty in the joy and grief.
P.P.S. Thanks for making my hold back tears in the airport as I finalized this post.