The Table Lives Again

Long ago, my mom designed a beautiful mosaic table. She then meticulously tiled it, piece by tiny piece. My grandfather, practical as ever, engineered it in two halves so it could be moved more easily.

It took my mom a couple of summer vacations to place each tile just right. Then my grandfather, with help from my aunt, built the structure to hold it together, setting it on a sturdy spool base.

I was too young to remember any of that work.

What I do remember are the card games around it.

The late-night conversations.

The laughter.

The feeling of being wrapped in something bigger than myself—generational love, steady and present.

Years passed, everyone who made the table passed on. It was stored away.

Then, a few years ago, it moved again—to our place.

This Easter, I decided to clean it up and set it on our cabin porch.

Gave it a place in the light again.

A kind of resurrection.

The table lives again—ready for more card games, more late-night talks, more memories.

It’s strong enough, I think, to last a couple more generations.

And maybe that’s why Easter feels so meaningful. I understand what death takes.

I know that quiet absence.

The empty chairs.

Memories that are both warm and heavy.

But Easter reminds us that death is not the final word.

Jesus paid everything to make a way for us—to promise that one day, we will sit together again, whole and restored, in a place where nothing is broken and no one is missing.

A better kind of resurrection.

A forever one.

This Easter, I hope you find time to gather—around a table, in conversation, in memory, in love.

Because this is not the end.