Feeling Known at the Table

Recently, a pastor I know quoted this Jon Acuff wisdom, which seems pertinent in anticipation of all the upcoming family gatherings this time of year: “We fear that if people truly knew us, they wouldn’t love us, but the truth is if people really knew us, they could truly love us.”

For many of us, the irony of the holidays may be that we gather with people who seem like they should know us best and yet we often feel disconnected from or misunderstood by them. How many tables will you sit around this holiday season that dredge up a bit of that anxiety? I imagine that, for most of us, how we feel depends on the table.

Last fall I sat around my mom’s kitchen table, sharing a meal with extended family members who were visiting. I remember wearing long sleeves to that meal. Why would I remember such a small detail? Because even into late fall, we experience summer-like heat in South Carolina, and I should not have been wearing long sleeves on a day like that.

Except I was trying to hide a freshly minted forearm tattoo I had received just a few months earlier. I was afraid of the reaction this bold, elaborate ink would elicit from my family. I was anxious about the judgment or the stares or the questions that might come.

I was afraid that if I was truly known, in all of my tattooed glory, I would be less lovable.

How many of us will sit around tables this season, laden with holiday feasting, and yet starve our hearts of the love we desperately need? We fear that if these people only knew the real us, they would withdraw their love. The assumptions we make about others’ responses can keep us from the life-giving nourishment of being known.

As we sat around a picnic table this past summer, my aunt Nona asked if she could see my tattoo. I shyly turned my right arm so she could study the piece of art permanently etched there. “It’s so beautiful,” she said, and then with a sly grin added, “You know, I’ve always wanted to get one too.” And with that wonderfully small, yet lovely interaction, I felt known. I felt loved.

While your struggle may not spring from a tattoo, most of us have something that inhibits us from bringing our whole, true selves to the table. Have you done the heart and soul work to figure out what that might be for you? Have you found the boldness to live as your true, authentic self?

Pulling a chair up to tables with life-giving, soul-affirming people around them is one place to find courage.

Not long ago, I sat around a table with five of my dearest friends, celebrating one friend’s fortieth birthday. We cooked ramen (real adult ramen, not the kind college kids survive on, thank goodness!), enjoyed a king’s ransom of desserts, played card games, and stayed up way too late. In between the cooking and the playing and the serving and the singing and the celebrating, we talked. We talked about mothering and marriage and aging and hopes and wishes and disappointments. We talked about frailties and strengths and love and faith. The night ebbed and flowed with all things good friendships are made of and with the freedom to be our whole, true selves.

That night, more clearly than ever, I saw that these friendships are a gift from God, a gift that has been slowly and steadily cultivated over the years. Some of us have known one another since before we were married or had children. Others have gathered at the table only more recently. But whatever the longevity of our relationships, these women have become my kindred sisters of spirit, hope, and praise. Having these sisters walk along, sing along, pray along, and be along with me is Emmanuel.

Though we share much in common, each one of us brings a distinct, needed reflection of God to our lives. One is my levelheaded sister; another is my deeply felt sister. One is my free spirited, hugging sister, and another my artist sister. One is the breath of Jesus sister. And together? We’re glad sisters.

Bake bread; break bread. Around a family table, gathered and pressed close. Laughing, crying, weeping. Seeing and being seen. In this space with these sisters, I’ve found where I can be. Peel back the layers. Set aside the masks. Let down and let loose. Be held in and held up. We carry heavy loads and link arms and lean hard. A steady, constant consistency. A gift straight from God.

God knows I couldn’t do this life without these sisters.

To these sisters I say: Please keep coming round the table. Keep bringing your food. Your love. Your tears. Your hugs. Your kisses. Your laughs. Leave this table when you must but gather around again before too long.

 Come as you are. Whether your love is new and strong or smoothed over and worn. Whether in the darkest night or the lightest light, bring yourself. Seat yourself. Be yourself. Let this be a vision and a taste of the kingdom to come. Come and share his grace with us.

 Love started growing at this table and blooming out such beauty that I can scarcely breathe. Let us live like this to others, pouring out of this overflow.

The courage I find with these sisters, around that table, is nothing short of a miracle. As I transform there, I more readily bring my full, honest self to other tables with other sisters.

I pray the same for you: that you will find that nourishing, life-giving table to sustain you as you navigate other, more challenging tables this season. If you need practical ideas for building a table like this, Rhiannon Kutzer’s advice on tangible community might help.

May the love around those tables drive out the fear that keeps you from being known.

Allison Byxbe is a writer, blogger, and occasional college professor. She lives with her husband, three kiddos, and dogs Nate and Jemma in South Carolina. When she’s not writing or teaching others to write, she enjoys hiking, making beeswax wraps, learning about natural health, taking road trips, and drinking the perfect latte. Allison loves to connect with others about family, special needs parenting, mental health, grief, and faith. Her writing has been featured on The Mighty and Her View from Home, and you can find more of it on her blog Writing Is Cheaper Than Therapy.

Photograph © Stefan Vladimirov, used with permission