Homemade hamburger buns, organic beef burgers hot off the grill, a heaping bowl of fruit and sides of milk; it was an ordinary Tuesday night dinner.
Maybe it’s our new farm table. Maybe it’s how we’ve conceived a new evening routine, eating later and accommodating Paul’s long days. Whatever it is, it’s working.
We are more spiritual than we are religious. Prayers at dinner are about as rare as the number of family dinners we’ve shared around a table in as many years that I can remember.
Tonight, long after Harper was tucked into bed, baseball cleats and gloves were hung up, homework done, a dozen games of tic-tac-toe played and a daddy changed out of his suit; we gathered ‘round the table to break bread yet again.
We gathered ‘round, dressed our burgers, passed the sides and set out to dive in when a little voice at the table put his two hands together, looked around and suggested we have a prayer.
Unsure what to say and sitting in silence with his head bowed and hands clasped, Tucker offered to take over for his brother. Tucker, accustom at his new school to the routine of a morning prayer before start of the academic day, looked around the table with confidence. He would share, he said with a firm voice, the prayer he has been saying over the past week.
Dear God. I pray for Mom and her scan Thursday and that she doesn’t have another brain tumor. I pray that we enjoy our food and that there will be more for us. I pray for our soldiers. I pray that we are happy. I pray for Boston. I pray that the Red Sox win. Amen.
With the confidence of a young boy wise beyond his years, he sat proud, humble and strong.
Maybe it’s our table. Maybe it’s the time we’ve carved out of the late evening to break bread as a family. Whatever it is, it’s working.