My oldest son posted on Facebook that it has been a while since he posted how much he loved Sunday night family dinner. He wrote that it meant so much to be surrounded by people who cared and loved one another. As a parent, it made me proud and confident that my values and beliefs were safe for another generation. As a member of the family, it made me grateful and secure. As a son, these words were as comforting as the embrace and approval that only a mother or father can offer.
In our family, Sunday dinner could range from picking up carry-out from Hollyhock (an Indianapolis restaurant that is an institution) or it could be the result of a weekend of preparation and cooking. Sunday dinner had less to do with the menu as it did everyone sitting together, sharing the week past and looking toward the week to come. It was a time that we could shine or be told why our path was off course. Sunday night was the last bastion of personal time before the reality of the world set in Monday morning.
Sunday dinner took on new meaning as an adult. This sacred time on the week’s calendar became an opportunity for the generations to be together and serve as a tangible reminder of what family was. Conversation was loud and constant. The most serious of moments could quickly derail to the funniest moments of the week. The setting became a moment in time in which your strength could be renewed from the support of those who could see no wrong in your actions; it was an outlet for brutal honesty that could be shared only by those who loved you deeply. By the end of Sunday dinner, the wrongs of the world were righted, the challenges we face were muted, and the sense of belonging was enhanced.
It was Sunday dinner.
Our family has changed with each passing year. The table has grown too small to accommodate the power of those around it; in a split second, the table has become vast with sufficient room (and the hope for) new participants to be added. We lost an integral member of our family this past year – our mother, grandmother, mother-in-law, and friend. The first Sunday dinner was difficult. We all approached the table in dread. There would be an empty seat reflecting the emptiness we all felt. Seats were rearranged, and a new (semi-)permanent occupant was moved into this place. Somehow, the circle we formed, the conversation that filled our plates, the halted statements waiting for her words to complete a thought dissolved. We each gingerly tried to fill the emptiness of the plate and over time, the taste of the new dinner became acceptable to the palate.
It was Sunday dinner once more.
Some say Sunday dinner is a unique American tradition. Rockwell painted Sunday dinner, poets have written of Sunday dinner. There is no equivalent of Sunday dinner in business; perhaps if there was we could right the course of so many ill-fated professional endeavors. Time and space do not alter its impact or importance in our lives. The sounds and sights of this beloved repasts within the week are stronger than the smell and taste of the food we consume.
The table will expand and shrink as some go to college, move into adulthood, bring significant others to the table, bring new guests into the world. Just as we lost the head of our dinner table this year, there will be a moment that my place will be empty for the first time. It will be okay because I know the conversation will continue, talk of the week’s wins and losses will be shared, and the sense of fillment that comes after a great meal will be present.
My son’s Facebook posting was simply the cherry on top the desert.
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