THE TABLE
We have a farm.
And on that farm, we host weekly farm-to-table dinners. Glorious, luxurious, delicious, seasonal dinners. These dinners are an important source of income for our farm. We feed the guests, and they help us feed our family.
We have been blessed with success, and mostly, the dinners sell out. Except ...that one
dinner.
And I remember it especially well.
That day, I woke uneasy because ticket sales were low for that evening’s
dinner. I was restless, worried, wondering if perhaps we had peaked—if this was the beginning of decline. But when I walked outside to look toward the table, I found it scattered across the yard. A microburst had torn through, splintering the table into shards—tops and legs separated, pieces thrown wide. The dinner was only hours away.
What were we going to do?
We walked the property gathering the usable pieces, trying to imagine how we might stitch it back together. And when we finished, we had just enough to make about 55 feet of table.
Just enough — 55 was exactly the number of seats we had sold.
That day, the low ticket sales and the broken table became their own kind of sermon. We were reminded that we are
specifically, intimately, intricately cared for. Not always with abundance that looks impressive from the outside, but with provision so exact it humbles you.
Just enough wood.
Just enough
seats.
Just enough grace for that day.
Mrs. Farmer Jones
Locovore Farm
