Not one for public
praying,
uncertain of my way
in the wilderness of
custom,
I’d retreat to prayer
by rote,
words unheard and
unremarked
and almost
unintelligible:
autonomic, without
meaning:
triggered by expectant
faces
ranged around a table,
food and flowers on
the table,
china there, and
silver,
linen cloths upon the
table.
And an automatic
prayer.
But my years of
special moments,
of laughter, and of
sorrow,
empty places at the
table,
have taught me words
that speak
of what we feel, and
hope, and long for
when we gather round a
table:
the familiar warmth
and comfort
of our friends around
a table,
We
smile and touch and hold tight
all those people round our table,
and share with them a
gift,
a creator’s special
blessing:
Grace.
