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RELEASED DECEMBER 22, 2003

It's Not What's on the Surface That Really Matters

It's been seven years since I last saw my old dining room table, but I'd give anything to have it in my possession again, especially this Christmas.

I know being materialistic at this time of year isn't what it's all about, so I'll explain. But first, we have to go back in time a bit.

It was August, 1990, I was pregnant with my second daughter, and we had just purchased our first house. The dining area remained empty for a while as I searched high and low for the perfect table. I wasn't sure exactly what style I wanted and weeks passed with the three of us eating meals at the kitchen bar.

Then one day I saw it and knew this would be our table. The top was oak, a thick round slab of parquet-style, interlocked pieces. Its surface glowed from the light of the lamp hanging above it. The piece was massive, solid, and sturdy, with four thick legs in symmetrical curves and a contrasting pine-washed finish. We finally had a real table where we gathered for meals, card games, and to play peek-a-boo with our new arrival as she sat in her infant seat perched in its middle.

As the holidays approached, we moved the table over to accommodate the pine tree. Six-year-old Jessica got the privilege of sitting in the smaller space between table and wall, while the adults had the misfortune of bumping heads into the hanging lamp that was now off-center.

Christmas Eve arrived that year amidst a surplus of baby paraphernalia, presents, and icy weather. We celebrated the evening in a whirlwind of visits by extended family members, gift opening, food consumption, music, and laughter. When the chaos ended and the baby was asleep, it was time to do one more thing before bedtime -- leave a note for Santa on our lovely new table.

Jessica, in all of her six-year-old wisdom, fetched the cookies and 7-Up (milk spoils, she pointed out) and sat down with a pencil and a scraggly piece of spiral-bound paper, torn from her school notebook. Her elbows perched nearly level with her head as she readied to compose. She wore her red and green flannel pajamas and her hair was pulled back with a bow. Her little face looked up to mine as I sat across the table from her. It was filled with anticipation and smiles as she inquired about what she should write.

She began with "Dear Santa" in the way first graders sometimes do -- with deliberate, slow, marks. She held the pencil tightly and pushed hard on the paper forming her letters when it occurred to me there wasn't anything between the tabletop and her note.

I jumped and startled her. I slid the paper away and bent down at eye level with the surface. The light's reflection revealed indented letters marked into my precious acquisition.

Jessica looked guilty and then sad when she saw how unhappy I was. I grabbed a magazine and placed it under her paper for her to finish. I consoled her and said it was an accident and that it was okay, but her spirit wasn't the same. She finished her note and we hugged good-night.

After everyone was asleep, I squeezed myself into Jessica's chair and watched the reflection of the twinkling lights dance on the surface of the marked table.

I stared at the indentations and felt them with my fingertips. Every stroke was a painful reminder of how I had placed higher importance on a piece of furniture than my child's feelings and spirit, even if only for a moment. I sat that way for several hours, deep in thought.

Thirteen years have come and gone, but I remember that Christmas well; I learned a little bit about letting go. About letting go of the importance I attached to material things.

In 1996, my husband and I divorced. The table, with all the acquired etchings on its surface, remained with him and that was the last time I saw our child's replica of the beginning of a letter to Santa on a piece of household furniture.

Jessica's gone now, too. She moved away over a year ago, is in college, and making her way in life. Of course, she no longer believes in Santa, nor writes him letters on Christmas Eve, but she's promised to spend time with me this year and spend the night to see what "Santa" will bring in the morn.

Maybe this is the Christmas when I’ll learn a little bit more about letting go. About letting go of the emphasis I place on whether I was a good mother or not. About letting go of the kind, confident, and generous daughter who is living life on her own now.

So, you see, that's why I'd love to have that table back. Not for any material reason, but because I'd cherish the chance to glimpse the numerous indentations the surface of that table acquired over the years. To have the reminder of moments shared and lessons learned.