Welcome to the Table

As I sat down to write the very first Curiosity & Coffee weekly email, I kept coming back to one phrase:

Welcome to the table.

And suddenly, I wasn't thinking about Curiosity & Coffee at all.

I was back in the fourth grade.

My family had just moved from Anchorage, Alaska, to Houston, Texas. I didn't even get the comfort of starting on the first day of school. I walked into an unfamiliar classroom several days after everyone else had already settled in.

Class had started. Everyone had a place.

Except me.

I was shy, embarrassed and desperately hoping I would make a friend.

My teacher, Mr. James, walked me over to a long table where several kids were sitting. One girl looked up at me and said:

"Welcome to the table."

Let's just say…it wasn't the warmest welcome I've ever received. 😂

Her name was Jeannie.

Later that day, we discovered that we walked the same way home from school. At a crosswalk, we looked down and realized we were wearing the exact same shoes.

They were white, sort of like Keds, covered in colorful little bubbles that looked like gumballs.

And I'm pretty sure they were knockoffs from Target.

Although, knowing us, we probably both claimed they came from a department store because apparently fourth-grade social status depended heavily on footwear. 😂

Something changed at that crosswalk.

We started talking.

And somehow, nearly 40 years later, we're still talking.

I've been thinking about something:

Why do some friendships survive when so much else about our lives changes?

Jeannie and I haven't spent 40 years agreeing.

Far from it.

We've grown up. We've hurt each other's feelings. We've gone different directions. We've had periods when we were inseparable and periods when months passed without talking.

We've celebrated babies and supported each other through some of life's hardest moments.

We've disagreed about things that matter.

And somewhere along the way, I learned something I certainly didn't understand as that frightened little fourth grader:

Loving someone doesn't require becoming them.

When I was young, I sometimes wanted to like whatever Jeannie liked. Her favorite animal could become my favorite animal. Her favorite color could become mine.

I hadn't quite learned to ask: What does Angel like?

Growing up meant learning that I could answer that question for myself—and still love my friend when her answer was completely different.

Maybe that's part of what unconditional friendship really is.

Not I love you because we agree.

Not I love you because we talk every day.

Not even I love you because you've never hurt me.

But: I know you. You know me. We've seen each other in the beautiful chapters and the messy ones—and somehow, there's still a seat here for you.

Here's something else I realized while writing this.

Jeannie's family had a dinner table.

Not just a piece of furniture—a dinner table.

They sat together. They talked. And sometimes there was actually a topic of the day for everyone to discuss.

I came from a very different kind of home.

Looking back now, I wonder how much those evenings stayed with me.

Because decades later, Mark and I created something centered around curiosity, learning, conversation and connection.

And once again… there's a topic at the table.

Funny how life leaves little breadcrumbs for us.

Sometimes we don't recognize them until almost 40 years later.

So this week's question isn't really about Jeannie and me.

It's about you.

Who is still sitting at your table?

Who knew you before the career, the marriage, the children, the accomplishments, the disappointments and all the different versions of yourself you've become?

Who can you go months without talking to—and somehow pick right back up?

Who do you love even though you don't agree on everything?

And maybe the most important question: Do they know what they mean to you?

Here's my challenge for this week.

Don't tag them in a Facebook post.

Don't send them a meme.

Don't just text: "Hey! Thinking about you!"

Find their address.

Get a piece of paper.

Write down something you remember.

Tell them what they meant to you then.

Tell them what they mean to you now.

Put a stamp on it.

And send it.

Snail mail.

Because sometimes what the soul needs isn't another notification.

Sometimes it needs something it can hold.