Years ago, when our life was a little more spontaneous and our house a lot smaller, my wife and I started something simple. Each week, we would invite people over for dinner—friends who were away from family, neighbours who had just moved in, anyone who needed a place to feel at home.
We didn’t have a big kitchen or a perfectly styled dining room. We didn’t even have matching chairs. But we had a table. And around that table, we created a kind of magic.
We cooked together, passed around mismatched serving bowls, and shared stories over second helpings and good wine. There was nothing curated or polished about it. It was ordinary in the best way—warm, human, nourishing.
Looking back, I realize now that those dinners were more than just meals. They were lifelines. In a time when so many people felt far from home, we created something that felt like home anyway. That season left a mark on us, and it planted the seed for what is soon to come – a place to belong, to learn and to share. It will bring people to the table, our Shared Table.
As our own family grew, the table took on new meaning. One of the most cherished rituals in our home, through all the years of raising children, was dinner time. No matter how busy the day had been, we made a point to eat together every evening. We passed plates and bowls. We asked good questions. We lingered. Even when the kids were small and restless, even when the day had gone sideways, even when plates were thrown, we came back to the table.
These days, that time is harder to come by. Our kids are older now, often grabbing dinner on the way to practice or staying late at work. Some nights the table sits quiet, and it’s just two of us. But whenever the stars align and we’re all home, that time is sacred. The table remains the place we come back to—not just for food, but for each other.
And yet, outside our own walls, I see something else happening.
We are more connected than ever, and somehow more disconnected too. The kind of connection we get from social media is not the same as the connection that fills our lungs when we exhale at the end of a long day and sit down beside someone who really sees us.
What we scroll past isn’t true belonging. It’s a reflection of connection—filtered, curated, chosen for us by algorithms that will never know our hearts. And while those tiny glimpses can offer a spark of joy or a moment of empathy, they cannot replace the fullness of sitting across from someone, passing the bread, hearing the sound of shared laughter, or sitting in comfortable silence.
What our world needs right now isn’t another app. It is another table.
We need more spaces where people are invited in, as they are, not for a performance, but for presence. We need meals made with love and hands that reach out across the table. We need people to prepare food together, to talk and laugh and cry while chopping vegetables or stirring soup. We need to gather not just for the sake of eating, but for the sake of remembering we are not alone.
We need tables where belonging is baked into the (gluten free) bread.
Yes, my physical table is dismantled. The chairs are stacked, the dishes and linens boxed, and the dining room we once gathered in is soon going to be a space of bare studs and drywall dust. We are without our usual place to gather, without the rhythm of setting plates and glasses. And today, on Mother’s Day, we are without the usual people around the table as our growing children have plans with other people, doing what teens and young adults do. And yet, this season is teaching me something I thought I already knew.
Tables don’t have to be formal or fancy. They don’t need to be big or beautiful. In fact, they don’t even need to be tables at all. What matters is the intention—the decision to create space for connection, even in the middle of the mess.
While our foundation continues to cure and the new footings are being prepared, while the furniture is packed away and the garage kitchen begins to come to life, we are reminded that hospitality is not about perfection. It is about presence.
And so, even here, in the in-between, we make room. We will pull out folding chairs and tables. We will use work benches as an island. We will light a candle on a shelf. We open the door and say, “Come in. You belong.”
Because the heart of a Shared Table isn’t about where we gather.
It’s about the choice to gather at all.
Setting the table has always been more than a chore. It’s a ceremony of welcome. It’s a promise: This space is for you. You matter here. There’s a seat with your name on it.
And so, even now, with dust on the floors and plans still on paper, we are dreaming of the table that will hold the next season of our lives. A longer table, a braver one, surrounded by people who are willing to show up with their real selves and find real belonging.
It starts with the table.
It always has.
Christine Sharpe: Writer, Speaker, Leader . 
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