If you could share a meal with someone living or dead, who would it be?
We've all entertained that conversation at one time or another. And it's the easiest question I've ever answered.
My grandparents.
My grandparents had a room in the house they raised their kids in that we accurately and affectionately referred to as "the junk room."
We referred to the basement of the same house as my grandfather's "office." His antique desk with a rolling wooden chair faced a retro refrigerator and a hulking pool table. The opposite corner housed the washer and dryer alongside a collapsible wooden drying rack. Purple grow lights illuminated my grandmother's flourishing African violets.
An abandoned ironing board became the final resting place for shirts she intended to iron when her kids were young.
My grandmother always had the best intentions when it came to household chores, though she often got sidetracked on the follow through. She embodied Erma Bombeck, late American humorist, who famously wrote, "My second favorite household chore is ironing. My first being hitting my head on the top bunk bed until I faint."
What I came to understand later in life was what those shirts symbolized…what matters. My grandmother's version of living a life with no regrets was choosing to spend her time on what really mattered – her family, her faith and her friends.
We saw the sunrise together many mornings after staying up all night talking. Somehow ironing shirts never came up in the conversation.
Redefining Sunday Funday
Our summer sleepovers and sunrise sightings illuminated the path with no regrets upon our reunion. Even though I was "busy," I vowed to make and to keep one commitment regardless of the cost.
Sunday dinner.
If my grandmother could abandon her ironing or sacrifice sleep, I could do the same. If my grandfather could provide us with decades of dining and driving lessons and Disney World, I could do the same.
The true test came when we lost my grandmother on June 1, 2013. I was devastated and heartbroken. One bright ray shone through my dense fog of grief: no regrets.
My grandfather and I remain committed to Sunday dinner together as long as life allows. Because we've come to the same discovery.
Our Sunday dinner tradition nourishes us.
Nourish = Time + Energy + Focus
Nourishing yourself goes beyond what you eat. Or where you eat. Or with whom you eat. Or how well you photograph what you eat.
Belonging is ultimately what nourishes us all.
And nourishment results from a balanced blend of time, energy and focus. Of turning down the noise, turning off the phone and tuning in to someone else in a way that says, "You matter."
And you do. You matter. You don't have to settle for blending. You deserve belonging.