The Shape of a Table—and the Shape of Our Conversations

When I was growing up, Sunday afternoons were sacred.

Because my dad rarely made it home in time for weekday dinners, my mom was deeply intentional about creating one shared meal each week. Sunday afternoons were set aside for food and conversation—her way of making room for presence and setting the table with hope—even when the experience itself didn’t always become what she imagined.

The table itself was large and wooden—rectangular, heavy, and expandable. It had lots of extension boards you could add to make room for twelve or more people. But most weeks, it was set for just the five of us, plus my grandma when she lived on our property.

And there was an order to it.

My dad always sat at the head of the table—the “best” seat. My mom sat at the opposite end, the second most important spot. The rest of us filled in the sides. No one questioned it. That’s just how things were done back then. There was love at that table, and stability, and good intentions—but there was also a clear sense of rank.

Fast forward a few decades.

In my own family—my husband, me, and our three girls—we honestly don’t sit down together for meals nearly as often as I wish we did. Life is busy. Schedules are full. And it’s something I still grieve a bit, if I’m being honest.

In our Tampa house, when we had lots of space and when we did sit together, we carried on the same tradition: mom and dad at opposite ends of a rectangular table. It felt familiar. Safe. Normal.

Now, with less space when we sit together, we squeeze all five of us around a square table.

It isn’t particularly comfortable—someone always gets stuck on a corner—but something has shifted. We are closer. No one is elevated. No one has the “best” seat. We could all see each other’s faces. We shared the same distance to the center.

And I realized: this feels more like the kind of table Jesus would sit at.

Not because square tables are holier than rectangular ones—but because the posture around the table matters more than the furniture itself. There is no head. No hierarchy. No ranking of importance. Just shared space.

When we first started gathering tables and chairs for our property—scouring thrift stores and Facebook Marketplace—I was intentional about seeking out round tables. I didn’t necessarily have all the words for it then, but I knew what I wanted them to say without speaking.

Round tables tell a story.

They say there is no “least” seat.
No most desirable place.
No head of the table.

Everyone arrives as they are.
Everyone belongs equally.

The wooden tables and chairs in our barn—each one worn, imperfect, full of character—quickly became some of my favorite pieces. Over time, though, we’ve added more folding rectangular tables. Mostly because they’re practical. Easier to move. Easier to store. And I understand why groups like long tables too—they invite shared meals, community, and conversation.

But I don’t want ease to erase intention.

I don’t want to give up on round tables—on equality—just because something else is more convenient.

And maybe that’s the deeper invitation.

Because the truth is, hierarchy doesn’t only live in furniture. It lives in assumptions. In habits. In who we defer to, who we listen to, who we center. A rectangular table doesn’t have to communicate rank—but it often does unless we’re paying attention.

So whether the table is round or square or long and narrow, my hope for this space remains the same:

That all who come here would know they are equal.
That no one is more important than another.
That no one is overlooked.
That there is always room.

Jesus was constantly re-arranging tables—welcoming the overlooked, pulling the “least of these” into the center, reminding everyone that the kingdom doesn’t operate on status or seating charts. He didn’t just preach about equality; He practiced it in the way He gathered people.

This space is my small attempt to do the same.

To create tables—literal and figurative—where no one sits above another.
Where stories are shared freely.
Where presence matters more than position.

Because in the end, it’s not about the shape of the table at all.

It’s about who feels seen when they sit down.