Set the Table Like it Matters!
Easter has come and gone, leaving us in a holy tension: Jesus’ resurrection has happened, and yet many chapters of our stories remain unresolved on this side of heaven.
Spring taunts in Alberta, Canada—thawing ground, longer light, even a heat wave of hope that all that is barren will be renewed—until another blanket of snow makes even the optimist wonder.
This in-between season has me thinking about the kingdom of God.
A few weeks ago, I finished reading A Little Princess aloud to my children as part of our homeschool mornings. I was surprised by how often tears threatened to wet the pages.
Its young protagonist, Sara Crewe, embodies the strength and grace of a princess when she has everything—and when a turn of events leaves her with almost nothing.
She creates dignity in attic living. She shares the little she has, despite her own hunger. She refuses to let bitterness dampen her imagination.
In many ways, Sara lives the upside-down kingdom Jesus describes in Matthew 5:
Blessed are the poor in spirit.
Blessed are those who mourn.
Blessed are the meek.
For the past four years, around this time each spring, the Beatitudes return to me, perhaps because my dad reflected on them in his final week of life.
The hidden, humbled, faithful corners of life are where God’s kingdom is often most visible.
It is choosing gentleness when exhausted, showing faithfulness in repetition, and continuing to prepare a safe place for hearts.
In these middle years of mothering, I find myself asking:
What matters most in this season?
The other day, I watched a woman, through tears, read words on an Instagram reel about the memories we are giving our children now—the moments they may one day choose to retell.
One line she read reached out and held me, she said:
“Set the table like it matters, because it does.”
It moved me for a few reasons.
I love setting the table for guests. I set out each plate, cup, fork, knife, and napkin around a seasonal centrepiece. It reflects a thoughtful preparedness. I do not expect it of others, and sometimes it does not fit a large gathering or casual potluck.
Every evening, one of our six children rotates setting the table for family dinners, minus the napkin and with less concern for symmetry.
Intentionality in ordinary things quietly declares:
This moment—this meal, this conversation, these people entrusted to me—is worthy of care.
Some of our most meaningful conversations have unfolded around the table, lingering long after dinner while questions rise and life lessons are shared.
And perhaps living as part of the kingdom of God requires an intentional kind of table setting?
Making space for people to share their story. Preparing a place for knowing and belonging.
I think back to our family’s time in Mexico this February, serving at an orphanage where routines shaped the children’s days.
Many of those children had experienced deep loss, yet were learning that belonging is communicated through consistency.
Through showing up.
Through shared meals.
Through shared lessons.
Through shared responsibilities.
Through small acts that say: You matter.
Little ones were bathed and returned in clean clothing with special hairstyles. We squirted them with cologne or perfume. It was deeply moving to participate in that tender-loving care.
And in the touching novel we began before that trip and finished afterward, Sara’s quiet choices kept revealing who she believed she was. Her true identity subverted the power of her circumstances.
Isn’t that what Jesus does in the Beatitudes? He refuses to measure blessedness by outward conditions.
He names the mourners, the meek, the poor in spirit as heirs of a kingdom.
An upside-down kingdom, where the unseen carries more weight than what is visible.
Here in early spring, the hope of anything green is hidden.
For those of us in the middle years—holding responsibilities, questions, and convictions together—that hiddenness can feel deeply refining.
Yet perhaps the repetitive acts of daily love are not interruptions to formation.
They are the formation!
Friends, our daily choices matter deeply!
Not in loud or measurable ways, but in the slow shaping of habits, homes, and hearts.
In the quiet formation of beloved young people who may one day carry healthy, holy rhythms into the world.
And in the continued shaping of our own souls.
Spring does not rush. It unfolds.
The kingdom of God unfolds this way too—slowly, quietly, surely—if only we have eyes to see.
Let a sanctified imagination, like Sara Crewe’s, enlarge your vision for your purpose and identity.
The tension we feel may not be something to resolve, but a place in which we are invited to remain present.
To make space at the table. To embody meaning in the places already given to us. To recognize the ordinary of today as good ground for the kingdom of God to take root.
Clear what needs clearing off the table.
And set it like it matters.
Because it does!
