We were on our way home from church that Sunday morning when my husband’s phone buzzed with a new text message. He glanced down and handed the phone to me so I could read it to him. It was from his boss, who, in one of those beautiful blessings of life, is every bit as much a real-life friend.

He and his wife wanted to know if we could come over for dinner that night. Nothing fancy…pizza or tacos or something. Though we typically protect our Sundays as family time, we had no actual pressing plans on the calendar, so we agreed.
Evening came and we parked in their driveway. Their dog, Phoebe, bounded out of the house to greet us with kisses and jumping. We went inside to find the kitchen island covered in chips and salsa, crackers and hummus, and empty cups waited to be filled with the coffee gurgling in the pot. We stood alongside some of Ryan’s co-workers and filled plates high with the makings of nachos, before we gathered around the dining room table to eat and talk and laugh.
Phoebe zig-zagged under the table, begging for scraps. The kiddos told jokes and the adults all seemed to understand that this moment, gathered around a table at home for an impromptu sharing of dinner together, is one of the things that makes life and fellowship grand.
We spent the first three and a half years of our marriage as double commuters. My daytime family lived fifty miles from our home. Ryan’s lived thirty miles away. To spend time off the clock with the people who blessed our days meant many miles of travel and late nights getting home. So most of the time, it never happened. We came home to our house-for-two-plus-a-cat, hunkered down on the couch, and ate our dinners.
It was one of the driving forces behind our move. We wanted to do all our living in one town. We wanted our work friends and church friends and neighborhood friends to all be the same crowd. {Or nearly the same.} We wanted to make dinner plans like Ryan’s boss did. We wanted to open our home and know someone might be free yet that same day.
We’re calling it Tuesdays at the Table. {Because I’m a writer and therefore, everything has to have a name.} We’re blocking off our Tuesday nights and making a list of all the people we’ve said we should have over “sometime.” Sometime is here. We’re picking up the phone and extending invitations.
It won’t be fancy. Heading into fall and winter, Tuesdays at the Table will probably look a lot like soups and breads and salads, with a gurgling pot of coffee on the side and whatever fancy coffee creamer recipe I’ve made under the tutelage of Pinterest.

But we sincerely hope it will be a blessing. We want to open our door and our hearts and let our friends know they’re loved and welcomed here. That they can rest and just enjoy a Tuesday evening, free from responsibility and full of food and friendship.

This is the ministry we’ve longed to extend, but always pushed back to someday.
And how I welcome the arrival of someday.