Life, I think, is a long walk around a dining table.

In the beginning, the table is big. Bigger than we need, actually. It’s surrounded by chairs in every direction—some pulled close, others slightly crooked, a few barely used but still there. As children, we don’t question the setup. Everyone belongs. Everyone has a place. Friends, relatives, neighbors, classmates—there’s room for all of them, and no one is counting.

We don’t choose the table then. We’re simply invited to it.

Over time, something changes. Not suddenly, not dramatically—but steadily. One chair is no longer pulled out. Another stays empty longer than usual. Someone moves away. Someone disappoints us. Someone’s values shift. Sometimes, ours do. Conversations that once flowed easily now feel forced. Laughter becomes polite. Presence turns into obligation.

And slowly, without ceremonies or announcements, chairs begin to disappear.

This part of life often hurts more than we admit. We’re taught to believe that loss only counts when it’s loud—breakups, endings, goodbyes. But the quieter exits are the ones that shape us most. The friend who stops calling. The relationship that becomes one-sided. The seat that remains empty long enough that removing it feels less painful than hoping again.

We carry guilt about this. We wonder if we failed. If we should have tried harder. If keeping every chair was a measure of our worth.

But a dining table isn’t meant to be crowded forever.

As we grow older, we begin to understand something important: not every person who once sat with us is meant to stay. Some people were right for a season—for shared beginnings, shared struggles, shared versions of ourselves that no longer exist. Their leaving doesn’t erase what was real. It simply acknowledges what is.

There is courage in recognizing when a chair no longer belongs at your table.

This isn’t cruelty. It’s honesty.

Because the truth is, a table filled with the wrong people feels lonelier than a small table shared with the right ones. Presence matters more than numbers. Connection matters more than history. And effort must travel both ways to mean anything at all.

At some point, we find ourselves replacing the big table with a smaller one.

Not because we failed at life—but because we refined it.

The smaller table holds fewer chairs, but they are chosen with care. These are the people who stay when things are inconvenient. The ones who listen without fixing. The ones who recognize you even as you change. The ones who don’t need explanations for your silence or your growth.

And sometimes—yes—there is only one chair.

This stage frightens many people. A table with one chair can look like loneliness from the outside. But often, it isn’t. Sometimes it’s peace. Sometimes it’s recovery. Sometimes it’s the first honest relationship we’ve ever had—with ourselves.

There is nothing wrong with that table.

What matters is not how many chairs surround you, but whether the people sitting there truly belong. Whether you can breathe. Whether you can speak without shrinking. Whether you are allowed to be exactly who you are becoming.

Life will keep rearranging your dining room. Chairs will come and go. Some will leave without explanation. Others will surprise you by pulling up a seat when you least expect it.

And when a connection is lost—when it becomes heavy, distant, or empty—it’s okay to remove the chair. Not with anger. Not with bitterness. Simply with acceptance.

Because your table is sacred.

And the people around it should feel like home.

GK

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Published by georgi.kisyov

32 thoughts on “The Dining Table”

  2. This is such a gentle and wise picture of the way God shapes our lives through seasons. What moved me most is the tenderness with which you describe release as a refinement of sorts. Scripture says, “The steps of a good man are ordered by the LORD” (Psalm 37:23), and sometimes those ordered steps quietly lead people away from our table, not because love failed, but because growth required space.

    Fewer chairs doesn’t mean a smaller life. Jesus Himself often walked with only a few, and sometimes with no one but the Father. “And he went a little farther… and prayed” (Matthew 26:39). Solitude, when God is near, isn’t loneliness, it’s preparation, healing, and holy alignment.

    I also love the grace in how you speak of seasons. Ecclesiastes reminds us, “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven” (Ecclesiastes 3:1). Some were meant to sit with us only long enough to help us become who we needed to be. Their leaving doesn’t diminish the gift they once were.

    Your closing line lingers beautifully, that the table is sacred. It truly is. “The LORD will bless the habitation of the just” (Proverbs 3:33). May God continue to choose the chairs around your table with His own careful hand, filling your quiet spaces with peace, and your smaller table with people who feel like home.

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    1. Thank you for this deeply thoughtful reflection. The way you connect faith, seasons, and sacred space adds a beautiful layer to the metaphor—and I’m grateful for the grace and care you brought into the conversation.
      GK

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  3. This reminder me that no one stays forever, and sometimes the table is full of sweetness, bitterness, all it’s flavor shared with the people you adore or someone you invited with. Interesting thoughts, Georgi

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  4. My table has shrunk. Most days, my wife and a good cup of coffee are all that’s required. We all reach an age (it could be 60 or 80) where we’re tired of performing and no longer seek relationships that challenge us. It doesn’t mean the end of growth but rather comfort and joy take president.

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  7. Thank you for sharing this. You gave me new perspective on my table.

    It’s good to be content with those we have around us. I think I’ve been mourning the empty chairs more than I probably realized. It’s a good reminder that the table doesn’t always have to be full, but also, that we can always pull up a chair for both the newcomers and the old friends.

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    1. Thank you for sharing this so honestly. Gaining a new perspective is sometimes the gentlest way healing begins, and I love how you held space for both the empty chairs and the ones that may still return. That balance is where real peace often lives.
      GK

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  8. Well said and thoughtfully read 🤗 This resonated with me…..

    Presence matters more than numbers. Connection matters more than history. And effort must travel both ways to mean anything at all.

    Today I literally will share a table and coffee with one and Friday with five. Neighborhood kaffeeklatsch friends have come and gone due to moving away and other life changes but connection and fellowship remains a priority.

    Thanks for the encouragement 😊

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    1. Thank you for sharing this—it’s a beautiful, lived example of exactly what the piece points to. One chair or five, when presence and effort are there, the table is full in all the ways that matter. I’m glad this encouraged you 😊
      GK

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  10. “Life will keep rearranging your dining room. Chairs will come and go. ” Truth.
    “Because your table is sacred. And the people around it should feel like home.”
    The life we live feels like the table, good description of how people come and go. It’s that permission to remove the chair or add one that we find only comes with time and perspective. Sensing such a time of change for you, Spring will come. ~ Rosie

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    1. Thank you, Rosie 🤍 You always see straight to the heart of it—permission really does come with time and perspective. And yes… change is in the air, but I trust, like you said, that spring will come.
      GK

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    1. Thank you so much. It came from noticing how my own table has changed over the years—how some chairs slowly became empty while others grew more meaningful. Writing felt like a way to make sense of that shift and to honor both what stayed and what quietly moved on.
      GK

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    1. Thank you for sharing this perspective. I love the openness in it—letting people come freely and leave without force, while still honoring the table itself. I’m glad the metaphor spoke to you.
      GK

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