Eileen Parent
Sunday supper used to be the highlight of the wee. A time to gather around the table, share a meal, and reconnect with family. Laughter, stories, and the comforting clatter of forks on plates filled the air. You’d leave feeling full, not just from the food, but from the warmth of togetherness.
Lately, though, something’s shifted. The laughter’s a little forced, the stories a little strained. Instead of catching up, we’re catching wind of the latest casualties.
“Heard about Beth?” someone says, pushing the salad around their plate. “Apparently, she’s back on the stuff.” Heads shake, eyes dart nervously around the room. We all know Jenny, she used to babysit our kids, bright smile, always eager to lend a hand. Now, she’s just another name on the growing list of those who’ve fallen prey to the darkness creeping through our town.
It’s not just Beth. It’s Mark, who lost his business and now drowns his sorrows at the bottom of a bottle. It’s Sarah, who hides her bruises behind oversized sunglasses and a forced smile. It’s the kid down the street who spends his days locked in his room, the curtains drawn, the silence deafening.
We talk about them in hushed tones, a mix of pity and judgment swirling in our voices. “What a shame,” we say, but the words feel hollow, devoid of any real concern. We’ve become spectators in a tragedy unfolding before our very eyes, more concerned with protecting our own fragile peace than reaching out a hand to those who are drowning.
But what if, instead of just talking about them, we actually invited them in? What if, instead of offering empty platitudes, we offered a place at our table?
Now, by no means am I suggesting we all need to leap up from the dinner table and become saviors. This isn’t about having all the answers or forcing solutions. It’s about something much simpler, something much more profound. It’s about opening our doors, and our hearts, to those who are hurting. It’s about sharing a meal, a conversation, a moment of genuine human connection.
Imagine Beth sitting across from you, sharing a laugh over a silly story, her eyes sparkling with a glimmer of hope rekindled. Imagine Mark finding solace in the simple act of breaking bread with others, the weight of his burdens momentarily lifted. Imagine that quiet kid, tentatively joining the conversation, feeling seen and heard for the first time in a long time.
This is how we shift the narrative. This is how we become a community again. Not by fixing people, but by simply inviting them in. Because sometimes, the most powerful solution is just a shared meal, a listening ear, and the reminder that they are not alone.
