Sunday morning, early 1970s:

My mother is in her blue bathrobe, a little harried, browning the pot roast in the big Dutch oven on the stove. The potatoes are cut and ready to boil for when we get home. My dad has escaped the chaos gone to prepare for worship while my mom herds five kids (ages 5-12) into the station wagon for the drive to church.

“Carol, hurry up!” we all yell to the dawdler as we head out the door.

With one shower for our family of seven, we’re never ready when it’s time to go. After worship and Sunday School we come home to that pot roast, boiled potatoes, corn and applesauce, seven of us crowded around the oval table in our tiny dining room. My dad asks us what the sermon he just preached was about. “Jesus,” my five-year-old brother always proudly replies. Sunday dinner for the first 17 years of my life.

Sunday afternoon, early 2000s: 

My best friend, Janine, invites us to Sunday dinner with her large extended Italian family. The menu is the same every week: sauce brimming with short ribs, meatballs the size of tennis balls, and sausage — all homemade. The bread and salad are secondary because THE SAUCE.

I should also mention that there is no Wishbone Italian dressing here. Janine drizzles olive oil, vinegar, salt, pepper, and dried oregano over her salad, like the pro she is. After we eat, our little boys — good pals in kindergarten, wear the pasta sauce on their faces like beards.

Over the years we join her family until everyone has their own extended families and there would be upwards of 50 people. But carrying my contribution of chocolate chip cookies to her house as the five of us tromp across our backyard, through the snow, is among my favorite memories from when our kids were little.

Sunday evenings, 2026

I have moved back to my hometown. I’m 800 miles away from Janine but she is coming to visit in October. I’m sorry she won’t be able to see Holland in its spectacular summer splendor. 

I have a big dining table now, and every Sunday I host dinner for ten members of my own extended family. Four generations, one vegetarian, several picky eaters, and the highlight of my week. The menu is never the same, but my mother always brings fruit salad and Diana always brings homemade sourdough bread. 

We are older and life has banged us up a little. Janine’s mother died last month and my beloved brother has been gone for five years. I walked with Janine through the death of her first husband, and she walked with me through the life-altering accident of our son. We have worried about our kids, joked about our husbands, moved through whole careers and shaken our heads at the mess our world is in. For 27 years! How is that possible?

Now as I sit at our big table amid the chaos of spilled drinks, passing for seconds, my nephew showing us pictures of his cat, my mother and her husband quietly absorbing the multiple conversations swirling around them, I am struck again by how fast the time passes. According to the writer/psychologist Mary Pipher, I am young-old. And every Sunday dinner feels precious.

Every day is a beautiful gift. 

Header photo by ThermoPro on Unsplash