There’s something about a holiday table that feels bigger than the meal sitting on it. It’s never just food. It’s never just a gathering. It’s a place where our histories, our quirks, our laughter, and our tired-but-trying hearts all seem to sit down together at once.

Step 1: Prep the Food, Prep the Heart

Most holiday dishes don’t happen quickly. They simmer, they stir, they take their time.
The same is true of the emotional space we create around the table.

When we cook with intention—whether it’s a cherished family recipe or something totally new—we’re not just feeding stomachs. We’re preparing a feeling. A memory. A moment people will carry long after the leftovers are gone.

And somewhere in the rhythm of chopping veggies or checking the oven, we soften. We settle. We remember why we show up in the first place.

Step 2: Let Every Seat Matter

Every person at the table brings their own story.
Some arrive overflowing with joy.
Some arrive stretched thin.
Some arrive healing from something silent and heavy.

Making space for all of that—without judgment, without pressure—creates the kind of gathering people don’t forget. The table becomes a shelter, not a performance.

“Hospitality is not to change people, but to offer them space where change can take place.”
— Henri Nouwen

And somewhere between passing the rolls and refilling drinks, we realize how much we genuinely need each other.

Step 3: Tell the Small Stories (They’re the Big Ones)

Holiday meals have a way of making the same familiar stories pop back up—the ones we’ve told a hundred times, and somehow still laugh at. But new stories always sneak in too: quiet updates, unexpected confessions, soft gratitude spoken out loud for the first time.

When we tell our stories, we hand each other little pieces of ourselves.
And when we listen—really listen—we say, You matter here.

This is the heartbeat of connection.

Step 4: Add Your Own Kind of Warmth

After the dishes are cleared and the noise settles, I (Dr. Merryman) like to slow down with something warm from the kitchen—a lemon-honey tea or a bowl of soup I threw together earlier in the day. I love to spread a little light in my community through small, steady moments: a genuine smile, a surprise gift, a bit of simple kindness.

When I’m driving, the music in my car becomes its own quiet refuge where my thoughts stretch out and the world softens. And at the end of the day, there’s nothing quite like sitting in front of a fire—no phone, no book, just the glow of the flames and a long breath of silence. That stillness settles into my bones like a blessing, reminding me of what truly matters.

Those are the moments that refill me so I can show up again—with patience, presence, and real warmth.

Step 5: Remember What You’re Really Feeding

A holiday table nourishes more than hunger.
It reconnects us.
It strengthens a thread that can get thin in the busyness of life.
It anchors us back into love, belonging, and the comfort of being known.

At the end of the day, the meal is temporary—but the meaning lasts.
And sometimes the greatest gift we can offer each other is simply this:

You have a seat at my table, and I’m glad you’re here.