The kitchen table was the spiritual center of my mother’s home, and when our family surrounded it, we drew from our mother’s faith. My mother, Mary Cannon Mix, did not preach to us. She simply lived her life so we could be taught. She did not demand our presence. Her warmth was an invitation. Her service to our family was not a burden — it was the air she breathed. She was and is not perfect. She is real.
How do I know this? I observed her while I was growing up, and I still observe her today in her 92nd year. Much of the time with my mother was spent within the walls of our family home. It is a humble home, but to her it is a castle, because it can compare to the sacredness of the temple. Each member of our family feels it when we walk through the front door. The Spirit draws us to her, and then we gather at the kitchen table.