In college I was part of a study-abroad program that sent me and twenty other cohort members to internship locations around the globe. For six months we lived with local families and interned with local development organizations. Experiences across the cohort varied widely: from ethnic-minority daycares in Thailand to battered women’s shelters in Ecuador to reconciliation organizations in Rwanda.
But when our scattered cohort came back to campus in January of our senior year, we had at least this much in common: we’d been changed by what we’d seen.
That made the last four months of senior year a wild ride. While our peers were polishing resumes and landing jobs, we gathered in one another’s apartments to talk about lament and resurrection. There were so many stories to tell, from food poisoning to slum fires to forgiveness after genocide.
Eventually the theme of hospitality began to emerge from our scattered narratives. As strange as we’d been in the places we’d gone—too tall, too foreign, too loud or too withdrawn—people had welcomed us. They had hosted us and fed us, taught us their languages and the rhythm of their ways of life. We hoped to extend that same generous welcome in the wilderness after graduation.
But I wanted to do something before that, too. As a potter it seemed natural to make mugs, so for weeks that was almost all I did. In the end twenty-one survived the firing. They were of different shapes and glazes, as varied as our far-flung internships, but “To the Table” was emblazoned upon each one.
A few friends helped me pass them out during our last night class. It was a magical time. Goodbyes were in the air and graduation was drawing nigh, but in those cups we had a symbol of our togetherness and a toast to the world we wanted to see.
