Mismatched Dishes

I’m unpacking dishes we had in storage, and none of them seem to match. Some are white, some are glass, some have floral patterns, and others are just random pieces collected over the years.

I remember buying complete sets at one time, but somehow they never stayed complete. A plate chipped. A bowl broke. A mug disappeared. Little by little, they became a mismatched assortment of dishes gathered through the years.

I used to worry about having people over. “I’m sorry,” I would say, “the dishes don’t match.” But we always had enough for everyone. No one ever seemed to care except me.

Now, years later, I’m opening these boxes again. Most of these dishes will be donated or given away because we no longer need them. As I sort through them, I find myself smiling at the collection. Each piece tells a small story. Some bring back memories of a simpler time and place. A few I’ll keep. The rest will find a new home.

What strikes me is how much we worry about things that don’t really matter. Over the years, dishes break. Furniture wears out. Possessions come and go. Life leaves its marks on everything.

What matters is that when we gather around a table, the people sitting there are happy, healthy, safe, and loved. What matters is the laughter shared over a meal, the conversations that linger after dessert, and the memories made together.

In the end, it was never about matching dishes.

It was about having enough time together. Enough food. Enough love. Enough time to gather.

The older I get, the more I realize that the things we own are not what make a life meaningful. What matters most is the time we spend with the people we love, the things we care about, and having a sense of purpose.

And perhaps that’s why I’ve come to like mismatched dishes. They remind me that a beautiful life doesn’t have to match perfectly to be complete.