A Place at the Table

What if I believed that Jesus really, truly loved me? What if I actually lived in the realization that He is for me and not against me? What might life be like if I quit trying to work for my position and just lived in the truth that, because of Jesus, I have a place at the table?

Our place at the King’s table has nothing to do with our working for it. Nor do we get moved closer to the head of the table when we somehow promote or perform enough to get the subtle nod that we have been seen—noticed. On the flip side, we won’t lose our place setting because we fail, fall, or finish last in something or everything.

The irony of it all is that while all along I’ve had a place at the table, I’ve rarely experienced it. I’ve walked by “my spot” numerous times, but have always had one excuse or another for why I can’t sit there. I’ve voiced my thoughts that even though the name card has my name on it, it is surely for someone else. My heart always wished it was my place, as it looked so inviting but my head reminded me of the thousand reasons why I could never pull that chair out.

Running my hand along the smooth wood for the umpteenth time, I looked at my name on the card. It was in His writing but I always had one more reason for why He never meant for me to be at His table. I glanced at all the faces of people I knew and loved at the table and wondered how they could be so certain of their place at His table. They were happy, peaceful, and content. There wasn’t the restless frustration and fear reflected in any of their faces that I wore on my own.

Several people looked my way and told me to take my seat—once again. It was the same old routine. Always. But just when I would finally start to pull the chair back, he would yank my hands away from the wood.

“You don’t get to sit there” he hissed. “What have you ever done to even come near this table? You’ll never be or do enough to sit at His table. You…are…not…good…enough. You’ll disappoint Him if you come this close. He just has your name on that card, but He knows you’ll never actually earn a spot here.”

Tears oozed from my eyes as I turned away. All I ever wanted was to sit here. In this place that had my name on it. But no matter how many times He told me I belonged here, I never really believed Him. His people tried to tell me the same thing—but I always thought they had something I didn’t.

And they did. They had deep peace and confidence in their position as His children. They knew and believed that He never wanted them to perform or compete for the rows of chairs. They knew He loved them and that was all that mattered.

I looked back at the sound of wood scratching the floor to see Him standing behind the pulled out chair. He quietly said my name and told me He’d been saving this place for me for a long time now. Again, He told me there was nothing I had to do to prove to Him that I belonged at His table.

This time was different. Because this time my heart believed Him.

I walked back to His open arms, to the waiting chair, to the card with the letters of my name on it. To my place at the table.

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