I am writing this on a Tuesday morning with a cold cup of coffee at my elbow and a kitchen that is, frankly, not company-ready. There are crumbs on the counter from a child who left for school in a hurry. There is a small pile of unopened mail. The candle I lit at six is already out.
And yet — and I want you to hear this slowly — the Lord meets me here. Not in some other woman’s kitchen, the one in the magazine. Not in the version of me I keep promising I’ll become next month, when the calendar finally cooperates. Here. At this table. The one I have not set well.
When the two disciples on the road to Emmaus finally recognized Jesus, it was at supper. He was the guest in their home, and somewhere between sitting down and reaching for the bread, the roles quietly switched. He took the bread. He blessed it. He broke it. He gave it to them. The Lord became the host at their own table.
This is what I want for you, friend. Stop trying to clean up your life before you bring it into the room with Him. Pull up the chair you have. Sit down with the coffee that has gone cold. Open the Bible to the page you can reach. Let Him take what is in your hands — even your tired, half-true offering — and bless it, break it, and give it back to you as something you can actually eat.
The hospitality, in the end, is His.
with you in this,
Ceia