I sat in the airport, leaned back in my chair, and closed my eyes for just a moment. I had just flown home from a week of work in Nashville. When the plane landed and I checked my email, I discovered an urgent deliverable waiting for me. Instead of heading straight home, I opened my laptop at the terminal and got to work. It felt wiser to finish it there than to bring it home with me, especially after being gone all week. My kids would want my attention the minute I walked through the door.

But before I started, I needed a minute to breathe.

It had been a hard week, long nights at the office, early mornings, and the steady hum of pressure that never quite turned off. Fatigue had settled in deeper than I realized.

I finished the assignment, closed my laptop, and finally drove home. I spent a few precious hours with my kids, then fell into bed, completely spent.  Before turning out the light, I stared at the ceiling and prayed a simple, honest prayer:

“God, I don’t feel like I enjoy my life anymore. Please teach me how.”

It surprised me how true that felt. Even beyond the current workload, I wasn’t sure I had ever really learned how to enjoy life. Too often, I've lived bracing for the next responsibility, the next season, the next demand. I drifted to sleep wondering why joy seemed to come so easily to others while my days often felt heavy.

The next morning, a text message arrived from my Bible study group. They were preparing a surprise project for an upcoming retreat.

Can you send a photo from your phone that brings you joy?

Timely. I scrolled through my pictures but didn’t find anything that felt right. It wasn’t the lack of good photos, it was the lack of joy I felt in that moment. Maybe I just needed time off, I thought. A break. A reset. Maybe even a spa day.

Instead, that morning at church, the message centered on one phrase: choose life.

Deuteronomy 30:19–20 says:
“I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses. Now choose life… love the Lord your God, listen to His voice, and hold fast to Him. For the Lord is your life.”

Choosing life, truly living it, came down to three things in this verse in Deuteronomy.

Love the Lord

I love God and I also know love is more than belief; it is action. But as I listened to the sermon about loving the Lord, I found myself quietly wondering, How do I actually do that when I’m already so exhausted? When my mind feels overloaded and my energy is gone, love can feel like one more thing to accomplish.  I need relief, not one more thing to do.

But loving God is not another heavy task. It is a turning of the mind.

Loving Him with my thoughts means intentionally redirecting my attention, even for a few minutes, away from the noise and pressure and back toward His presence. It looks like disengaging from the swirl of responsibilities long enough to practice gratitude. To notice His gifts. To remember His faithfulness. To remind myself that His approval matters more than anyone else’s, including my own harsh self-assessment.

Even five minutes in His Word can change the tone of an entire day.

The most important part of loving God is not emotional intensity, it is mental focus. What we dwell on shapes how we feel. When my thoughts remain fixed on my problems, the weight grows heavier. But when my focus shifts toward His presence, something inside me steadies. Peace begins to rise. Joy becomes possible again. Sometimes even energy returns.

The circumstances may not change, but the center of gravity does.

Instead of looking around at everything that feels overwhelming, I am learning to look up. Our problems in this life are real, and Scripture is honest about that, we are told we will face many trials. But we are also told that God has overcome the world. Remembering that truth reframes the pressure.

Love for God, and receiving His love, doesn’t remove our burdens, but it keeps us from feeling like we are drowning beneath them. It changes our perspective before it changes our situation.

Loving God is deeply life-giving. It strengthens us. It steadies us. It heals worn places in the heart. Joy grows where attention rests on Him.  This kind of love is practiced in the mind. It requires intention. We choose what to think about. We choose what to return to. We choose what to remember.

And in that choosing, life begins to feel lighter again.

Obey His Voice

There is no lasting peace without obedience, but I’ve learned that obedience often looks different than we expect. For a long time, I assumed obeying God meant doing something dramatic; changing careers, moving across the world, or stepping into some large, visible calling. While God certainly does lead people into big acts of faith, most of His work in my life has come through much smaller invitations. Big obedience, it turns out, is usually built on small obedience.  The quiet, daily choices that rarely draw attention but steadily shape the heart.

In my own experience, the most meaningful change has come through simple promptings: take a walk, pause and pray at lunchtime, step away and rest, spend a few minutes in Scripture. These nudges often arrive right in the middle of a busy day, when they feel least convenient. God’s invitations rarely fit neatly into my schedule. They interrupt what I planned and redirect my attention, yet they consistently lead toward greater peace and clarity. What seems small in the moment often produces the greatest long-term change.

One of the smallest, and surprisingly hardest, areas of obedience for me has been consistently spending time in His Word each day. It sounds simple enough, but in the middle of meetings, phone calls, conversations, and working lunches, I convince myself I’m too busy to stop. And yet, it is precisely in the middle of the busy when I need Him most. You wouldn’t think protecting five or ten minutes a day would be difficult, but for a long time, it was a real struggle for me.

I’ve noticed the irony: I can easily name my stress and complain about my workload, yet when God points me toward the very practice that strengthens my faith and steadies my heart, I sometimes resist it. Still, He is patient. He teaches gently and persistently. Over time, as I chose to respond in small ways, those minutes in the Word began to feel less like an obligation and more like a refuge. Now I find myself looking forward to the moments when I can close the door, open my Bible, and reset my thoughts. It took time to build that habit into my daily routine, but it has paid dividends in peace, perspective, and resilience.

Obedience doesn’t always look like changing the world. Sometimes it is simply responding to the small thing God places on your heart today. But when those small acts are practiced faithfully, one after another, they add up to real transformation. What begins quietly often ends up becoming life-changing.

Hold fast to Him

Holding fast to God means staying anchored to Him when life feels uncertain and when distractions compete for our attention. Our world offers endless noise, screens, messages, opinions, demands, and constant motion. Much of it pulls at our focus and promises stability, yet none of it provides the steady security that Christ does. His hand is the one I want to cling to, especially in seasons when my own grip feels weak.

I was in a large airport not long ago, riding one of those crowded trams that shuttle passengers between terminals. Most people were standing, since the limited seats were reserved for those with mobility needs. Typically you can hold onto a hanging strap or a vertical post, but that day the tram was packed tight, and I found myself without anything solid to grasp, only a flat stretch of wall beside me. When the tram lurched forward, it accelerated faster than I expected, and I nearly lost my balance. Instinctively, I reached out, but there was nothing secure to hold. Seeing this, a few people shifted and made room so I could grab onto a nearby post.

The difference was immediate. The post did not sway with the crowd. It did not tip when weight leaned against it. It did not adjust itself to accommodate movement. It was fixed, stable, and dependable; exactly what I needed in that moment of motion and imbalance.

Holding fast to God works the same way. Life will surge forward at uncomfortable speeds whether we feel ready or not. Situations change. People shift. Crowds gather and scatter. Emotions rise and fall. But Christ remains steady. He does not move with the pressure. He is not destabilized by chaos. He is not shaken by sudden turns.

We hold fast to Him not because life is calm, but because it isn’t. He is the fixed point in the moving train. The steady support in the jolt. The unchanging anchor in a shifting world. And when we hold fast to what does not move, something inside of us begins to steady as well.

I began to see that what I needed wasn’t a day at the spa, it was a morning anchored in God’s presence. Joy doesn’t grow from escaping our lives; it grows from re-centering them. It grows in gratitude. It grows when our eyes lift from the rush around us and return to the One who never shifts.

So I picked up my phone again and searched for a photo that brought me joy. This time I saw it.  A sunset spilling gold across the sky, quiet and magnificent.

I sent it to my Bible study leader with a simple note:

God’s creativity brings me such joy.

The photo had been there all along.  I simply needed a different perspective.

I finished my green quilt this week.

My quilts always take a long time to make, mostly because the quilter (that would be me) works slowly and tends to linger over every step. I sew in starts and stops, with long pauses between stages. I’ve never been quick with projects. But this quilt felt different from the beginning.

When our house burned in a fire, many of my sewing projects were destroyed. In some ways, that loss may have been a hidden mercy, I had more unfinished projects than I could realistically complete in one lifetime. Still, there was one project I truly mourned losing: my green quilt.

It was my favorite, layered with fabrics in deep greens and cool blues, each fabric chosen carefully. I had never seen another quilt quite like it. I could already picture it finished, folded across a bed or draped over a chair, the colors catching the light. 

A few months ago, I finally gathered the courage to go through some boxes in my storage room. After divorce, old belongings can feel heavy. Photographs and keepsakes have a way of reopening places in the heart you’re not always ready to visit. I usually avoid that room for that very reason. But on this particular day, I felt steady enough to sort through a few containers.

At the bottom of a Rubbermaid bin, there it was.

My green quilt.

I honestly couldn’t believe it. I had been certain it was destroyed in the fire. I called out to my daughter and showed her what I’d found. She remembered how many hours I had poured into it and shared my excitement. It felt like recovering a small, forgotten treasure.

The quilt was only about half finished, but the pattern was tucked in with it. I carried everything upstairs to my sewing room and spread it out. Within days, I was working on it again, eagerly, almost urgently, reconnecting with a part of myself I didn’t realize I had missed.

This weekend, I finally completed it. I still smile when I think about how it sat quietly in storage all that time, waiting to be found.  Moments like that remind me that God is in the business of restoration.

Scripture promises that He repays what has been eaten away by loss, not always by returning the exact same thing, but by working wonders in its place. I have seen that truth unfold again and again in my own life.

I will repay you for the years the locusts have eaten, the great locust and the young locust, the other locusts and the locust swarm, my great army that I sent among you. You will have plenty to eat, until you are full, and you will praise the name of the Lord your God, who has worked wonders for you; never again will my people be shamed. Joel 2:25-26

After the heartbreak of miscarriage and the fear that we might never have children, two beautiful children were waiting in a Russian orphanage, children who would become ours.

After ten years out of touch with my youngest brother, a terrible motorcycle accident, one he recovered from, unexpectedly brought him back into my life. Now he lives less than an hour away, and our relationship has been restored after a decade of absence.

After divorce, my mind felt buried under depression and anxiety. Some days I wondered if I would ever feel steady again. Yet over time, healing came, slowly, faithfully. Two years later, I am able to work again, and I’m in a job better than any I’ve had before.

God does not simply replace what was lost. He restores in ways we would never design ourselves. He brings redemption with imagination.

I don’t know why it mattered to Him that my quilt survived. It’s a small thing in the grand scheme of life. But it mattered to me. And sometimes His love shows up not only in the great miracles, but in the small recoveries too, the quiet surprises, the tucked-away gifts, the reminders that nothing surrendered to Him is ever truly gone.

I am grateful for the ways He surprises me, often quietly, often unexpectedly, with restoration I never saw coming.

Finishing What Was Started

Finishing the quilt reminded me of something else too.  It wasn’t just the fabric that survived a fire. The past two years have felt like their own kind of fire. Walking through divorce, making painful decisions, and enduring the emotional turbulence that followed changed me in ways I didn’t expect. There were parts of myself I was sure had been permanently lost, my sense of steadiness, my confidence, my peace. At times it felt as though the heat of that season had burned straight through everything I depended on.

But looking back now, I can see that what I thought was destroyed was actually being protected. Much like my quilt, tucked quietly away at the bottom of a Rubbermaid bin, something inside me was preserved even when I couldn’t see it. Even when I was certain too much damage had been done. Even when the days felt endless and the pain felt permanent, God was not absent. He was guarding what mattered most.

God did not intend for the fire to destroy me. He intended to restore me. Healing didn’t arrive all at once, and it didn’t look the way I imagined it would, but it came steadily, faithfully, over time. What once felt impossible slowly became real again...the ability to work, to hope, to plan, to breathe without that constant weight in my chest.

Maybe that’s one reason the quilt felt so important when I found it. It was meant to be finished. It had an intended purpose and a future usefulness. I didn’t want it to remain half-complete and stored away, a project that never reached its design. And in a deeper way, I realized I didn’t want that for my life either.

God does not mean for us to remain suspended forever in our hardest chapters. He does not leave us sitting in heartbreak as though the story ends there. Instead, He gathers the scattered pieces, the joyful fragments, the wounded edges, the unexpected colors, and fits them together with care and intention. Over time, a pattern emerges that we could not see while we were still in the middle of the cutting and stitching. The finished work carries both strength and beauty, precisely because of what it has come through.

We are not meant to remain unfinished. There is purpose in the pattern God is forming, and He is faithful to complete what He begins.

Divorce carries a thousand sharp edges, but one of the deepest cuts for me was fear.

Not long after the separation, fear didn’t just whisper, it moved in. It ran through my mind and my body every single day, relentless and loud. For so long, my confidence had been braided into my marriage, and when it ended, it felt like the strength I leaned on walked out the door with it. Suddenly, things I’d never thought twice about began to loom over me like threats.

Could I really succeed at my job and be a single mom?
Could I keep up with the house?
What was I even supposed to do with the water softener downstairs?
Would the ache in my chest ever stop hurting?

Every morning, I woke up with an anxiety so heavy it felt physical, like a weight pressing into my ribs. The sadness was there, too, a deep, persistent pain that made even ordinary tasks feel impossible. I wasn’t the only one hurting. My kids were hurting right alongside me, and on the nights when the fear felt especially unbearable, the three of us would sleep in the same room. Not because it fixed anything, but because it helped us feel less alone. It kept our minds from drifting too far into the dark corners.

Because when we were alone, fear always made its debut.

My son became convinced someone was going to break into our house at night. One evening, with wide eyes and a trembling voice he tried to hide, he asked if he could sleep with a baseball bat in his room. My daughter’s sadness seemed to grow heavier after sunset. Nighttime was the hardest for her. She dreaded going to bed, afraid of what tomorrow would bring, afraid of what this new life might look like. And heartbreakingly, she carried a lie no child should ever carry, she was certain the divorce was her fault.

When I look back on that season, I’m honestly amazed at the ferocity of fear that swept through our home. It was as if someone unleashed it against the three of us, and it hit like ocean waves crashing into the shore, one after another, pounding, exhausting, relentless. And if I’m being honest, we still have to stay diligent to keep it from pulling us under, especially at night.

It was during that time that I began a study on David in the Old Testament. I’ve always felt a kinship with him, partly because I’ve long believed he was a fellow redhead, but mostly because of the way his emotions sit so honestly on the page. David didn’t polish his prayers. He didn’t tidy up his pain. And when I read his desperation in Psalm 142:6–7, I recognized more than just a personality… I recognized a fellow sufferer.

“Listen to my cry, for I am in desperate need;
rescue me from those who pursue me, for they are too strong for me.
Set me free from my prison, that I may praise your name.
Then the righteous will gather about me because of your goodness to me.”

I understood that kind of desperation. I needed rescuing, too. I didn’t have enemies chasing me with swords, but fear had cornered me all the same. Anxiety felt like a prison cell I couldn’t unlock. Depression wrapped around my ankles like chains. I smiled for my kids and kept moving because I had to, but inside, I felt trapped.

At the time David wrote those words, he was living in a cave, literally hiding while his enemies hunted him. David’s cave was real and dark and dangerous. Mine was invisible, but it was just as suffocating. My sadness and fear had caved in around me in a way I’d never experienced before. His cave became a picture of my own pit.

But here’s what caught me: even in the cave, David still believed God’s promises.  And I needed to learn how to do that, too. I needed to let go and believe God's promises, just like David.  

At the time, I didn’t fully understand what it meant to “let go.” I assumed it meant snapping my fingers and suddenly feeling better. But God didn’t rush me. He showed me slowly, gently, through a process that required bravery I didn’t think I had. He led me, step by step, into the most tender, painful places of my heart, not to harm me, but to heal me.

And along the way, He revealed something surprising: some of my grief didn’t begin with divorce. There were wounds inside me that were older than this story, sadness I’d carried for years, fear that had learned to live in my bones. And He showed me He wasn’t intimidated by any of it. He intended to bring His powerful healing right into the center of my pain.

To begin getting better, He showed me three things I needed to focus on:

First, I could no longer have idols before God, even if that idol was my marriage.
I had to stop looking for a second savior, a substitute to soothe me, validate me, rescue me, or make me feel safe again. I had to believe in my real Savior like I’d never believed Him before.

Second, I had to let my ex go, truly let him go.  I had to stop trying to control the outcome, stop trying to manipulate the story into turning out the way I wanted. I had to accept that I couldn’t force love to return. I could only move forward, one step at a time, with God’s hand in mine.

Third, I had to learn, really learn, how much God loves me.  I don’t know that anyone can fully comprehend it, but I had to try. Because if I didn’t, I would keep searching for love in other places, and that would only deepen the ache.

I had been through so much. I was so broken and so exhausted that obedience wasn’t a “spiritual goal” anymore, it was survival. I couldn’t afford more pain. I was desperate to get better.

And yes, there were times I slipped.  I still do.  There were days I backtracked, days I cried until my throat hurt, days I felt angry and confused and tired of trying. But I kept coming back. I kept telling God, I’ll get up again. I’ll keep moving forward. But I need You, every step of the way.

And He did not leave.

There is light on the other side of this.

I pray, if you’re reading this, that your marriage can be saved. I pray for restoration and healing and softening hearts and miracles that only God can do. But if it can’t be saved, I want you to know something just as clearly:

God loves you tremendously.
He will heal.
He will bind up your wounds.

So if you’re in the middle of it right now, if your chest is tight, if bedtime feels hard, if fear is prowling the hallways of your mind, I want you to hear this:

You are not forgotten.
You are not alone.

You are a daughter of the Most High… and He does not forget His daughters.

I’ve known for a while that I needed a break.

But don’t we all? Aren’t most of us sprinting through the workweek, only to spend the weekend catching up on everything we didn’t get to Monday through Friday? In my case, I’d been working weekends too, which, if I’m being honest, had quietly turned into an entire month of weekends.

“Mom,” my daughter said one day, “you need some days off.”

“Mom,” my son added, “I’m going to physically pull you away from that computer on the weekends.”

Naturally, I responded with a generous helping of Mom guilt, reminding them that someone around here has to pay the bills. Sometimes, I explained, weekends aren’t optional.

That night, as I scrolled through my favorite podcasts before falling asleep, I landed on Joyce Meyer’s Talk It Out. The episode was about self-care and the importance of rest. Joyce shared how she once worked herself straight into serious health problems.

What a coincidence.

The very next day, I took a few hours off and went to church. The pastor taught on the true meaning of Sabbath, what it actually means to rest, and why it matters so much to God.

At this point, I started to feel like God was trying to tell me something.  I just couldn’t quite figure out what.

Two days later, I woke up at 3 a.m. with the unmistakable sense that something was very wrong. Let me clarify, seriously wrong. My stomach was in open rebellion, and then it hit me. Earlier that evening, I had eaten a salad that was possibly… definitely… past its expiration date.

I had full-blown, wish-I-was-dead, mama-please-save-me food poisoning.

I retched. I puked. I pulled muscles in my back from repeated hurling. Eventually, I grabbed a pillow and a blanket and decided that if I was going to die, it would be on the bathroom floor, next to the toilet, where I belonged. I imagined them finding me there, shaking their heads sadly, whispering, She never even liked salad.

At one point, I looked up and saw all four of my dogs staring down at me. They didn’t bark. They didn’t move. They just stared, deeply concerned and profoundly confused. I was not supposed to be sleeping on the bathroom floor, and they were unsure how to process this turn of events. (If you’re wondering why I have four dogs, that’s a separate story involving my complete lack of boundaries.)

As I lay there, I noticed a cobweb in the corner of the ceiling and made a mental note to clean it later. Then I wondered if there were more cobwebs I hadn’t noticed. And somewhere between nausea and delirium, a thought crossed my mind.

God, I can’t believe You gave me food poisoning just to force me to rest.

And immediately, gently, clearly, the answer came:

I didn’t give you food poisoning. But I do work all things for your good, and I will work this for your good.

Rest was officially on the agenda.

For the next twenty-four hours, rest wasn’t optional, it was mandatory. I could barely get out of bed. Anyone who texted me received the same response: I’m sick today. Can’t talk. Phone calls were completely off the table.

I drifted in and out of sleep, listening to sermons, podcasts, and a few ’90s music documentaries. My kids popped in now and then to tell me about their day. But mostly, I lay quietly in the dark, praying for healing and promising God I would learn how to slow down.

When I finally recovered, something had shifted.

I felt calmer. More peaceful. I realized that weeks of constant busyness had pushed self-care completely off my radar, and without it, I was running on fumes. I also recognized that my priorities had slipped out of alignment, affecting not just me, but how I was leading my family spiritually.

I would not wish food poisoning on anyone. Ever. Not even a little.

But I am grateful for the reminder, to slow down, to rest, and to take better care of myself.

That said…

It may be a very long time before I eat another salad. 🥗

Christmas last year was the hardest Christmas of my life.

Fresh off a separation from my husband, the season felt forced from the start. I knew things wouldn’t feel the same, but knowing that didn’t stop me from trying. I decorated the house. I baked cookies. I played Christmas music and smiled through the tears, hoping that if I pretended long enough, joy might eventually catch up with me.

It didn’t.

“Fake it until you make it” failed spectacularly. And I certainly didn’t fool my kids.

With Christmas only days away, we made a decision that felt both drastic and necessary, we left. The kids and I packed our bags and escaped to a quiet condo overlooking a peaceful lake. Staying home felt unbearable, like staring straight at everything we had lost.

But pain has a way of traveling with you.

The separation alone would have been enough, but it wasn’t the only weight I was carrying. I was emotionally raw from a job that drained me, from a constant sense that I was failing my children, and from the exhausting effort of trying to keep everyone around me okay.

I think divorce does that to you.

There’s an unspoken pressure to become everything to everyone—to prove you’re still good, still capable, still whole. You want to care for everyone affected by the split. Not just support your children, but somehow heal them. And the harder I tried to do that, the worse I felt.

By the time January 1st arrived, I was empty.

That morning, in a condo far from home, I pulled a blank journal from my suitcase and stepped out onto the balcony while the world was still quiet. I asked God for a word for the new year. I didn’t ask casually. I begged. I was exhausted, overwhelmed, and afraid. Everything in my life felt like it was spinning out of control, and I didn’t know how to stop it.

What follows are the words I wrote down that morning.

I’ve read them hundreds of times since. Every time, they steady me. They gently but firmly bring my focus back to where it belongs. Maybe they’ll speak to you, too.

---

January 1

Everything in life has its place.

You are trying to function in roles and relationships that are out of place.

With work, focus only on the tasks assigned to you. Let the responsibilities meant for others remain with them.

With relationships, you are called to offer guidance and wisdom, not to mend deep wounds or fix what is broken. Only I can do that, God.

You are trying to do everything. You cannot be everything to everyone. I did not design you for this. You must accept your limitations, or you will drown beneath a sea of expectations.

Your immediate family is your priority.

When you accept your limitations and take your rightful place, the other pieces will fall together as they are meant to.

Turn things over. Trust others to do their part. Most importantly, trust Me to do Mine.

Here, you will find freedom.

Welcome to your new chapter. I am excited to show it to you and walk through it with you. This season will bring some of the greatest growth, and the greatest peace, of your life.

Walk with Me.

Love,
God

I asked my seventeen-year-old son what he’d like for dinner on Sunday.

He was going to be gone most of the day, but I told him he could choose the meal.

“Beef Wellington,” he said, without hesitation. “And birthday fudge.”

I nodded slowly. This is what happens when you ask questions you aren’t fully prepared to answer.

He has never been a cheap kid to feed. He ordered lobster in restaurants when he was still in grade school. Now he’s taking a culinary class, and if a recipe sounds complicated, expensive, or slightly intimidating, it immediately earns his attention.

“Have you ever even tried Beef Wellington?” I asked.

“No,” he said cheerfully. “But I’ve always wanted to eat it.”

Challenge accepted.

I hunted down the right cut of meat. I ordered the correct mushrooms. I watched videos. I read instructions. I briefly convinced myself that Gordon Ramsay and I were about to collaborate on something extraordinary—if only he were available for moral support.

Three hours later, after two YouTube tutorials and a kitchen that felt about ten degrees hotter than normal, my daughter and I were beginning to believe we might actually pull this off.

At this point, we were sweaty, determined, and feeling dangerously confident.

“You know what we need?” I told her. “Funk music.”

So we turned on seventies disco—no judgment allowed—and kept moving. When we reached the most delicate part of the process, rolling out the puff pastry, I paused mid-roll and offered a very specific prayer.

“Lord, please bless this puff pastry. Let it roll onto the beef the way it’s supposed to.”

One small miracle later, the Wellington was in the oven.

“You know what would be perfect with this?” I said. “Potatoes from the garden.”

She agreed to peel them, which felt like a gift, until we realized how tiny they were. For reasons unknown to us, our potatoes never grew to full size.

“I hate peeling these little potatoes,” she said as one went flying across the kitchen, disco music still blaring. “They’re impossible to hold onto. My hand is going to be permanently stuck in a potato-peeling position.”

Still, she didn’t quit. Twenty minutes later, we had a respectable pile of peeled miniature potatoes and a shared sense of victory.

Dinner was worth it.

The Wellington turned out beautifully. The potatoes were perfect. As I sat at the table watching my son enjoy his meal, something quiet and deep settled in my chest—gratitude, pure and simple.

And then a thought came to me.

What would it have been like to have Jesus sit at your table?

He loved a good meal. He lingered at tables. He taught between bites and laughter. It must have been something extraordinary to sit there, listening to Him speak, surrounded by food and fellowship.

Would He have liked Beef Wellington? Birthday fudge?

What would I say to Him if He were here? What would I ask?

We cleared the table and cleaned the kitchen, the day winding down the way good days do. And I found myself quietly looking forward to the day I’ll sit at His table—face to face, no distractions, no rushing.

And who knows.

Maybe there will even be birthday fudge.