I can’t remember a time when I didn’t love Jesus. I grew up going to church and praying in my bed every night. I’ve spent long hours at the foot of the cross and on my knees. I’m sure of God’s love and His saving Grace. But I’ve wondered…
Is there a share just for me?
God so loved the world… the world? Or me?
He gave His only Son… given, period? Or given to me?
God slices from the sweetness of grace and my mouth waters for a taste. I scoot up to the table, but don’t lean in because I’m not sure if I’m in the right place… if I belong. I wait politely, counting chairs and measuring slices in my mind as it comes around.
Perhaps I misunderstood. Maybe He didn’t prepare enough for me. I understand… it’s my fault… I should have figured…
Just as my muscles tighten to stand and leave, a perfectly sliced portion is set before me. I look up to see how it’s so and notice that the amount of sweetness never changes with each cut. It’s sliced and sliced but there’s always more.
I bow my head, careful not to draw attention to myself, and eat quickly. A party crasher never truly gets to relax, but at least she gets to eat for free…
And then I notice it. My name. It’s on a place card, a welcome banner, and a gift. He was waiting for me all along. I was invited, prepared for, and wanted.
I lean in, rest my elbows on the table, and look up. He’s smiling at me and it feels so great to be an expected guest.
And that share? It was made just for me.
Lean in, friend. Look. Your name is there, too.