It’s something I wish would naturally pour from my heart. Instead complaints and sighs spill effortlessly.
But still, God has showered me with goodness, and has graciously invited me to dine with him today. He didn’t require a certain manner of dress or appearance, just me, just my heart, open, teachable, eager.
He promised there would be the appropriate clothes waiting for me when I arrived, that he would put his robe around me, that he would supply everything I lacked.
And I’ve stood here today with that invitation in hand and delayed and delayed at responding, concerned I would not be accepted, approved of. I’ve even approached close to the table, taken a quick taste of the fare, but retreated suddenly when called away by other unwelcome guests, impatience, pride, fear.
But he patiently waits, gently calls me back, and runs to meet me when I knock.
Because his table is always open to those who call him Father, who know they have no righteous robe of their own making, who receive his invitation with gratitude.
I can come with a baby on my hip, a pee-soaked rag in my hand, a burnt piece of toast for a hostess gift, wet hair, and heart open and ready to drink in the good wine of his presence.
Because communion with Daddy doesn’t only happen on Sundays in church or in the stillness of the wood, or on the pinnacle of the mountains. We dine over unmopped floors and failed pinterest recipes. We talk in the midst of mommy/daughter tantrums. We share conversation over animal crackers and delightful park visits.
And as I reflect on that, his faithful presence, his gentle call, his enthusiastic welcome, thankfulness begins to flood my heart, and it’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve tasted today.