The Sacred Table The Table Weekly

We’ve Been Saving You a Seat

Issue No. 02 Monday, August 17, 2026

Hello, sweet friend,

So glad you’re back at the table. Each week I’ll bring you one honest reflection with a verse to carry, a word for the ones you lead, a recipe for your table, and one small thing to try before Sunday. No performance required. Just pull up a chair.

Something new this week: every daily devotional pulls up to the same idea — there’s a seat here with your name on it. Seven days on what it means to be saved a place: welcomed, wanted, and finally home. I’d love for you to read along all week.

And this week I’ve been thinking about empty chairs, and the one word that keeps us from filling them.

This Week’s Reflection

It Isn’t for Us

“Share with the Lord’s people who are in need. Practice hospitality.”

— Romans 12:13 (NIV)

When we moved to Alabama, the house was far too big for two people. Four bedrooms. A room we would never fill. People laughed when they saw it — “What in the world do you need all that space for?” I always smiled and said the same thing. “It isn’t for us.”

And it wasn’t. Every empty room already belonged to someone in my heart. I could see the grandchildren who weren’t born yet, the Christmas mornings, the holiday tables crowded until the walls could barely hold the noise. The house was never built for two. It was built for gathering.

What I didn’t expect was how quiet it would feel before any of that arrived. Michael would leave for work, I’d wave until his car turned the corner, and the silence would settle in and stay. I set the table for two and felt the ache of every chair that sat empty.

For most of my life I believed a home had to be ready before it could be opened — as if welcome were a reward for finally having myself together. I’ve come to think the most inhospitable word we own is once. Once the house is finished. Once I’m less tired. Once I’m enough.

Ready never comes. And the people who need a seat can’t wait for it.

The empty chair was never a measure of what I lacked. It was the room I left on purpose. That is hospitality — not a flawless table, not store-bought bread traded for homemade, just a place set in advance for someone who doesn’t know yet how wanted they are.

Paul says it plainly. Practice hospitality. Practice — the imperfect, repeated kind. One more seat, one more welcome, one more person who walks in tired and finds we were expecting her.

The quiet house did fill, in time. But even before it did, the chair was never empty. It was an invitation.

Around My Table

What are you waiting to be “ready” for before you open the door?
Who comes to mind when you picture an empty chair at your table?
Where has once quietly kept you from welcoming someone?
What would it look like to practice hospitality — imperfectly, on purpose?

A Simple Prayer

Father,
Thank You that You made room for me
before I had a single thing to offer You.
Loosen my grip on “once” and “ready.”
Teach me to keep a chair open —
for the tired, the lonely, the ones still finding their way.
Let my table be a small picture of Yours.
In Jesus’ name,
Amen.

At the Work Table

Ask the Quiet One First

The table you lead has empty chairs too. Not the vacant desk — the person who’s in the room and hasn’t spoken, who has decided it’s safer to agree than to offer the idea they’re quietly holding.

Here’s a small, slightly uncomfortable experiment for your next meeting: ask the quietest person first. Before the confident voices set the frame, turn to the one who usually waits and ask what they think — then let the silence sit until they fill it. Don’t rescue it.

It changes the room. People speak differently once they learn the first word might be theirs. Leadership isn’t only deciding what happens. Sometimes it’s deciding who gets heard.

Around the Table

A Note to Share

I’m so glad you’re here at the table again this week. If today’s reflection fed you, forward it to someone who could use a seat. That’s how this table grows.

This Week’s Recipe

The Pot of Soup That Stretches

My go-to when I’m not sure how many are coming. It’s forgiving, it’s cheap, and it grows to fit one more with another splash of broth. Serve it with that store-bought bread. No one will love you less for it.

You’ll need

2 tablespoons olive oil
1 onion, diced 3 carrots and 3 celery stalks, chopped
3 cloves garlic, minced
2 cans (15 oz) white beans, drained and rinsed
4 cups broth, chicken or vegetable (plus a little more to stretch it)
1 sprig fresh rosemary, or 1 teaspoon dried
2 big handfuls of spinach or torn kale
Salt, pepper, and a squeeze of lemon at the end

The way of it

Warm the oil in a big pot. Soften the onion, carrots, and celery for about eight minutes, then stir in the garlic until you can smell it. Add the beans, broth, and rosemary, and let it simmer twenty minutes so the flavors settle in. Stir in the greens at the end and let them wilt. Finish with salt, pepper, and that squeeze of lemon — it wakes the whole pot up. If one more chair fills, add a cup of broth and call it plenty.

Things I’m Loving This Month

A Podcast: “Life with Sally”

Lately I’ve had Sally Clarkson’s podcast, Life with Sally, playing while I fold laundry and tidy the kitchen. She talks about home the way I wish more of us would — not as a showplace to keep, but as a soul-shaping place where people are loved well. Her voice is gentle and unhurried, and she keeps reminding me that the ordinary work of making a home is holy work. If you need a warm companion for a quiet morning — or a loud one — start there.

This Week’s Practice

Set One More Place

This week, set one more place than you need — and invite someone simply. A neighbor, a friend who’s gone quiet, someone who would otherwise eat alone. Don’t wait until the house is ready. Ready never comes. Just leave the chair, and open the door.