The Sacred Table Co.

There is a chair at my table that has quietly become mine. No one assigned it — but over years of mornings, it’s simply where I sit. Coffee on the right, window on the left, the light coming in low across the floor. When I walk into the kitchen before the day gets loud, the chair is waiting. In that room, at least, I never have to wonder where I belong.

I wish I carried that same certainty everywhere. Because there have been rooms — and seasons — where I felt more like a guest than a member of the household. Careful with my words. Watching to see if I’d somehow overstayed. Half-expecting someone to glance up and wonder why I was still there. Maybe you know the feeling. The quiet arithmetic of whether you’ve earned your place.

Paul was writing to people who knew that arithmetic well — outsiders, strangers to the promise, used to standing at the edge. And he told them it was over. No longer foreigners and strangers, he said, but fellow citizens with God’s people, members of his household. Not guests. Not visitors on good behavior. Family. A name at the table.

That’s the thing about a household. You don’t audition for it. You don’t keep your coat on by the door in case it doesn’t work out. You belong before you’ve done a single useful thing. The seat was kept for you before you ever thought to ask.

So if you’ve been standing at the edge of your own life, wondering if you’re truly wanted here — come in, friend. Sit down. The chair is yours.