Leftovers

Memories of the feast still linger in my head.

I sit at a table set with such splendor, beautiful china and silver laid out for each person. Dishes overflowing with food fulfilling every desire. My eyes drift to the Host, seated at the head of the table. And even from a distance He has the ability to make each guest feel like they are at an intimate dinner alone with Him. We share amazing food and deep conversation. A free flow of talking and listening, sharing fears, hopes, and dreams. Long after we begin, the food never diminishes and the conversation never lulls. Surely the Host wishes His guests would return to their own homes, their own lives. But no, His home is open to all for as long as we desire to stay. He never tires of hearing me speak, He never falters with an answer of wisdom or encouragement. At time we just sit, enjoying the presence of the other, words unnecessary.

And then in the midst of comfort and belonging, my mind turned to other things. Deadlines, to-do lists, my life outside of the banquet began to tug at my thoughts. Somehow, someway I found myself pulling out of conversation, avoiding eye contact with the Host. I withdrew from the midst of them.

As I sit here, far from the banqueting table and the presence of the Host my thoughts return to that time. I look at the plate of leftovers He sent with me. The food is the same and serves the function of nourishment, but it's a shadow of the feast it once was. And while it sustains me, it fails to fill me. The memories of those moments, sitting face to face with Him flood my mind. I yearn to be back there, feasting on new, fresh food that never lacks, sitting so intimately with Him, hearing His voice and knowing He hears mine. Yet, here I sit, eating leftovers from the place I want to be.

The invitation is always open. The Host glances at the empty chair waiting for my return, for the conversation to flow free again, for Him to share with me the bounty of His feast, His encouraging words of wisdom, and an ear who listens intently knowing my heart.

Even knowing my place is always open, I once again pull out the leftovers and mourn that I am not at the table. Desiring so much to return to where I once sat and for some reason struggling to find my way back. And so I pull out the leftovers again.