Table of Invitation

I scour the ground picking up crumbs and scraps fallen from the table.
You pull out a seat, lean down for me. “Come, I’ve prepared this for you.”
I crawl away.
You extend your hand, bringing the aroma from the table with it.
My hunger growls.
“Come, eat.” You invite me again.
Hanging on to my distrust but eager to see, I pull myself up on the opposite side from you.
Welcome. Pick a seat.
I slide into the closest chair. The feast before me is only a jar of wine and a loaf of bread.
It’s all for you.
You pour the wine while I break off a piece of bread.
I expected more. The crumbs I gathered suggested there would be more.
It’s all you need, sliding the cup towards me.
I ate. I was hungry. I drank. I was thirsty.

What is your name?
From the darkness, I hear them calling. Whispers as sharp as arrows.
Beggar, thief, scum, liar, weirdo, mistake, messed up, not good enough.
You raise your hand. They were silenced at once.
I can’t remember my name.
You hand me another piece of bread. My Father calls you daughter.
The fire in your eyes consumes my fear, assures your words are trustworthy.
Do you believe in me?
Shifting in my chair, I realize the seat fits me perfectly.
I made it for you.
How did you know I would choose this chair?
I know you. You are mine.
What is your name? I ask this time.
I am the Way, the Truth, the Life.

Joy rises from my deep and draws a smile to my face. Yes, I believe.
You stand and stretch your hand across the table. Come.
Wiping the crumbs from my mouth, I grab your hand.
Through the door, you lead.
The garden before us is lush with green and tall, thick trees. Fragrant flowers filled the air.
A table runs through the middle like a river stream.
“This is my Father’s table.” I brought your chair.
On and on the table went filled with milk, honey, fruits and grains, vegetable and leaves.
People come and go, work and rest, feast and dream.
Another also called child, passes me a plate of freshly sliced papaya.
You squeeze between us and grab a fig.
You were made for this, daughter.
I begin to see.
There’s work for you to do here. Come, walk with me.

Formatting can be tough in blog posts. This is a 3 stanza verse, 14 lines each, just so you know.