There are days when you walk into a room carrying more than the food in your hands. I felt that as I tried to slip into Friendsgiving a little later than planned, with three turkeys and a knot of frustration in my chest. I dislike arriving late. I dislike feeling out of step. Yet the moment I stepped inside, I saw faces already gathered, plates ready, and a burst of comedic applause. No one seemed troubled. The welcome was wonderful.
That moment eventually tagged onto a memory from my childhood. I once dreamed of opening a place called Martin Chili Palace. The name still makes me smile. Meals can make us feel safe. Full. A meal can do that. Even now, when the scents drifts through our kitchen, it gathers up years and carries them forward. Food is never just food. It is memory. It is presence. It is a kind of grace that comes through ordinary means.
The Bible tells this truth again and again. Abraham sets bread before three strangers in Genesis 18, not knowing he stands in the company of the Holy One. Bread, curds, milk, a calf from the herd. The meal becomes a meeting place between heaven and earth. Later, in Exodus 24, the elders of Israel climb the mountain and eat in the presence of God. No fanfare. No distance. They behold the Lord and share a table as if this were the most natural thing in the world. Then the story bends toward Galilee, where Jesus breaks bread by the sea in John 21. The charcoal fire crackles. The fish sizzles. The risen Christ hands food to tired disciples and restores a stumbling shepherd with three quiet questions.
Each setting feels ordinary at first. A tent in the heat of the day. A mountain table. A shoreline at dawn. Yet every scene carries the same heartbeat. God meets his people at meals. God binds stories together at tables. God restores weary hearts through bread offered in love. When Jesus lifts the bread in Emmaus, the travelers see him. When he blesses the loaves on the hillside, the crowd eats until they are filled. When he shares the cup in an upper room, the cross draws near and the new covenant opens.
I think about that when I carry food into a room filled with brothers and sisters. I think about it when I stir chili and remember the hands that taught me. There is something quiet and holy about a meal received with thanks. It draws us out of ourselves. It turns our eyes toward the Giver. It invites us to remember that Christ does not wait for perfect timing or polished hearts. He meets us with mercy at the tables we already have.
As Thanksgiving draws close, I want to step into each gathering with that hope. That the God who fed Abraham’s guests, Israel’s elders, and the disciples on the shore will meet us again in the breaking of bread. That our tables will become small signs of his kindness. That the food before us will whisper what Jesus still says to all who follow him. Come and eat. Rest in what I give.
May your table this week carry the quiet weight of God’s grace.
~PW 🌮🛶
Phillip W. Martin 
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