Meetings with God at the Kitchen Table
The morning light crept in soft and golden, unlike my heart. I shuffled to the kitchen, rubbing the exhaustion from my eyes, only to be met with an empty refrigerator. Filled with takeout boxes and void of actual groceries. Just a bag of flour, some peanut butter, a handful of blueberries, and the lingering weight of guilt.
I should've gone to the store. I should've planned better. I should've prayed more. Should, should, should—condemnation disguised as conviction.
I sighed and reached for the mixing bowl, pouring flour and water together to stretch what little we had. The smell of warm pancakes filled the kitchen, but my spirit felt cold. My mind wandered to my failures—not just as a provider but as a father leading his children to the feet of Jesus. Tomorrow, I'll preach on prayer. Through my preparation, I realized how often I fail to demonstrate dependence on God for my children. Anyone can talk the talk; only the spirit-filled can walk the walk.
A small voice interrupted my self-criticism as we set the table.
"Daddy, can I pray?"
I turned, startled. My four-year-old son sat at the table, his little hands folded, his bright blue eyes expectant.
"Of course, buddy."
He bowed his head, voice steady and sure.
"Thank you, God, for the food and for today." A pause. Then he looked up. "Daddy, what comes next?"
I felt something shift inside me. The guilt, the weight, the worry—it all melted, drowned out by the simplicity of childlike faith.
"Son, you're doing great," I said, swallowing the lump in my throat. "It's just like talking to me, except you're talking to God."
He grinned and closed his eyes again.
"Give me a great day, and thank you for my daddy and my momma and my sissy."
And just like that, God met me at my kitchen table with the scent of blueberry pancakes and my child's voice. He wasn't waiting for perfect prayers or perfect parenting—just presence.
Sometimes, grace comes in whispered prayers over breakfast.
When have you felt unworthy, only for God to remind you He's already enough? Share your story. You never know who needs to hear it.
