It was the final meal before everything changed. A borrowed upper room, a table set not just with bread and wine but with love and betrayal, loyalty and denial. Jesus washed dusty feet, broke bread, and handed around a cup that tasted like both promise and goodbye. And I couldn’t help but wonder… what happens when the table is more than just a table?

Matthew and Mark give us the scene straight: the Passover prepared, the betrayal predicted, the bread and wine lifted with words that would echo for centuries. Luke lingers on the desire in Jesus’ voice: “I have eagerly desired to eat this Passover with you before I suffer.” And John zooms in on the basin and towel, the shocking intimacy of the Savior kneeling, water running over calloused feet. It’s tender and tense all at once. Friends gathered, arguments still bubbling about who’s greatest, while the shadow of the cross stretched across the room.

And I couldn’t help but think… maybe every table we sit at is holy in some way. Maybe every loaf of bread broken and every glass poured holds within it a chance to remember grace, to see each other fully, to choose love even when betrayal lingers at the edges. Because the truth is, the Last Supper wasn’t really the last. It was the beginning of a rhythm we’re still invited into: bread broken, wine poured, Jesus present. Again and again.

So this week, when I sit down at my own table—messy counters, mismatched glasses, family interrupting mid-bite—I’ll remember that holiness doesn’t need perfection. It only needs presence.

And I couldn’t help but ask… what if every meal could be a little like that upper room? A little more sacred, a little more full of love, a little more like Jesus?

Gracefully yours,

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