A seat with my name

I read about Mephibosheth again.

That broken man who never walked.

The one who lived his life carried by others, lowered expectations wrapped around him like old, familiar bandages.

Yet somehow…he still found himself sitting at the King’s table.

And I can’t stop thinking about how he didn’t earn that place.

He didn’t stride in confidently.

He didn’t arrive whole.

He didn’t come healed, fixed, impressive, or steady.

He was still lame when the King called his name.

Still wounded.

Still living with the ache of what had happened to him.

Still defined by a fall he never asked for.

And the King said, “Bring him anyway.”

I feel like him.

Dragging myself through the hours,

my soul limping from losses I can’t outrun,

my heart collapsing in places no one sees.

Some days I can’t remember what “wholeness” feels like.

Some days I wonder if I would even recognize joy if it walked right up and said my name.

Grief has a way of twisting the mirror until you forget who you ever were before the breaking.

But Mephibosheth reminds me,

the broken still get called.

The wounded still get welcomed.

The lame still get lifted.

The ones who cannot stand are still given a seat.

He was always lame…

yet he was always at the King’s table.

The brokenness didn’t cancel the invitation.

The weakness didn’t revoke the access.

The scars didn’t disqualify him.

And the King never once asked him to pretend he was strong enough to get there on his own.

Maybe that’s what I needed today,

the reminder that my place was never earned by strength, never secured by perfection,

never held in place by my ability to walk without wavering.

Maybe the King keeps my chair pulled out, waiting, even on the days I feel too shattered to rise. Even on the days I crawl more than I stand.

Even on the days I whisper, “Lord, I can’t do this,” and He answers, “I never asked you to.”

There is a seat with my name on it

in a kingdom that does not tremble at my frailty.

A table where the King Himself covers what I cannot heal.

A place where my broken legs are hidden beneath His grace, and my trembling heart is steadied by His nearness.

And maybe, the very thing I thought disqualified me is the thing that made the invitation

all the more beautiful.

Because even lame ones belong.

Even grieving ones are welcomed.

Even shattered ones are seated.

Even I still have a place…

and no one can take it.