I look at my kitchen table, all covered in scars. There are cup rings and cuts and more scrapes than can be counted. This table bears its history, its story, on its face, wearing it proudly for all to see. I look at my table, and all I can think is how much I love my table and its baggage. I smile and run my hands over its surface and think look what we’ve been through together.
And as I gaze upon this table I find myself thinking… Maybe this is how God looks at me.