Come with pieces barely whole,
pieces no one sees, pieces that
crumble beneath the lightest touch.
Come as you are; bring yourself to our table.
Open the jar of broken hearts, the box of anxious
self-doubts, and a tin of numb; break off a piece
of not enough, while I offer up a cup of tea steeped in
memories and missed opportunities.
We dine on meager makings of mistakes and disappointments
burnt to a crisp, as we rewind the unraveled threads.
Our meal may not be scrumptious or savory, but
our gentle communion shall sustain us through
even the deepest of despair.
Here is where we come to be made whole,
poultice our wounds, give thanks,
find love and strength and mercy, all.
We each bring bits of brokenness to the table; bone weary,
figuring our parts, laying bare our deepest fears, worries,
hopes, and dreams. There are no wrong answers;
nothing is inappropriate for this gathering.
Our repast where all are welcome
even in silence to sit; come, share if you wish, be
unburdened, you’ll always find a place among us.
Come in darkness, leave in light, our table’s always open.