The Table He Built

My grandmother handed me a wooden spoon on that dusty Texas porch like it was

a sacred promise. I sketched a table on a napkin, big enough for

everyone I'd ever love. Years later, I was alone in an empty

space, hammering wood, wondering how I would do it. I folded my

hands and whispered, Lord, if this is Your table, help me set

it. A single light flickered on above me. Then one day,

the chairs filled. Laughter echoed. Families gathered. I stepped back and saw it,

that napkin sketch now framed on our wall. Nacho Padres isn't my restaurant.