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Hey friend, I'm Katie.

Walking, talking, and
Mexican food fanatic.
Friend who believes
your whole soul matters.
Homemaker & Writer.

Let's go for a walk?

I'm Not The Guest At This Party

The honest truth is that a lot of times already being a mom feels like being automatically left out.

We hosted a dinner gathering somewhere other than our home tonight. Set an early start time so JB and I could be there, at least for a while. But then everyone was late. So late that we had to leave before eating.

And I’m sitting here on the couch now rehearsing the one line that got me home without getting me mad.

I’m not the guest at this party.

Whether I’m actually in attendance now or not, I was a host, a c0-servant with Stephen, who is now free to stay and to serve for us both. Embracing this role makes the quiet walk home, the leftover stir-fry, the chaos of creating hospitality to-go all okay. More than that, makes my missing out good and right and abundant life.

It strikes me as I’m cleaning up bath time: I am not the guest at this party that is my life.

Could I remember this in all my days and dealings? Because it’s surely my desire to be pampered and praised that gets me into so many pits in this new thing called motherhood. And in the older thing called marriage. And in the whole of life.

And Jesus, even when He was the guest of honor, was found breaking the bread, bending the knees, using His very own fingertips to rub dirt and dung off the tired feet of the ones He loved. And don’t you know His feet had to be the most tired of all?

The Lord of Hosts hosts a party so He can hold feet.

The Bread of Life invites me in so He can break in my place.

And He says if I am truly His, I won’t expect more prestige or appreciation than He did. I won’t follow any other pattern of hospitality than to love the guests by laying down my life.

Isn’t all of life a practice of hospitality for the ones who follow Jesus?

Every conversation. I’m not the guest at this party.

Every situation. I’m not the guest at this party.

Every room I enter. I’m not the guest at this party.

Every new person I meet. I’m not the guest at this party.

And if this is the truest thing about me, to live is Christ and He’s the ultimate Servant, then isn’t the friction of being left out or overlooked much more to do with my resistance to Jesus than it is everyone else’s snub to me?

Yeah, I think the pain of losing my life is in the fight against it, the refusal to do what He did so willingly–to make myself nothing. And I’m so good at fighting.

But tonight, by God’s grace, I won’t. Maybe in five minutes I will. Some straw will break this servant’s back and I’ll buckle, hoping husband never even finds these words. But for this moment I’ll choose to rejoice in the privilege of serving like my Creator did.

I cannot be more than Jesus. I’ll stop killing myself trying to be.

So if you, like me, might find yourself alone or missing out tonight, I’m praying we both embrace the fullness of life found at the feet of others. What we do for the least of them, we do for Jesus. Say it with me?

I’m not the guest at this party.

But Jesus is the King, and if I’m down here with the feet, then I’m right next to Him. What an honor.

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