The afternoon settled gently over Roaring Rapids Ranch. The cattle were fed, the horses rubbed down, and the usual clatter of the yard had given way to a deep, honest quiet.
Jake Harmon sat alone at the long wooden table in the cookhouse. It wasn’t mealtime, not exactly. A single tin cup sat in front of him, half-filled with water. Beside it lay a small piece of bread Mary had set aside for him after supper.
Jake hadn’t planned on sitting there this long, but this had become a habit.
He turned the cup slowly between his hands, the way a man does when he’s thinking about things he’d rather not rush. The ranch had taught him plenty over the years: how to read the weather, how to trust a horse, how to mend a fence. But some lessons took longer; the kind you couldn’t fix with nails, rope, or a paintbrush.
Footsteps sounded softly behind him.
Mary didn’t say anything at first. She simply rested a hand on the back of the chair across from him and waited, giving Jake the dignity of finishing his thoughts.
“Sit down,” Jake finally said. “Ever take notice how easy it is to show up… and how hard it is to come honest?”
Mary smiled, not the kind meant to smooth things over, but the kind that told the truth kindly.
“Every day.”
Jake nodded. “Sometimes I wonder if I’ve got any business sitting at a table meant for grace. Here, or on Sunday mornings at church.”
Mary pulled out the chair and sat. “Jake, none of us earn a place at that table. If we did, it wouldn’t be grace.”
He looked down at the bread. “I keep thinking I should be better by now.”
“Better than who?” she asked gently.
Jake let out a quiet breath. “Better than yesterday.”
Mary considered that. “Trying to follow the right trail matters,” she said. “But so does knowing you still need help walking it.”
Outside, Boone padded past the open door and paused, his tail thumping once against the frame before wandering off. Even the dog seemed to know this wasn’t a moment to interrupt.
Mary continued, her voice steady. “When a person comes to that table thinking they’ve got it all figured out, that’s when they miss the point. But when they come knowing they’re still learning, still listening, still wanting to do better, that’s when the table does its work.”
Jake picked up the bread, not eating it yet. “So the question isn’t whether I’m worthy.”
“No,” Mary said softly. “The question is whether you’re willing.”
Jake closed his eyes for a moment, not to escape, but to look straight at what was there: regrets, gratitude, hope. A quiet request for God’s forgiveness where he had fallen short, and for God’s strength to do better.
When he opened them again, the ranch looked the same.
But he wasn’t.
Mary stood. “I’ll see you on the porch later.”
Jake nodded, finally taking the bread, then the cup, grateful not because he was finished growing, but because he had reminded himself that he didn’t have to pretend.
He was still growing.
Out on the ranch, the work would go on. The days would keep coming.
And growth, real growth, would keep happening the same way it always had.
Quietly.
One honest step at a time.
The Table Beyond the Sanctuary
A Quiet Reflection by Bern Venters
Different churches and different people have different practices. During the war between the states, Jake continued his habit of reading his Bible every day. He read from the four Gospels daily, along with other parts of the Old and New Testaments. Whenever he read Jesus’ words about His Last Supper, he set for himself a personal Lord’s Supper in remembrance of what Jesus had done for him, and was still doing in him. He never stopped that habit.
When we think of the Lord’s Supper, we often picture a sanctuary: rows of pews, a quiet hush, familiar words spoken in a familiar place. And that matters. Gathering as a community to remember Christ is a gift that should never be taken lightly.
But the first table was not in a church.
It was in an ordinary upper room, with Passover food, among people who did not yet understand everything, but who were loved and would learn.
That is why there are moments when the table can appear beyond the sanctuary.
Sometimes it shows up in silence, with simple bread and water.
Sometimes it appears when a person pauses long enough to tell God the truth about their own heart.
Sometimes it meets us alone on a porch, at a kitchen counter, or at a ranch table after the work is done.
Private communion does not replace gathered worship.
It reminds us of what gathered worship is meant to form in us.
The question is never whether the setting is “proper” or the elements impressive.
The deeper question is whether we come honestly.
Are we still learning from Christ?
Are we still trying to follow Him?
Are we willing to receive forgiveness instead of pretending we no longer need it?
The table beyond the sanctuary is not about earning grace.
It is about receiving it.
And wherever and whenever a person comes with humility, remembrance, and trust in Christ, they can remember that the presence of Christ is with them and within them.
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