Save a Seat at the Table

For more than 20 years—since the early days of Harvest—our home has been open during the holidays. Thanksgiving. Christmas. And really, any time of year. We began inviting people who didn’t have family nearby, who might otherwise be eating alone, to come and sit at our table.

I’ve always believed this: my home is God’s house.

And God’s house should never feel closed—especially during the holidays.

Over time, our family grew. What started as blood family expanded to church family, then friends, then friends who became family. We didn’t do anything special. No elaborate meals. No production. Just food, conversation, laughter, and the simple ministry of presence.

And that was enough.

The holidays, however, aren’t always easy.

For some, this season carries joy. For others, it carries grief. My daughter Kirsten is in heaven, and there are moments during the holidays when her absence feels especially close. Certain times of year have a way of reminding us of who is missing, what has changed, and what has been lost.

Loss has a way of softening you—or hardening you. I’ve learned to let it soften me.

It has taught me that people carry things we cannot see. That some people smile while hurting deeply. That some sit at tables that look full but feel empty. And that others have no table at all.

That’s why I believe this season calls us to be intentional.

Scripture tells us that if we want friends, we must show ourselves friendly. And I’ve found that whatever you need from God—love, connection, healing, family—that’s often what you should sow.

If you need community, sow community.

If you need friendship, sow friendship.

If you need love, sow love.

One of the simplest ways to do that is by opening your door.

Pay attention during the holidays. Listen closely. Someone may mention they’ll be alone. Someone may quietly withdraw from the conversation. Someone may not say anything at all.

Invite them anyway.

It doesn’t have to be perfect.

It doesn’t have to be fancy.

It just has to be sincere.

A meal. A seat. A shared moment.

Grief has taught me this: healing often happens in ordinary spaces. Around tables. In conversations. In rooms filled with warmth, not perfection.

So this season, I encourage you to save a seat.

Save a seat for someone who needs family.

Save a seat for someone who is healing.

Save a seat for someone who reminds you that love grows when it’s shared.

And you may discover that in opening your home, God is also meeting a need in your own heart.