Welcome, friend.
I'm so glad you're here.
I bought a new journaling Bible recently — the interleaved kind with wide, blank pages for notes and prayers. I loved everything about it… except one thing.
It didn’t have red letters.
And because the red letters have always helped me see Jesus’ voice more clearly, I decided I wasn’t going to let that stop me. So I grabbed a pink highlighter and made a quiet little commitment to myself:
If this Bible doesn’t come with red letters, I’ll make my own.
So I’ve been moving slowly through the Gospels, highlighting every word Jesus speaks — not rushing, not studying for information, but listening. Letting His voice stand out. Letting His tone and tenderness rise from the page.
And then this morning, something happened I wasn’t prepared for.
I was in John 18, reading the moment when Jesus is questioned by the high priest. I’ve read it before, but today, as I traced the red letters with my highlighter, my eyes caught the next line:
“When Jesus said this, one of the officers standing nearby struck Him with his hand.”
And tears flooded my eyes.
This wasn’t Pilate.
This wasn’t Rome.
This wasn’t a legal sentence being carried out.
This was a Temple guard — one of His own people — striking Him simply because He answered truthfully.
It was the first physical blow Jesus received in the Passion story, and it came from the very community He came to save. Something in me cracked open. I felt the sting of it — the injustice, the humiliation, the cruelty — and the tears just kept coming.
But then I turned the page.
And that’s when I reached the next moment — the one that undid me completely:
“Then Pilate took Jesus and had Him flogged.”
(John 19:1)
Pilate had just declared Him innocent.
He had just said he found no guilt in Him.
And still… he ordered the flogging.
Not because Jesus deserved it.
Not because justice demanded it.
But because fear and pressure and politics outweighed courage.
And suddenly I realized:
I wasn’t just highlighting anymore.
I was grieving.
I think it hit me so hard because I’ve been sitting in His voice for days — His compassion, His clarity, His gentleness, His authority. I’ve been listening to Him speak life and truth and hope. And then suddenly, the One who healed the sick and fed the hungry and washed feet… is handed over to be beaten.
It feels wrong because it is wrong.
It feels unjust because it is unjust.
It feels personal because it is personal.
But here’s the part that steadies me:
Jesus wasn’t swept away by the chaos.
He wasn’t overpowered by the crowd.
He wasn’t trapped by Pilate’s weakness.
He chose this.
He said,
“No one takes My life from Me. I lay it down.”
Every strike, every blow, every injustice —
He received it willingly.
For love.
For redemption.
For us.
So yes, I cried today — because the red letters have been changing me, and this moment hit differently than it ever has before.
And maybe that’s the invitation of this season —
to let the weight of His love move us,
to let the reality of His suffering humble us,
and to let the tenderness of His sacrifice draw us closer.
If the Scripture makes you cry, you’re not doing it wrong.
You’re seeing Him clearly.
And that’s the holiest place to be.
You can always sit at this table.
So pull up a chair, stay awhile, and know this is what I pray for you:
That you find encouragement here, that your cup be filled, and you leave each visit reminded of the God who welcomes us, feeds us, and satisfies every thirst.
With grace, gratitude, and a seat saved just for you,
Kimmy
The Thirsty Table 🍞🌿🤎
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