There’s a moment we all run into at some point—usually when life is going well—when we quietly wonder what we’re supposed to do with the things we’ve been given. Not the stuff we show off, not the pictures we post, but the quieter wins. The steady job. The calm season. The little pockets of abundance that arrive without fanfare.
And the truth is, those moments are where our character speaks the loudest.
It’s tempting to protect whatever we’ve earned. To pull it close. To tell ourselves we worked for it, fought for it, sacrificed for it. And maybe we did. But the world doesn’t reward us for stacking our blessings higher; it rewards us when we let those blessings spill over into other lives. Not in grand gestures or dramatic generosity—just in small openings where someone else gets a seat at something good.
A longer table doesn’t require wealth. It requires willingness. Willingness to notice the friend who’s been quiet lately. The coworker who pretends everything’s fine. The neighbor who keeps to themselves because they aren’t sure they belong. Willingness to pause our busy, curated, hyper-optimized lives and ask, “Hey… you alright? Want to join?”
We underestimate how much courage it takes for someone to accept help, and how much humility it takes to offer it. A table is an invitation, not an obligation. And it’s built slowly—one open door, one shared laugh, one unexpected kindness at a time.
The funny thing about giving is that it rarely leaves you with less. In fact, the more you stretch your table, the more you discover it was never meant to have fixed edges. You make room for people and somehow your heart expands to match it. You offer warmth and somehow your world grows warmer. You let someone else lean on you for a moment and somehow you walk away steadier.
We don’t need higher fences. We’re surrounded by enough of those already—boundaries built from fear, pride, insecurity, or just the exhaustion of trying to keep up. Fences keep things out, but they also trap us in. They shrink our sightlines until we forget what connection even looks like.
A longer table, though—now that’s a different story. It’s messy. It’s unpredictable. It requires grace. But it also fills the room with the kind of sound fences never make: conversation, laughter, understanding, belonging.
And when you look back, years from now, you won’t remember the times you stood guard over what you had. You’ll remember the nights when the chairs didn’t match, the plates were mismatched, the food was simple, but the company made the whole space feel richer.
Good fortune is temporary. Good impact lasts.
So if you find yourself in a season with a little more than you need—more time, more clarity, more patience, more peace—don’t build higher walls around it.
Just add another seat.
You’ll be surprised who shows up—and how much of yourself you discover in the process.
Kenrick Vaz 