I woke up alone. For the past few weeks, I have had the privilege of the company of my grandson several days a week. I cherish the time that the school rhythm and parenting plans edged out. But this morning, my grandson home with his parents for the weekend, I woke up from a refreshing sleep, a bright sun already dawning the day and a kitchen full of windows and possibilities. Until just a few weeks ago, the kitchen had become a place to prepare a healthy but quick “girl meal” and a counter top to write while the coffee steamed up out of its cup. The windows give me a screen to watch the seasons, the weather rolling in, the painted sunrises and sunsets and the dogs walking their people. My grandson and I frequently run to watch the deer families cross our front yard, stopping to linger and eat whatever they find there. It’s an everyday sort of thing that never loses its magic.
Here recently, though, a yearning was stirred. The kitchen, kitchens long past in my life, used to be where I nurtured, called kids to the table when the food was hot, searched through cookbooks and made meal plans, taught myself to make bread and bought myself a grain grinder. It was where I read books to my children and then planned “dinner parties” around the stories, where we welcomed families, hosted Christmas and invited missionaries back after church for a meal and a quiet respite in a spare bedroom for the afternoon. It was where I would give my little girl, already showing her creativity, the “job” of decorating the table however she chose. Inevitably, and to this day, she would head outside to find objects in nature that she found beautiful. The kitchen gave me space to be me in the world. It nurtured me while I nurtured others.
Through life and it’s hard knock lessons, I found myself standing on shifting ground, unsure of who I was anymore. The rhythm had a dissonance to it and I couldn’t find the tune so I gave up for awhile; sometimes for a long while. My writing, my cooking, my parenting, my things……set sail around me on their little styrofoam boats and threatened to sink. It hurt too much to think about it so I turned my head away. I couldn’t figure out who or how to nurture anymore. I needed nurturing myself. So, like they tell you on the airplane, find your own oxygen source first before you help those around you. Seems “wrong”, selfish but life has shown me it is wise. So, I pulled the trigger on my own “triggers” and got on with it. I re-entered the race with blood soaked bandages and scars still gaping because the race wasn’t stopping for me. I stopped acting fragile and started feeling less so. As I tell my grandson, “If you act scared, you’ll feel scared.”
I re-entered my faith community, not for their approval this time, but for the healthy discourse that comes from honest talk and sharing life. We need each other to knock ourselves off of our self built soap boxes, to remind ourselves we don’t know everything, to be willing to make us mad, to make us a meal when our appendix bursts, to lend us a 20 when the bank is low. We need to be able to give the same. My path intersected with people who had once crossed me off the invite list and are now fellow companions restored. As time went on, the longing grew and the kitchen whispered my name. Family didn’t seem like something I had. My kids spread out, literally worldwide, and I felt like an orphan in reverse. Then along came a young woman who re-opened the door. I wager she had no idea the weight of her actions and the effect. I don’t think I did either at the time but the turning point came with the advent of her. She took a step into my son’s life, my grandson’s life and invited me along.
I began to watch cooking shows again and found myself ordering cookbooks, a hobby long abandoned. I thought I’d enjoy dreaming, reminiscing and looking at the pictures. “You can do this again. You can DO this.” But where, who?? I asked the One who is my Giver of Dreams and Ideas. I stopped thinking of myself as “used to” and began to look for the possibilities, which, as it turns out are all around me. My first idea was my pastor’s family. Each Saturday I’ve begun to cook and would bring them a sample on Sunday of what I’d made. I’ve started cooking with my grandson, teaching him as I go about healthy foods and we Google what the benefits of carrots are and why sugar is harmful. He has begun to take an interest in what he’s eating and joy in the finished product he helped make. I have begun to envision having my son’s family over for dinner, bringing a dish to share at their home and making my homemade granola to share with the neighbors in my building.
As I sit here in my kitchen, the smell of beef stroganoff from this mornings’ cooking lingering in the air, the anticipation of sharing with with my pastor tomorrow, I feel a joy that goes deep to my bones. Cooking is more than ingredients. It has given me back a part of me that had lay like dry bones for far too long, like breath being held, like skin shriveled.
“Then He said to me, “Prophesy to these bones and say to them, ‘Dry bones, hear the word of the Lord! This is what the Sovereign Lord says to these bones: I will make breath enter you, and you will come to life. I will attach tendons to you and make flesh come upon you and cover you with skin; I will put breath in you, and you will come to life. Then you will know that I am the Lord.” Ezekiel 37