Of Balloons and Birthdays. . .

Last week I turned a number a little shy of forty. Hard to realise my thirties are more behind me than ahead. I've enjoyed my thirties as a much more stable (though less spontaneous) place than my twenties. I might dream fewer dreams, but the ones I do dream feel attainable rather than wild and impossible. Not to say that some wild and impossible dreams haven't become realities (studying and living in Oxford twelve years ago, for example!).


Many of my dreams (though not all) lie in being in a good community of believers at work, at church, and in my small group... They lie in being safe and seen and loved. In knowing that God is God and I am not...and when I'm afraid He is present and capable and in control.


Rather than telling you 38 things I loved about the last year (which I could do!) or 38 things I want to do this coming year (which I'm not sure I could do yet), let me show you some of what I'm thankful for (relationships that are anywhere from brand-new to twenty years in the making).



 

The hostess trio (Brenna, Lyndi, & Carrie)     +     Grace, Jeremy, and Brenna again ;)



 

The whole crew and the A-mazing fruit tart made by the more amazing Lyndi!

Me and my man =]

_____

A couple of days later, Nick turned a number much closer to thirty than I did... We celebrated together with his mum at Cheddars. Yum! (Not pictured: four amazing cookies from Crumbl Cookie: Key Lime Pie, Cookies n'Cream, Churro, and Blueberry Muffin)


 

This is the man I feel safe with. The man who makes my heart sing. The man who I don't have to be 'on' around. The man who holds me close and I fit there perfectly. The man who still gives me butterflies. The man I pray for. The man who calls me darling and makes my heart melt. . . The man who is home.

Fall into me and I'll catch you, darlin'

We'll dance in the street like nobody's watching

It's just you and me and the song on repeat in my head

Playing over and over

I'm drunk on your voice high on the moment

I'd fall for you twice if that's what you wanted

I'd give you my life from now till forever

I'm falling in love with you

Over and over again

Until I had met you

There was no sun in my sky

No mirrors for monsters

And no love in sight

Then you walked down those stairs

And I knew my heart wasn't mine

On the day that I met you

My whole world came alive

—Forest Blakk, Fall into Me

Hosptitality for the Life of the World

   

When you walk through the front door of my home, twinkle lights, pressed leaves, and a few hundred books greet your eyes. Written across one mirror you’ll see the words, “I want to join God in bringing healing into people’s lives¹.” Though I’m not a doctor, a counsellor, or a pastor, I desperately desire to help heal the brokenness I encounter daily. For me, offering this healing many times looks like evenings of connecting with others over a meal.

While the embodiment of hospitality comes in many forms, my tiny cabin best allows for evenings of feeding others’ eyes and appetite with beautiful, savoury food in an atmosphere of warmth and openness. This sort of hospitality not only shares a meal but feeds another’s soul by seeing them and being seen by them, by listening to their soul and holding back advice unless asked.

For some of us, limited space invites creativity in how (or how many) we can host. Recently, one of my single friends said he can’t host people since his apartment doesn’t have a table. But while hospitality often happens around tables, it also comes curled up on couches with mugs of something hot or nestled in armchairs with plates perched on our knees. Whether we serve gourmet food or simple fare, feeding the body helps us connect with others in a more open, relaxed way—physically, emotionally, and spiritually. There’s nothing like inviting a friend into our space to enjoy being present with one another.

Healing Begins When We Embody Scripture

God starts the story of the world with plants for food, with trees that are both beautiful and edible, delighting the senses. God provides daily bread for the Israelites, bodily food as a sign of His hospitality and faithfulness in the wilderness. Jesus begins His public ministry at a wedding feast, turning water into wine, an image of His blood poured out for many. Jesus deliberately comes to us embodied, offering His body as food and drink (John 6:48-51) for the life of the world.

God’s hospitality floods the pages of Scripture, so it is every bit on purpose that in the coming Kingdom of God, the blessed are invited to the marriage supper of the Lamb (Rev 19:6-9). In that supper of feasting and drinking, our bodies and souls will be made glad in His presence.

Our bodies are never overlooked in God’s story. They connect us to Him, to others, and to the earth in a myriad of ways. We experience our selves in our bodies, and these clay houses can serve as the doorway from hurt into healing. With a warm meal and a hearing heart, I join God in bringing healing to others by inviting them into sacramental life² in my tiny home.

_____

FN 1: Boyett, Micha, Found (Brentwood, TN: Worthy Publishing, 2014) pg 16

FN 2: “Centuries of secularism have failed to transform eating into something strictly utilitarian. Food is still treated with reverence. A meal is still a rite—the last “natural sacrament” of family and friendship, of life that is more than “eating” and “drinking.” To eat is still something more than to maintain bodily functions. People may not understand what that “something more” is, but they nonetheless desire to celebrate it. They are still hungry and thirsty for sacramental life.”  

Alexander Schmemann, For the Life of the World (Crestwood, NY: St Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 1963) pg 16

Photo by Gaelle Marcel on Unsplash

Originally published for the Navigators' Spring 2022 edition of Upfront.

Hearthfires and Hearts Afire

Come in, come in and warm thyself
by the fire of love,
kindled by kindness and
breathing out the incense 
of acceptance

Come, gather 'round
the crackling branches, 
pruned and withered, 
still offering warmth and light
as they fall to ash and truly die

Come toast thy face 
in the warmth of grace and
by the blaze of holiness 
be scoured and cleansed, 
be set to rest

Come out of the wet, the cold, 
the wild wind—to the hearth 
and heart of this home,
wherein Christ dwells in mirth
and tears, in hugs and hands

Come in, come in and sit
thyself beside the fire
of hospitality and glowing embers,
where we laugh and weep
and still remember.

The Liturgy of Home: Place and Practise

Fog diffuses light and shadow, shrouds the world around me in unfamiliar shapes, bringing with it the damp smells of earth and balsam. Raucous calls emanate from the rook perched amongst the pines. Watching, listening, I sit still—allowing the morning’s wild silence to feed my soul. I revel in weekends and mornings; their hours hold out strong fingers of life and help to me. A cheery kettle often whistles its tea-song as I poach an egg or wipe the table. Benedictine’s chant a Psalm whilst I wash the dishes, my own prayers rising with their strains and the water’s steam.

Morning rhythms thrum through my day, setting the tone for the day’s song. If I begin with a Psalm and moments for prayer, the first melody is strong. If I add to that the kitchen tidying and sweeping, a chord of harmony twines into the day. Weaving in reading or writing—if I have given myself enough time for leisure—the chorus grows more substantial by the time I greet my fellow workmates. This is home—this practise of cultivating habits and routines which chart the course of days and weeks.

I grew up in a home that was less focussed on punctuality and more concerned with ‘life together.’ My mother set routines both around the morning meal and reading Scripture aloud to me and my sisters. My father would engage us all in conversation over dinner, leaving time to read together after the table was cleared or just before bed. Sometimes we would shift our evening routine, having friends over for dinner or coffee. We would hold hands and pray together. There we were, gathered around the table, listening to stories and laughing over the trifling events of the day—glad for friends with whom we could share both words and meals.

Time swirls on as ever—I cannot believe how many years ago I grew up in my parents’ home. I have since moved to my own cottage, a tiny cabin peering out at the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. Here I have scrubbed, dusted, and decorated. I have laughed and cried, both with friends and alone. I have acquired and organised books and bookshelves. Here I have stocked cabinets with tea and food to serve at the whim of a knock. And here I have learned that being still is a practise—not an intrinsic right that comes with living solo.

It seems safe to say that home is a place of comfort and cheer, of peace and pleasure. If you do not believe me, think of the households where there is chaos, violence, stony silence, instability, or abuse. Out of these dens come hurting individuals, hungry for peace, yearning for safety and love. Acceptance and care, feeling like they belong, is the home-feeling they are looking for—whether it comes from a gang or a healthy family.

Indeed, home is a place, not a nebulous placeholder, like your internet browser’s so-called ‘homepage.’ Yet home is much more than a tactile frame of timber and glass. Home is a practise—the practical application of routines and daily liturgy. Home is private—a place to rest and a bulwark from the buffeting tempests of life-storms. Home is public—an open-door-hospitality sort of shelter for friends and family in times both of laughter and tears.

We live in a culture that is anything but home-like. It separates, drawing individuals off into solitary pursuits, or keeping families so busy that a meal together is an anomaly. Busy-ness and individualism are the antitheses to home life, community, and sanity. Keeping a frenetic schedule allows precious little time for reflection, an act of both soul and spirit that is needed to balance reality and dreams.

Knowing that reflection is an essential need, I make space for it in my mornings and weekends. Sometimes this means setting aside books and screens, simply looking out the window as I enjoy a meal, or sitting on my porch watching the rain drip from the pine needles. Other times, this means going for a solitary walk. As I was reflecting recently, I realised that the way my parents raised me and my sisters was not perfect, but it was good. The ‘life together’ aspect of the dinner table, of evening recreation, of opening our home or going to friends’ homes, of working together in the garden or to make dinner set a theme for my life. These things painted a robust and rich picture of home for me.

We need flourishing homes in our lonely, fragmented culture. Are our homes the sort that cast a beam of warm, golden light out into the dark of night? Do the weary, worn, busy travellers along the road of life find us—and our dwellings—places of solace? May the habits we practise—order, hospitality, togetherness, and reflection—shine out into the inky night as a beam of hope for all who see it and choose to come inside.