Since moving into this home, I've especially loved our kitchen. Snug and cozy, warm with light and vibrant with color, walls of white cupboards that feel fresh and farm-like, a window peeking out at mountains on a clear day. But lately, I've found a new reason to love our kitchen - and it has nothing to do with the joys of cooking and the ambiance of home.
I find God here on the floor.
God, here, in my favorite room, is my favorite part of home. And he serves up the best food.
I sit here, with only orange glow of streetlights seeping through semi-closed blinds. I feel my back against the wall, and I feel him. Sturdy against my back, propping me up.
I come to this kitchen and I empty the contents of me, spill them out on the floor. The belly of my soul rumbles in hunger, and I wait to be filled.
Two nights ago, I sat up in bed, in the dark, unable to sleep. So I did what any normal person would do: I went to the kitchen and I sat on the floor and I emptied bitter tears.
Sometimes, I feel it in my gut, that I'm drowning in failure. Failing dreams. Failing friendships. Failing marriage. Failing as a daughter. Failing as a writer. Failing to love. Here, a big fat "F" is rotting in my belly and I come hungry for real food, for real life, because I know the one who feeds me here, in this place, has something more than this rotten fare for my soul. And I need to sit here, on the floor, and hear it in order to digest it.
He whispers, Open wide your mouth, and I will fill it. Fill it with good things. With true things. With redemptive things. With grace. With love. With all that I Am.
Here on the floor, he erases that report card with the column of big red "F"s, and he says to me, You're enough, because I'm enough.
And I'm no longer thinking of my failures. I'm lost in the vastness of love and acceptance and grace that is him, so sweet and satisfying that each time I taste it, it's both oddly familiar and utterly new to the senses.