“…I know I am really free
to share bread and intimacy,
to laugh and exchange mercy.”
~Ted Loder
It was my mother who taught me to set a proper table. And
for years, I watched her host family holiday gatherings, serve the famous
Trotter pizza to medical students and residents, whip up another overnight
coffee cake for friends whose jet lag had awoken them at 4:30AM. How many
conversations have been shared, with her in the kitchen, and a guest seated on a
barstool at the counter? And how many times had I heard her repeat her mantra? Specialness is worth it.
My own cooking ventures began at a young age, with the
creation of “turtle bread.” It was, as it sounds, bread – in the shape of a
turtle. And over the years, I have had various successes and failures in the kitchen. Who could forget
the time I forgot the baking soda in my muffins? (Not to be confused with the
time my mother put black pepper in hers.)
The seeds of hospitality that had been planted in my
youth took root in my own life when I set up my own home for the first time, my
junior year of college. That was the year that 4 of us had the crazy idea to
leave the door to our home open – and host community dinners 3 nights a week. I
know that more than a few people thought we were nuts – what if no one came?
What if too many or the wrong people came? No matter. We set off on our
adventure, unsure of where it would lead us.
But on any given day, if you had walked into our house,
you might have discovered a few freshmen doing homework in front of the fire
place, or an RA and her entire hall making cookies in our kitchen, or a bunch
of chemistry majors enjoying dinner around our table, or 45 people eating eggs
and bacon in tuxedos and choir dresses.
It was all an experiment, really; we learned by
doing. We learned how to make a meal
stretch when 5 (or 15) more people showed up (for the record: baked potatoes
are a magical and wonderful and...filling food). We learned that anything will taste good if you put avocado on it. We learned that BBQ-ed bread is
an…interesting delicacy. We learned what made people feel safe and loved. We
learned what unique skills and gifts we had to offer as individuals…and we
learned even more as we watched each other. We learned what community looks
like, how to foster it, how to be intentional in relationships. We learned how
to confess our failures and shortcomings, and how to receive grace and
forgiveness. We learned how to love each other, as opposite and “other” as we
are, and how to walk with each other. We learned what we had fervently believed
all along: if you open your door, people will come. People will come because they crave safety
and intimacy and community…and yes, home-cooked food.
That first year in the Open Door was a special one – one
that I know I am still reaping the benefits of. Those women, some of whom I
barely knew at the outset, have become my soul sisters, my tribe. They continue
to be the ones that know and love me the best, though we are now separated by mountains and oceans. We have known each other through triumphs
and tragedies, and have fought to stay connected through all the changes and
new seasons life has brought us.
And we all, at different times, have expressed longing to
be back in that house again. I think we would all agree that while we have experienced
moments of sweet community since then, nothing has come close to matching what
we shared in those few months we spent together. But instead of feeling despair
at what we have lost, we each have come, in our own way, to realize that our
time at 10420 Whitworth Dr. was a time to fan the flames. We know what
intentional community can look like, and we consider it our calling to foster
that in whatever circles we find ourselves in. We each took a candle with us
when we left, and we’ve lit our own little corners of the world in our own special ways.
My own candle has traveled far and wide. And it has
looked different in every home I’ve resided in since the Open Door. I will
never forget the few days my mom and I spent looking for an apartment in Baltimore.
On our final day of searching, we hit a wall. The deadline to decide on a place
was fast approaching: it was mid-afternoon and we needed to be on the light
rail by early evening in order to make our flight back to Seattle. In typical
Baltimore fashion, it was hot and humid, and I happened to be experiencing one
of the worst allergy attacks I’d ever had. With both of us on the verge of
tears, my mom had the wherewithal to tell me it was time to make a phone call to Spokane,
to one of my Open Door soul sisters.
So there I sat. On the bench outside the St. Paul
Laundromat, dripping with sweat, tears and snot. Thankfully she answered, and
even though she hadn’t laid eyes on any of the apartments we’d seen over the
past few days, she told me what I needed to hear:
“You love hospitality. You need to have a space where you
can be free to welcome others.”
And she was right. I hung up the phone. Signed a lease. Hopped on the light rail, sweaty, teary and snotty…but at peace.
I didn’t know what that candle would look like in
Baltimore. I couldn’t leave my door open all the time. I didn’t have the money
or the time to host community dinners every week. I didn’t have a team of
sisters to share the load with me.
But the truth remained: if you open it, they will come.
And so they came. One at a time, for
breakfast-for-dinner. In large groups, for bean cake, mulled wine and mandatory
fun. Armed with side dishes and salads and dining room tables and chairs for
the Easter dinner that fed 17, all crammed in and cozy in my tiny living room.
I’ve been reading Shauna Niequist’s new book – which is,
in part, about cooking – but mostly about sharing life around the table. As I
read this morning the following quote jumped off the page at me:
“What people are craving isn’t perfection. People aren’t
longing to be impressed; they’re longing to feel like they’re home. If you
create a space full of love and character and creativity and soul, they’ll take
off their shoes and curl up with gratitude and rest, no matter how small, no
matter how undone, no matter how odd.”
And as I opened the book just now to copy that quote
down, I glanced at the name of the chapter it is found in: Open the Door.
So here I am again, in a new space, with a new place to call home. As it is with all of us who shared that time in the Open Door, I packed my candle at the top of one of the boxes. It’s the last thing to go in, and the first one to come out. Why wait until “everything’s settled” to open the door? How easy it is to forget that the presence of people is what makes everything feel settled.
So the candle is lit, once more. I don’t know how many
will find their way to its flame, nor what their stories will be. I can only
pray that they find safety around my table – a place to be seen and heard and
loved. A place to laugh and exchange mercy. A place to share bread and
intimacy.
The candle is lit. The table is set. The door is open.
