open the door

“…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.

Photo Credit: Chinwe Edeani www.photosbychinwe.tumblr.com

let evening come

It's my favorite time of day.  Or, my new favorite, I should say.  I will never abandon my undying love for early mornings, but living in a westward-facing home has brought with it a new appreciation for the dusky, twilit world.

The work is done...or at least laid aside until tomorrow.  The dishes are dripping their way to being dry.  The sun is bidding his final farewell as he peeks out from behind the ridge. My wineglass grows more illumined by the second as the candlelit lantern sends its flickers across the table.  My feet are up.  My hands are overflowing with fresh grapes from my garden. And Puzzle, the cross-eyed cat (yes, it's true), has come to say 'good evening'.

I spent yesterday evening in this same spot, catching up with a friend by lantern light after a 6-year hiatus (actually, probably really more like 10) from each others' lives. We reflected our individual journeys, as we recounted what has brought us to this point in time.  And here we are.  In the same city.  In similar seasons of life.

She commented on the way I didn't hide the messiness or the tension as I recounted my story of the last few years.  "That's life," she said, "We want it to fit nicely in boxes, but it doesn't."  We want there to be airtight solutions to the problems and easy answers to our nagging questions.  And it would be nice if it was all wrapped up with a beautiful bow on top.  but that's not life.


And maybe this is why I am coming to love evenings.


The mornings are full of pent-up potential.  There is room for hope, possibility, fresh starts.  I love the unknown.  The anticipation.  The energy of the stillness.  When I look at the day through my morning eyes, I am filled with gratitude.

I've never really liked evenings.  I have always associated them with weariness, heaviness, the weight of the day's work and failures.  The unknown is now known.  The morning's stillness has been replaced by a cacophony of voices. The din has undone me.  When I look at the day through my evening eyes, I am quick to see the negative - it is all-to-easy to latch on to the faults and failures.

But, the longer I sit, the more I force myself to pause and remember, the more I start see the beauty of the day.  A word of affirmation.  A shared moment of laughter.  A surprising turn of events.  An unexpected gift.


Over the years, as I have explored the idea of "Sabbath" - I have come to love the idea of the Sabbath beginning at sundown.  I love that it begins with rest. I love that it begins with what is, by American standards, the most unproductive thing we can do.  I love that surrender to the darkness and the stillness serves as the link between days.   I love that even in the hours that hold such terror and dread for so many - the moments when we are left defenseless and vulnerable - this - even this - is the time to begin anew.

And so, I say, let evening come.  Let it come and bring with it an awareness of our failures and shortcomings. Let it come and bring with it the weariness and weight of the day.  Let it come and bring with it the recollections of quiet moments of beauty in the chaos.  Let it come, and let us embrace it.  Let it come, and let us yield to the darkness, to the stillness.  Let it come, and let us lean into the grace that holds us.

Let it come, as it will, and don't

be afraid. God does not leave us

comfortless, so let evening come.

 - Jane Kenyon

Photo Credit:  Chinwe Edeani

it is what it is

I hate blank walls.

Always have, always will.

So it should come as no surprise that one of the first things I do when I move to a new place, even before all the boxes are unpacked, is start laying out picture collages on the floor.

My father, ever the photo journalist, captured one such humidity-and-exhaustion-soaked moment 2 years ago this week as I settled in Baltimore.

I love this part of the process.  It centers me and settles me, to acquaint myself with my new floor, surrounded by old friends, familiar faces that have followed me on my journey.  After the craziness of moving, my little introvert self is thankful for the chance to absorb the quiet, to reflect, to remember, to fit the pieces of the puzzle together, to make this new place my own.

But as I finally had the "aha" moment and found the perfect place for one little piece of artwork this evening (it has been sitting, homeless, on my desk for weeks), I realize that I have also come to love the change. The paintings and posters and picture frames that call my walls home have found their way to a plethora of different walls over the years - and have hung side-by-side a vast array of different objects.  And though they have remained unchanged over the years, they look different each time I put them up. The light hits them from a new angle. The walls behind them highlight their vibrant colors in a new way. The pieces they are now paired with bring out parts of them I'd never noticed before. 

I love how there is change in the constancy.  I love how you can look at something a million times and not really see it until you look at it that million-and-first time.  I love how everything eventually finds its place - sometimes where we least expect it to.

And isn't this true in life in general?  We bring the same set of strengths and weaknesses to each table we encounter - the same personality quirks - the same set of baggage.   The older I get and the further I travel, the more I am dismayed to find out that I am the same person wherever I wander.  Somehow, even though I attempt to leave it behind, my storage unit full of complexities and idiosyncrasies and selfishness and fears finds its way into each new town I call my home.

But there's hope. There are fresh starts.  There are new circumstances and new relationships and new walls to decorate.  The light falls differently and offers a new perspective.  Weaknesses become strengths.  Fears become motivators.  Shadows are chased away by sunbeams.  They are not bound by their former identities. They have been redefined in the present.  And sure, we cannot change the past or its long-lasting effects on us. And we lean, depend, feed on our hope for the future.  But the fact of the matter remains: we only have this moment.  We only have the present.

In the year before I left for Baltimore, my dear soul sister and I would, at times (OK, often), find ourselves overwhelmed by life.  There were days when we gave up on words and just laughed.  And there were days when we gave up on words and just cried.  And amidst fits of giggles and streams of tears, our mantra became, "It is what it is."  And for us, at the time, I think it meant "I'll take the hand I'm dealt; it's out of my control anyway." "I will accept this reality and trust that it's not forever."

Shortly before I left for graduate school, I found a little wooden sign that said just that: "it is what it is."  So off it went with me to Baltimore. And every morning, as I brushed my teeth, I pondered it.  For two years, I pondered....and also I cried and I laughed (a bit more of the former than the latter).  And for those two years it took on a new meaning: "It is what it is, so I will choose gratitude."

Today that sign has found a new resting place on the shelf beside my dining room table, to the right of my mug collection, just below my produce basket full of Walla Walla sweet onions, to the left of two pictures of my soul sisters.  Today, it reminds me of the tears and the laughter, of the fight to stay grateful.  And today it takes on a new meaning: "it isn't what it was."