here we are

I can’t remember a time when I didn’t know you.

I mean, of course, I can.

I lived 20 years before I met you.   20 full years.

But somehow in your quest to know my story - the days, hours, years - the seasons - I lived before our hearts began their journey together – you have, in fact, in some mysterious way, become part of my whole story – even the parts you weren’t actually present for.

Sometimes I forget how much life we’ve actually lived together.

Sometimes I forget how much you’ve seen me through.

Sometimes I forget how much of me you’ve seen.

It’s true: you have seen me.  

You have seen past my attempts to hide, 
                right straight through my half-answers and avoidance tactics.  
You have seen me through the veil of your tears - you have seen me sitting in a pool of my own - week after week, month after month.
You have seen the passions and longings of my heart,
     and you have echoed them back to me in my seasons of forgetfulness.

You have seen me at my best,
                                            on the mountain top, doing my victory dance.  

You have seen me in the depths,
                                                                in the darkness, in the muck.

And never have you demanded an apology for what you see.

Never have you asked me to be anything I am not.

Not once have you been scared away by my honesty. In fact, you crave it. 
                   I’m pretty sure you have a full-on addiction to truth.

You see fully, and still you ask to know more.

Oh, how you ask.

Oh, how I love how you ask.

The inquisitive kind of questions, born of an insatiable curiousity.

The thumb-tack-on-your-chair kinds of questions.

 Why settle for "how are you" when you can ask "who are you"?

 Why settle for "what do you do" when you can ask "what brings you life"?

The questions that come out of frustration. Why? How long?

How long? 

How long, indeed.

You have taught me to embrace the season,
                                           even if it feels like it will never end.

You have taught me to be present where I am.

You celebrate when it is time to celebrate.

You grieve when it is time to grieve.

And when you have no idea what it is time for, you just keep digging.

It can’t hurt to till the soil, right?

And so we keep on tilling.

We dig our knees into the dirt once more, and with the sun beating down on our backs, we plunge our hands into the soil, and continue the seemingly endless task of sorting out the rocks, breaking up the clumps, one by one.

Sometimes we work in silence.

Sometimes we chatter away.

Sometimes we laugh so hard that we cry.

Sometimes we cry so hard that we laugh.

Sometimes we wonder if it will ever be more than just dirt.
Sometimes it seems impossible to believe that there will be anything
but acres, upon acres of brown.

But, here's to the brown.   Here's to the mud. 
Here's to the hope of green.
Here's to the seeds that will hopefully be planted at some point, and to the sprouts that will maybe, somehow, by some miracle, find their way to the light of day.
Here's to the laughter and the tears.
Here's to the truth that we hold to.     Here's to the truth that holds us.
Here's to living the questions. 
Here's to being seen and known and understood.
Here's to choosing gratitude.
Here's to being together, in all our brokenness.

Here's to being here.               Wherever here is.

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