The Kitchen

I wrote and shared this poem at a Forum for Theological Exploration retreat that Sarah, Jenna, and I attended in at the end of April. The retreat was in Auburn, WA--outside of Seattle! It was a gorgeous place to be! Many of the attendees were also members of intentional communities made up of volunteers! It was a refreshing, unique space to be in! I shared this poem during the "coffeehouse" that they had on our last night! It's been quite a while since that happened and I wanted to share it with all of you! Also, a gratuitous picture of our family right before Easter!

Tim, Sarah, Chelsea, Ben, Jenna, & Katie

The Kitchen

In my house

When I want to be with

Someone

I come

To the kitchen

And I sit

At the kitchen table.

Organically people may

Emerge—

Stretching on the floor after a run,

Shuffling pots and pans for dinner,

Reading a book in the glorious sun.

It is the heartbeat of our home,

Thumping to daily rhythms.

In the midst of cooking,

The kitchen becomes—

A stage

Our impromptu dance parties

Filling the spaces between

Linguine and cheddar cheese

With a warm cup of tea

And a listening ear—

I’ve stepped into

A therapy session

The linoleum floor bouncing back

The sacred words of our hearts.

With a hefty bag of thrifted finds—

The fluorescent lights reflect

The dazzling uniqueness of

A fashion show that only cost

Ten dollars.

In the heart of our home—

The kitchen

Our dancing stage

Can easily deteriorate to

An arena.

With a warrior on either side

Poised

For a death match.

The vibrations of the floor

Reverberating

Angry words and weighty sighs—

Slammed doors and broken conversations.

The fluorescents illuminate

The cracking pieces—

Shining lights into the deepest,

Darkest,

Most selfish parts of

Ourselves.

And yet,

Those four walls

With open cabinets and an

Alphabetized spice rack—

Hold us—all.

As we come

To the kitchen table—

Angry with housemates.

Disappointed with work.

Fists clenched.

Jaw tightened.

Something—happens.

Our hands open,

Reaching across the table

To hold another.

Fingers unfurl—

White knuckles regain their color.

Jaws relax,

Exhaling prayers

And

Inhaling the love inside

Homecooked food.

Eating brown rice or white,

Coconut curries and

One-pot-wonders

We slowly find our way

Back

To each other

To self.

The kitchen holds us—

Maybe better than we hold

Each other

Because

The heartbeat of our home

The kitchen

Is that place that

Grace lives.

--

Love,
Katie