Last night, our plans for the evening were interrupted, and it left me feeling fuller than I had in a long time. 

We were supposed to host Braverly’s small group at our house, but after most of the food was prepared, we found out that all but one of our women was either sick or out of town for the upcoming Songkran celebrations. Sometimes life goes this way—unplanned and unpredictable, completely out of rhythm and totally beyond our control.

Instead of cancelling, we gathered whoever could come, plus some, and our house went from quiet and mellow to vibrant and colorful. Hser Na Gay, the house mom for our children’s home, brought her three daughters and Amy brought hers. Little kid chatter filled our small space and single sentences were formed with a combination of English, Burmese, and Karen. In a moment, it seemed like our air conditioners couldn’t keep up with the heat from the stove top and the number people making themselves comfortable in our house. 

And I love that. 

I am an introvert by nature, and I value a quiet home as much as my next introverted friend. But sometimes, my introvertedness means that I separate myself from others, that I push friends away, that I mistake self-care for isolation. I have learned that my life is exponentially better when I’m surrounded by a few extroverts, because through our differences, we pull out the best in each other. 

This is what Kristy does for me. She keeps my independent, introverted self soft. She keeps me close to the people who keep me going. She keeps the door to our home open—open to possibility, open to anyone, open to game nights and movie nights and sleepovers with mattresses laying side by side in the living room. She doesn’t do this all the time. After all, she’s also kind to my introverted self, but last night was one when the door to our home was open. 

People walked in without knocking. They helped themselves to cold water from the fridge. They dunked chips in salsa well before we set down to eat. They adjusted the fans and slouched on the couch. They weren’t in their home, but they were home. 

We had a lot of plans for the evening. We planned to introduced our Braverly women to burrito bowls and homemade salsas. We planned to ask them new questions, and dare them to be a little vulnerable with the group. We planned to share together, pray together, and end the night with fruit pizza. 

And all of our plans flew out the window, replaced by coloring and conversation and a quick fashion show when Hser Na Gay needed to try on a few dresses. And that’s ok, because community doesn’t demand that every gathering become a space for the hard questions or the vulnerable conversations. 

Sometimes it invites us to take off our shoes at the door and snack on a few grapes before dinner. It invites us to adjust the temperature of the aircons and sink into the pillows on the couch. It invites us to sift through the craft drawer to find markers and pieces of paper for the kiddos. It invites us to pull out toys and snuggle babies so the mammas can have a break. It invites us to simply be, to let the evening go wherever it should. 

It’s these moments—the ones of feeling at home in someone else’s home—that build something beautiful, something lasting. The masks are off. The guards are down; it’s a different kind of vulnerability, the kind you can’t name right away. It’s the vulnerability of being absolutely, truly yourself with a group of people who create the space for you to simply be. 

This is why my heart felt so full. 

We didn’t have an earth-shattering, soul-revealing conversation. We didn’t fix anyone’s problems or solve anyone’s worries. But we did find out how Hser Na Gay’s trip to Burma was. We found out how her family was doing, how her village was doing. We heard another terrible pun from Meghan and realized that Kayla also had a few puns to add to the mix. We heard Chichi and Nono practice their English and watched Joy come alive as she played with other toddlers. We heard about all the big and little things that happened in each other’s days, and sometimes that feels just as important as hard questions and vulnerable conversations.

Because you can’t have one without the other. 

Because sometimes you need evenings when everyone slouches on the couch, takes turns snuggling babies, fills up bowls of rice and beans and salsa, and does the little, simple things of life that maybe aren’t as simple and little as we think. 

The post Why We Need the Simple and Little Things of Life to Build Lasting Community appeared first on Kate Berkey.

This is what I love. This is the place I love.

Recently, Troy and I made plans with friends we’d been trying to spend time with for months. We’d planned to go out to eat, maybe grab a pizza or wings or burgers or any one of the nearby options, but instead we invited them to my house. We traded a crowded restaurant for a home, and for me, I felt a silly giddiness about it all. My heart of was filled with excitement knowing that we would end the day at the table, forks and knives scrapping against one another, glasses of lemonade being filled and refilled, cups of coffee brewing well into the evening. My love affair with flavors and this place was all-consuming as Troy and I brainstormed and planned and shopped.

This, not that. What about this recipe? What if we tried that? Do these flavors go together?

Instead of rushing to make all the food before our friends came, we decided to cook together once everyone arrived. The four of us gathered in the kitchen, munching on heaping bowls of fresh cherries and strawberries as we cooked and talked and chopped and diced. In a moment, this room that was once quiet now echoed with the sound of laughter and conversation and knives hitting the cutting boards. It seemed to shrink as the four of us worked, one of us cutting sweet potatoes, the other chopping chicken, one slicing pineapple, the other squeezing lemon juice into a pitcher. We made messes and memories, bumping into one another, adjusting the oven temperature and lighting the grill.

And as we worked, we talked. We talked about relationships and about the future. We talked about hopes and dreams, about what “ideal” looked like. We talked about jobs and college and careers. But more than that, we laughed because food and joy should always walk hand in hand.

After the final timer went off, we gathered at the table where a place was set for each of us. And this is the beauty of dinners around the table. After cooking, there was a spot for each to come and sit and be. The kitchen, I’ve found, is a place of hurry and work and timing, and the table is a place of rest. This space, if you let it, is a place of contentment, of slowing down, of laughter, and of kindness. It’s a place that invites conversation and questions, a place that creates the space for friendships to form and to deepen.

In the chaos of life, in the busyness of weeks, it seems that there is little time for this space. We are a culture that runs off of fast food, microwave dinners, pre-made meals that only need to be thrown in the oven. We rarely take the time to cut and chop and dice together, let alone sit at that table.

But that evening, I found that the table created a safe place. We spent hours there, laughing and chatting, snitching food from pans instead of our plates. The table became the place where we could show our truest selves and be met by kindness and grace. Just as we found nourishment for our bodies, we found nourishment for our souls, for the parts of ourselves that longed to connect with others, to truly be seen.

Of course, the table isn’t the only place where these kinds of connections happen, but to me, it has proven time and again to be the best. Because the table invites people to come as they are, allergies and preferences and pickiness included. The table has a place set for everyone, a plate waiting for anyone, a cup, a fork, a spoon, a napkin, a knife for all. And when we take the time to create this kind of place for people, to invite people and to love people through food, through a seat around our table, something holy happens.

In the midst of laughter and silliness, joking and eating, we just may find our souls at rest, connecting more deeply with those we sit with. Our God is a God of connecting, of listening, of loving people. Our God is a God of creating spaces for people to enter. Our God is a God who invites people to himself, to come as they are, their messes and memories included. Our God is a God who nourishes us in the deepest ways, watering our parched and dry souls when we allow him to.

And in a small way, this is what dinners around the table have the potential to do. If we allow Him, if we create space and carve out time for moments, the God of the truest form of hospitality is present at the table, in the conversation and the laughter.

May we be a people who invite and create space and listen and love. May we be a people who work together, who make memories and messes as we try to create something beautiful. May we be a people who set a place, who save a chair for others.

And may we be a people who gather around the table.

The post On Dinners Around the Table appeared first on Kate Berkey.