When the Kitchen Becomes A Sanctuary

My head feels explosive and the living room’s closing in. The laundry pile has grown into the actual Tower of Terror, and the to-do list has become a minor threat to my sanity.

The kitchen’s a mess, and snow boots fill the hallway like a party’s going on in here. Only it’s really anything but a party.

My kids feel my stress, so the mood gets tense as soon as I let on about the almost-exploding head. I don’t even say a word. All it takes is one look, an extra deep sigh, then a tightened-jaw-bone reaction, and my secret is out. Every square meter of this tiny German living space fills with the less-than-gentle prodding of a mama in a fit.

And that makes me feel worse. The power of a mom to change her home’s thermostat just like that. With a simple blast of frigid overwhelmed, the temperature of an entire home drops from warm to stinkin’ cold in three seconds flat.

I’ve felt it coming for a while now. The winds in my heart have been blowing cooler as my focus has gotten blurred. The mornings have changed. The routine’s gotten lax, and somehow the lifeline with God has morphed into work and making deadlines. I find it easy to justify, too, when I write about God. Studying the Word and then writing what I find. But somehow finding God inside His Word has turned into mere words from my own mortal hands.

And I don’t know how to stop it, so I just start a new blog post and keep writing.

But my soul needs its Lifeline. The words need the Word. They are pointless when they have no One to point to. And motherhood’s not that if not for the kids. And the calling is just a job if only to-do’s and deadlines. And life is only breathing if it’s merely survival.

I stand to go start dinner, breathing deeply. Subconsciously overly dramatic. I know the house is cold. Because my soul is.

I peel potatoes over the sink, and I start to pray. I tell God I need Him while I flick the dirty peels. Picking out the brown spots, I ask for His help. Ask Him to breathe fresh into my spirit.

And when I confess my own destitution that brought this chill into my home, the kitchen becomes a sanctuary, and Living God shows up.

I admit the empty that stole the grace right out of my mommy-love, and I feel my heart start to soften like the old potatoes I just threw out.

I think of Asaph’s change of heart. The turn-around perspective when he entered God’s sanctuary. When he re-found God’s presence, re-focused his blurred eyes. I remember his refreshed, and I hope my potato-peeling heart whispers are enough for the same kind of turning because, man, do I need it.

My bathing daughter calls for me, requesting shampoo. I breathe, and I go, and I wonder is it different. Can I serve with grace. Can I answer my call more warmly now?

Then I remember Proverbs from last month’s devotions series. The pride and the fool and the broken and the grace.

I remember He hears the broken I-need-You’s that call out for help. And I grab the shampoo and feel the warmth start to rekindl