And so God said “meet Me in the kitchen.”
My kitchen is not just a place where I wash dishes and cook meals. It becomes many things when God enters it.
This homey place has now become the scene of what I call my Jacob-struggles. For longer than I’d care to admit, God and I can go round and round until He says “give your will to Me, My child, let it go.”
It is the place of my burning bush where God reveals Himself so clearly that I cannot, in my humanness, dare look at Him.
My humble kitchen is where, like David, I feel the finger of God pointing at the wickedness of my heart. And tears fall like rain.
It is where, like Peter, I find myself sinking when I take my eyes off Him. Then His hand grips mine, lifting me higher.
My little kitchen is where, like Mary, I stand at the tomb and cry “if only You’d been here, Lord.”
This cozy place is my altar of tears. My altar where, like Abraham, I must lay down those desires held closest to my heart.
Then my kitchen becomes a haven where sweet peace is found when I can finally let it go. Saying “Lord, You know best . . . I trust You.”
Now my kitchen has turned from a wrestling-match to a communion table.
All because of the presence of God . . . in my kitchen.