The Pantry

I do my best crying in the pantry.

I’m not really sure why. I’ve never understood it. There’s nothing comforting about large bags of flour, endless cases of Izzy apple soda, boxed mac-n-cheese in rows along the shelves. But I often seem to find myself sitting on the floor at 2:27 in the morning, sprawled out on the grimy tile with a bag of popcorn and a half drank bottle of Welch’s sparkling grape juice (because covenant), crying to the sound of Young the Giant coming out of my iPhone.

I must finally be in my twenties.

I do my best crying in the pantry. But I always meet God there.

God gives me the best hugs in the pantry. He always seems to walk in on me there. Sometimes He picks me up off the ground. “You’re too good for these tears, sweetheart. I made you for more than this.”

Other times, though—and these are my favorites—He just sits down with me. “Can I have a piece of that popcorn? Just the caramel kind though, because I know the white cheddar is your favorite.  I’ll save those for you.”

And Jesus loves to talk though my day with me. “Kate, dear,” He always says to me. “I lived your day with you. Let’s talk about it. Let’s find the good in it.” And then we dance. And we cry. and we laugh. And have a really really really good time.

Basically, I have a girls night with Jesus. And even in my deepest moments of pain, it’s a blast. It’s a blast to be loved.

And there, in the pantry, I have my best conversations with Jesus.

And if I have to cry on the middle of the dirty floor of a food pantry to get there, I will.

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