It was a rockin’ pity party on a Friday night. Me, myself, and a bunch of tissues.
I had a nasty head cold. (thus, the tissues)
And a confused, heavy heart from the last few days. (thus, more tissues)
But all good pity parties must come to an end. So I sniffled a few more times, picked up my pile of tissues, washed my face. I lifted up puffy red eyes, asking for an extra helping of grace from above.
And I baked.
I peeled apples. Measured flour. Melted butter. Shaped cookies. Chopped more apples. Mixed crumble topping.
I turned on the radio. I think someone informed the Christian station that I was having a pity party because they were playing some incredibly encouraging, beautiful songs.
It distracted me and soothed me, this rhythm of the kitchen. I love baking any time, but there’s something about baking or cooking that particularly calm me when I’m upset.
Maybe it’s the fact that if you follow the recipe, everything turns out okay. If you add this and measure that, something beautiful and tasty and wonderful comes out of the oven. When I’m confused and uncertain and feeling not in control of life, it’s comforting to take a recipe, follow the steps, and feel like you have some semblence of control.
(Or maybe it’s just because I like wearing cute vintage aprons.)
Whatever the reason, I’m finding myself thankful for the kitchen tonight. Thankful for a God who never leaves me—even when I host pity parties. Thankful that He is in control of everything--even when it's hard to see.
And thankful for the pile of cookies and that pan of apple crisp cooling on the stove.