I think this kitchen has gotten used to it, the dusky quiet that settles in this house come nightfall. It’s peaceful. Gentle, even—a rather nice way to ease out of days filled with too much work and too little time to get it done.

I have adjusted, too, I suppose. He travels so much. She is grown up, now, and away.

But today she came home, my sweet Eliza, her car horn honk honk honking as she made her way down the drive. I ran to the door, and we hugged for the longest time. And then we unloaded bag after bag of freshman year into that kitchen.

Pesto pasta, she had asked, and I’d barely gotten home in time to get the leggy basil cut.

Excitement, and laughter, and skipping. Yes, skipping, as she talked on the phone in the kitchen, and Preston and I smiled to watch her.

We heard a skype bing, and there was my brother in Tennessee and on my laptop, in my kitchen. And sweet baby Laura in her highchair, and my beautiful niece Elizabeth, and my sister-in-law, Lisa. And then—in the door walks Tim, home from a week in Raleigh.

We had a great chat across those many miles, my family here, my family there, and all the while I’m thinking: How odd it is that they made this skype call, a first for us, just as we all gathered here in this kitchen? How wonderful to be together? And then the phone rings, and it is another brother, William, and his precious Kathy, calling from Florida. Just checking in.

The timer sounded. The warm smell of garlic bread permeated the kitchen, and we formed a little line, we four, heaping our pasta bowls high. Then we headed for the table and weekend plans filled with friends, and football, and family.

30 Days of Grace