6 min read
God in the Kitchen
“The time of business does not differ from the time of prayer” — thirty years among the monastery pots, in his own words.
“So whether you eat or drink or whatever you do, do it all for the glory of God.”
I was a soldier once, and afterward a footman — a clumsy one, fond of breaking things. When I entered the monastery in middle age, they sent me to the kitchen, and I will not pretend I was glad of it. But I had resolved to give God everything I had, and everything I had was dishwater and fire. So I made the kitchen my chapel, and I found that He was entirely willing to meet me there.
People imagine that prayer requires a quiet room and an unhurried hour. I have not found it so. In the noise and clatter of my kitchen, with several people calling for different things at once, I possess God in as great tranquility as if I were upon my knees. The time of business does not differ from the time of prayer.
The practice is simple, though I did not find it easy. It is nothing more than turning your heart toward God the way you would turn your face toward a friend working beside you — briefly, often, without ceremony. A short word, inwardly spoken in the middle of the task: I am doing this for love of You. That is enough. Then return to your pans.
The time of business does not differ from the time of prayer.
I fail at it constantly. I will be scouring a pot and realize an hour has passed without a single thought of Him. In the beginning I made long and sorrowful apologies. I have given that up. Now I simply confess — here I am again, having wandered — and return to Him without further ceremony. Long apologies, I have come to think, are often pride wearing the coat of humility.
Do your work for love, and it changes. I do not say it becomes pleasant; the pots are still greasy and the fire is still hot. But a task offered to God before it is begun is carried in different company. Ask His grace to do it well, then do it, then thank Him. You will be surprised how light the labor sits.
Begin small. Choose one ordinary task today — the one you like least will do very well — and before you begin, speak one honest sentence: Lord, stay with me here. Then do the task, badly or well, and when your mind wanders, bring it back without scolding. This is the whole of what I have learned in thirty years among the pots: God is not waiting for you in some better room. He is here, in this one, with the water running.