Not so long ago in a far away country, we visited a garden. It wasn’t big and it wasn’t fancy…just a small gravely courtyard behind iron gates with lots of plants and twinkly lights. In the middle of this garden were a few long table with lots of candles and plenty of chairs all around.
We sat down, our family of five. That guy that I like so much and I ordered Prosecco, which was brought out in a pitcher and served in small mismatched water glasses. It was the end of the work day for the locals and we watched as people slowly started to wander in. Some were still in work clothes and others were more casual. Most stood while others sat down. Drinks were poured and conversations began. And soon, food began to come out of the tiny kitchen…simple food on big platters and in big bowls. Everyone sat down all around us and as the sun began to set more wine was poured, stories and laughter became louder and bigger, a basket of blankets appeared as the temperature dropped and slowly (or maybe not so slowly at all), the stress of the week left and the joy of the weekend arrived.
But here’s the thing…it wasn’t a Friday night. Or a Saturday night. It was the middle of the week…but it sure felt like a weekend. And as we sat in that garden, eating a bowl of simply prepared pasta, it was as if God very gently nudged me.
And I just knew.
We needed to journey back home from Italy and create a ‘garden’ of our very own. A place where people would be fed.
Our house is small. So is our garden. There are lots of plants and twinkly lights and often times prosecco is poured into pitchers and served in mismatched water glasses. And our table? Well, it is always big enough for one more chair to be squeezed in.
This is where I’ll share glimpses of our garden…what we eat, the stories that are told, the people who visit. And more often than not, I’ll be sitting in our special garden as I journal, coffee in hand, waiting for people to come over.