Community for the Lonely, Table for Two
The kids are home for the summer, and I’m constantly surrounded by them, which makes thinking about loneliness a little ironic, but it’s a feeling that creeps in occasionally. Sometimes more than others, but one night in particular comes to mind. One night, I found myself standing in my kitchen, looking at several uneaten platters of food. Putting away chilled drinks in the fridge that were unopened and intentionally organized on the buffet in the kitchen for serving.
I had spent an hour frantically running around before guests were supposed to arrive. Cleaning the kitchen counters, living room, and shutting all the doors in the hallway so the disasters in the kids’ room weren’t visible. I carefully made sure the bathroom didn’t show or smell of the bad aim. I’m wondering if my sons will ever grow out of it. I had strategically arranged for my husband to take all three of our children out of the house for the evening so I could host a girl’s night, hoping to grow deeper friendships with acquaintances I had met since moving to a new area.
The invites had been sent, everything was checked off the shopping list, and everything was prepped. Then, my first guest showed up. Then, two more right behind her. Then … well, that was it. Three ladies showed up. We had a great conversation, and I was grateful they came, but if I’m honest, I was immediately taken back to awkward middle school lunch hour, where I felt like an outcast. After they left, I headed straight to the kitchen to spread some untouched feta dip on a baguette, and then I was struck by something I remembered reading about Jesus in Isaiah:
“He was despised and rejected by men, a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief …” Isaiah 53:3
A man of sorrows. A man who offered so much more than just a deepened relationship. A man who offered an invitation to an abundant life one could only find in him. I stood in my kitchen, eating my bread, thinking about the ultimate outcast. My snack of choice was only a coincidence, but I couldn’t help but be reminded of one of the things I love most about this “outcast” and what he knows to be true of himself.
“I am the bread of life; whoever comes to me shall not hunger, and whoever believes in me shall never thirst.” John 6:35
The night’s outcome hurt me, but I think I was more disappointed in the disappointment I felt. I ache to put into practice a life where the relationships around me aren’t more important than the giver of relationships. An outlook of being blessed by the three who showed up, whom I was able to share fellowship with. They were more than enough.
My hunger for community shouldn’t be more substantial than the bread of life himself.
Rather, it should be looking beyond the evening to reflect and bring light on situations in the past where I’ve made others feel this way. Going forward, I would take myself off the pedestal I’ve put myself on. Tipping the scale, watching myself fall, I remember the lowly manger where Jesus was born. The King who deserved a crown but was instead greeted with thorns. The outcast who poured out love and grace to others received nothing in return.
Who invited many with minimal showing up.
Yet he continued to show up. Better yet, he continues to show up. Even that night in my kitchen. When it seems shallow to be hurt, I remember he grieved. When I thirst and hunger for friendships, I remember he is the bread of life. Community can be beautiful, and I believe God created us as relational beings to walk through life with others as he walks with us. A community doesn’t always equal a “crowd”.
Community can’t compensate a communion with God.
Community is coming to the bread of life, resting in him, then going out and sharing his offering to others. Whether they were invited or not, whether they showed up or not. It isn’t always a planned gathering. It’s an intentional conversation with my family around the table over a meal, especially now that those feel somewhat few and far between with my season of life, resulting in dinner being served by the guy at the local baseball field concession stand. It’s standing out front and talking with my neighbors when I have a laundry list of things waiting inside for me to do, including the laundry. I’m realizing a conversation in the mundane lives of busy is where the truest community happens.
It struck me as I indulged in the last bite of my feta-covered baguette. Community was happening right here, in my kitchen. What had started as grief about my work towards the evening and the unmet expectations had become very different. It was an intimate community with God and me, a table for two. He was there as I put the leftovers into Tupperware containers, and as I grabbed a Ziploc bag to put the sliced bread away for the next day, I was reminded to pray to my father, the bread of life.
Community is ultimately where He is.
