Well, I'm not actually going to write a poem about pigs in a blanket (if I had more energy I might), I just really wanted you to click on my post, so I gave it a weird title.
I am going to write about pigs in a blanket though. But first, I'm going to tell you a story.
Once upon a time, we became parents, fairly abruptly, to three boys, ages nine, eight, and three. These boys, while precious and fun, were also in desperate need of all the love, safety, structure, energy, and attention that we could give and more. During this same time, we lived in a different state than our families, had recently switched churches in an effort to connect with a more local body, and had a very limited support system. It was, certainly, the most challenging season of our lives.
The same week our three year old moved in for good, we were invited to a new support group for foster and adoptive parents hosted by a local church (not a church we attended). We dragged our exhausted, introverted selves out to this group because the organizer was the agency therapist on our foster care team, and I'm pretty sure we would have shaved our heads and joined a cult if she told us it would have been beneficial to our boys. (Side note: Jenn Ranter Hook is one of the most knowledgeable, compassionate, and creative trauma-informed professionals I have ever met and I value all the time we were blessed to have her as a part of our family team).
What we found in this group over the next several years was very definition of support, camaraderie, and empathy. However, the most striking experience I took away from the group happened after that first meeting. A week later, the group organized a meal train for our family and, twice a week for six weeks, complete strangers showed up to my house with food for my family. I have told this story so many times and every time I say, without exaggeration, that this changed my life.
I grew up in the church, yet I don't believe I've ever seen a more pure expression of the love of Christ in action in my life than in those weeks. Strangers fed my family. Strangers, you guys! They didn't ask me to volunteer, join their church, donate to any cause, or even ask to sit down and chat. They showed up, dropped off great food, and left. Every time I think about it I tear up.
That experience became the foundation of my theology of hospitality. Food connects people, it shows love, extends kindness, offers blessing. It seems so small and insignificant, unless you're the over-tired mom staring down the barrel of three hangry kids and no dinner plan. To her, it's a lifeline.
Once I gained a little more capacity in my life, I began to put that theology into practice. Hospitality, more specifically food, is my ultimate love language. My response to every hard situation in life is to provide food or baked goods. Ask around. It's my knee-jerk response. Why? Because when I was drowning in the waves of life, someone fed my family so I could catch my breath. That act was so life-giving that I want to do that for others.
So, back to pigs in a blanket. We're in the midst of a few hectic weeks, nothing like those early days of parenting, but still challenging. This week my dear friend Christina took the time out of her busy life to drop off two meals to my family. Today's meal: mac and cheese and pigs in a blanket. It took me 30 seconds to serve to my children, and they loved it. My Middle Crazy prayed for the meal and thanked God for Miss Christina for making food for us. I just teared up again typing that.
Meeting basic needs does something to and for us. Hospitality is life-changing. Even when it looks like pigs and a blanket.
Thank you to all those wonderful people who were and are a part of the Replanted Ministry. You are a blessing. Thank you to my dear friend Christina and her family for loving us well.
Much love from #thecrazyhouse tonight. Let me know if you need some comfort food. I've got you.
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