Our kitchen in Oman was a small, dark room with a stove, a refrigerator, an oven (score!!), two small saucepans and one metal spoon.
It was the place we would blast Banana Pancakes by Jack Johnson while also making banana pancakes (original!!).
It was the place where John would dump pepper into absolutely anything and everything he was making, subjecting everyone in the house to a suffocating cough.
It was the place where I burnt four batches of chocolate chip cookies in a row because every single time I left the room, they decided to burn.
It was where Jake never cooked (because he doesn’t know how, but he won’t admit it) yet would still stand in the corner, offering new song suggestions and talking about his fiance (we get it, Jake, you’re in love).
It was the place I learned to ruthlessly gut fish [see, The Legend that is Aspen Kelley].
It was where Sarah cranked out the most impressive–and probably only–Christmas desserts Oman would ever see while having long, deep talks with whoever was in the same room.
It was where we discovered the versatility of plastic bags due to our lack of mixing bowls.
Most importantly, our kitchen was where we met the sweet twelve year old that lived next door.
We met the little girl in Apt 2 through her kitchen window, which faced ours. Sarah threw her a ball of cookie dough, she failed to catch it, and a beautiful and unlikely friendship was born.
After that, the kitchen was the place where Dad from Apt 2 would proudly show us the fish he caught earlier that day.
After that, the kitchen was the place where I would hear “Dyyyyyylan!” or “Asmeeeeen!” or “Sahrahhhh!” and I would stick my head out the window and look up to see the tiny hands of the girls in Apt 6 beckoning us to come play.
The kitchen became the place I would hide when the wild neighborhood boys rang the doorbell for the eleventh time in an hour, asking if we were ready to play football yet.
It was also the place those same boys found me anyways because they eventually got comfortable enough to just walk in.
It became the place where Apt 6 girls fell in love with Victoria after watching countless gymnastics videos with her while sitting on the floor.
It became an art gallery of drawings we collected from these kids. We ran out of room on the refrigerator.
The kitchen became the place that Mom of Apt 2 showed me how hopelessly she’d burnt dinner because she was distracted by our conversation.
It became the place we slaved away on Christmas day so that we could host our dear Muslim friends in Apt 2 and share with them 1) what Christmas is, 2) who Jesus is, and 3) why he will change their lives.
It became the place where the sound of our worship–of us coming before our Father, hearts on fire and hungry for His presence–would flow out of our home and into the neighboring kitchens.
It became the place I had a midnight conversation with our friends from Apt 2 about whether or not they managed to get a volleyball for the next day’s beach trip.
It became the place that, on moving day, I held a heated auction for my last two bags of ramen (hot commodities to the Apt 6 girls).
It became a place that was almost impossible to leave.
The kitchen in Apt 3 was a small, dark room with a stove, a refrigerator, an oven (still a freakin’ score), two small saucepans and one metal spoon. We brought our good friend Jesus into that kitchen and he turned a scarcely equipped kitchen in an isolated Muslim community into a place of love, laughter, fellowship, and life-changing friendships.
