Marilyn Jansen - Come Sit a Spell: An Invitation to Reflect on Faith, Food, and Family

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Come Sit a Spell: An Invitation to Reflect on Faith, Food, and Family

Copyright 2022 by Marilyn Jansen. All rights reserved.

Cover and interior photographs are from the personal collection of the author and used with permission. Unless otherwise noted, all other images are the property of their respective copyright holders from Shutterstock, and all rights are reserved. Porch wbritten/iStockphoto; burlap texture kholywood; blueberry branch, wild flowers Potapov Alexander; tiny flower pattern cristatus; floral pattern Nataliia Kucherenko; flax flower oksana2010; polka dot pattern ankudi; strawberry plant Jefunne; checkered pattern Zerbor; kitchen utensils Thomas Bethge; vintage floral tuxedocat; wooden utensils photka; leaf basil akepong srichaichana; Genovese basil Nattika; meadow flowers New Africa; dried flowers Gita Kulinitch Studio; abstract lemon pattern Jan Engel; dried flowers Pedal to the Stock; lemons IrenaV; stripe pattern Limolida Design Studio; floral background Ann and Pen; orange floral background Alena Shenbel; blueberry scatter fetrinka; lemon leaves with flowers HTWE.

Author photo by Jeff Jansen and used with permission.

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ISBN 978-1-4964-5367-9

Build: 2022-02-15 16:45:07 EPUB 3.0

The kitchen table was loaded with enough food to bury the family.

HARPER LEE, To Kill a Mockingbird

I grew up a southern Missouri hillbilly. From the time I was eight until I was eighteen, I lived down a long gravel road that crossed through two creeks, snug up against some of the tallest hills in Missouri, deep in the Mark Twain National Forest. My mom, stepdad, two brothers, sister, and I had a home in the same holler as Grandma and Grandpa Dunns hundred-year-old farmhouse.

We raised vegetables in huge family gardens, slaughtered chickens and pigs every fall, and put up hundreds of jars of vittles for the year to come. We rarely wore shoes (except Uncle Bill, who according to Mom was too stuck-up to go barefoot), could spit watermelon seeds might near a mile, and boiled up some of the best maple syrup in the county. Lightning bugs lit up summer nights, and woodstoves warmed winter fingers blue with cold from outdoor chores.

We didnt have much money, but we waded into each new day with faith, joy, and expectation, like it was the last day of summer and the creek might dry up tomorrow. There was always something to discover and someone with a story or two. And oh, how I love stories. I never wanted to miss a thing. I would squeeze between two aunts or sit beside Grandmas chair, catching every word they dropped during those big Sunday dinners after church.

When people came to Grandmas housejust a hop, a skip, and three jumps from oursI would run to meet them at her door. On weekends and holidays, Grandmas kitchen was beautiful chaos. The number of aunts, uncles, cousins, and kids in her kitchen at mealtimes rivaled the number of Carnival glass dishes displayed in her curved-front china cabinet. In her kitchen we received bless your heart squeezes, wiped away smooches, and tried to avoid the oh-too-often snap on the behind from a wicked dish towel.

The food was abundant and finger-licking good. We enjoyed wafer cookies washed down with spring water gulped from a dipper that hung on a nail just above the sink, where you could grab it without looking. Every Sunday, we would eat in waves, scooching over to make room for more on the bench until we were hanging on with one cheek. I dont remember ever having fewer than four different kinds of food on the table during a meal, often as many as twelve or more. It wasnt fancy food. It was humble and simple and comforted us plumb down to our toes. With so many bowls on the table, I expected it to buckle under the weight. I remember looking at its underside to see if it was bowed in the middle or propped up on cinder blocks.

Grandma, in her housedress and stockings, would be standing near the sink looking around to make sure everyone had something to eat. With her hand supporting her back and a sparkle in her eye, she ruled the roost. I felt part of something special there, like I was known and really, truly loved. My heart was fuller than my belly.

Moms kitchen was just as welcoming but in a different way. We hosted the city cousins and whoever else wanted to come sit a spell. Mom and Aunt Jean would make homemade barbecue sauce, simmering it all day in a tall pan on a grill that alternately charred ribs, pork steaks, and chicken. There were tubs of homemade potato salad; fresh greens wilted with bacon grease; and platters of sliced, fresh-from-the-garden cucumbers and tomatoes. Games of horseshoes would strike up outside and cards at the kitchen table, and when someone showed up with an amplifier, it was a party. It wasnt unusual to have a preacher and some drunk uncle or cousin in the same crowd. Everyone was welcome. We drank gallons of sweet tea, laughed till our sides split, and were happier than foxes in a henhouse.

Because I grew up in that atmosphere of joy and love, I wanted to carry on the traditions. I dont have the clamor nor the china cabinet, but I seem to have perfected the chaos. In my kitchen someone is usually sticking a finger or spoon in whatever is on the stove or opening the oven a smidge to peep inside. Dancing, heart-to-heart talks, unbridled laughter, and put-that-down-and-tell-me-the-whole-story moments often happen when people come sit a spell in my kitchen.

Its not surprising that God wants the same thing. He asks us to come to His table and discover the love, hope, and joy that we were born to find. He knows the value of a good story, the warmth of simply being with family, and the bonds that grow when we sit together over a cup of coffee or a game of Scrabble.