When Dave and I decided to overhaul our life, one of my big personal goals was to tidy up the house every night before I went to bed. If George’s toys are put away, the kitchen sink is empty of dishes and its counters wiped down, the trash is taken out, and the bathroom is stocked, my mornings are so much smoother. Waking up to a tidy (re: not super clean or immaculate – I’m not reaching for the stars!) house puts me in a better mood and helps me love and serve better from the get-go.

Dave kindly joined me in this effort, and now, every night once we bath George and put him down, we tackle the apartment. I usually address the bedrooms and bathroom while D picks up the living room.

We meet in the kitchen.

There, in the midst of a kitchen that somehow gets trashed throughout the course of a day (thanks, G-eating-solids), we connect.

We leave our phones in the other room and depart from our busy and full lives. We focus just on one another and the food-covered floors.

Sometimes we tell stories from our day, lots of times we talk about how much we love G, sometimes we set goals and make plans, sometimes we share our struggles and ask for prayers, and sometimes we just wash dishes together in silence. The rhythm of the washing and drying and putting away brings stillness to our crowded days.

We meet in the kitchen and we reconnect. We catch up. We sit in silence together. We laugh. I cry. We remind ourselves of why we’re busting it, why we’re doing what we’re doing, and what we hope our future will be.

The movies and the culture portray love scenes as intense moments in rowboats or in foreign countries, and those are certainly romantic moments. But the kind of love I in which I stake my camp is the simple and faithful love found in dirty dish water and overcrowded tables. In small talk and in silence. In meeting my love in our tiny kitchen to reunite our hearts.