There’s something weirdly existential about staring at your pantry and realizing every single item in it is for you.
Just you.
The chips? Yours.
The backup chips? Still yours.
The six cans of chickpeas you swore you’d use for that one recipe? Also you. Always you.
I recently moved, and for the first time in a long time, I have my own pantry space. Not a shared kitchen shelf with color-coded masking tape labels or passive-aggressive “community” snacks that mysteriously disappear. Just me, my pantry, and a full sense of ownership.
And listen, I love the independence. I love that no one else is touching my last bag of chocolate chips. But when I stocked those shelves, a little part of me sighed.
Because deep down, I wasn’t just building a pantry. I was building a life—for one.
And while I’m content (and pretty proud) of the woman who can cook herself dinner, fix her own Wi-Fi, build her own furniture, and stock her own shelf of soups…
I’m also human. Which means sometimes I glance at the soy sauce and think, “One day, this won’t just be mine.”
One day, this pantry might hold the snacks of someone who steals the last chip and thinks it’s funny. Someone who leaves notes on the coffee tin (if I ever start drinking coffee). Someone who asks, “What should we make this week?” instead of “What’s just easiest?”
But until then, this pantry is mine.
And it’s full of little reminders that God sees me.
That preparing a space isn’t foolish—it’s faithful.
And that yes, I can absolutely survive on rice, canned tomatoes, and a bit of salt when I forget to grocery shop again.
Leave a Reply