For the past nine months I’ve served in a role I never imagined I would take on: camp cook. It wasn’t something I planned. Rather, God gently nudged my heart and opened the door when no one else stepped forward. What began as a reluctant yes turned into a season full of challenge, growth, and unexpected blessings.
Cooking for a crowd taught me more than recipes and meal plans. It required stamina, creativity, and the discipline to feed many people on a daily schedule. Through that demanding rhythm I discovered the faithfulness of God in practical ways: He sustained my health when I needed strength, filled me with genuine joy in the kitchen, and sent a remarkable group of volunteers who helped shoulder the work. Those helpers became dear friends, and their willingness to lend muscles and time made the difference between survival and burnout.
It would be dishonest not to say that it was hard—really hard. Long days and short nights turned the job into something like a marathon where pauses were rare and rest felt distant. There were hardly any breaks, not even enough time to clear my head between meals. Despite the hardship, I kept going because I wanted to be faithful to what I believed God had asked me to do. I committed myself to showing up and doing the work as well as I could.
Then, after an intense season, I heard a quiet, unmistakable sense that it was time to stop. The message felt like a gentle permission: “You can let it go now.” That realization surprised me. It wasn’t easy to sit down with my “boss”—who is also my husband—and tell him that I needed to step away. I knew stepping down would shift responsibilities, and it was humbling to hand that burden back to him. Thankfully, he understood and agreed that it was the wisest choice. My body and mind simply had nothing left to give.
Now I’m changing gears and settling into a quieter season at home. The transition feels like exhaling after holding my breath for a long time. I’m learning to appreciate the small, ordinary rhythms of domestic life in a way I never did before. There’s a simple delight in being able to do my own laundry, clean my own bathrooms, and make space for restful routines. These tasks, once mundane, now feel like small freedoms and gentle gifts of restoration.
I’m also savoring moments of refreshment I couldn’t access before—time to sit on the patio, read a book, nap when needed, and actually stop to notice life around me. There’s an almost childlike giddiness in being able to “smell the roses” and linger in the sunlight without the pressure of deadlines. I’m deeply grateful to my husband, who tended things while I was gone and whose steady support helped keep everything flourishing.
With renewed energy I’ve picked up a paintbrush between long naps and started working on projects around the house and studio. I’m excited to get back to creating signs and finishing small crafts that had to wait during the busy months. I’m also planning to be more consistent with this blog—writing about the lessons learned, the people who made the season bearable, and the ways faith and community showed up in ordinary tasks.
There’s a quiet joy in returning to familiar routines and a growing appreciation for rest as a necessary part of service. If there’s one takeaway from these past months it’s this: answering a call doesn’t always look like a long-term career or a permanent commitment. Sometimes it’s a season of giving, followed by a season of renewal. I’m thankful for the experience, the friends I made, and the chance to step back into home with intention and gratitude.
I can’t wait to share more—recipes, reflections on cooking for crowds, and small projects from the studio. For now, I’m enjoying the pause, celebrating the margin, and looking forward to what comes next.
Yippee Skippee Doo! 🙂