When the Pot Begins to SpeakThere is something sacred about standing over a pot as it begins to simmer. The oil warms, the spices awaken, and suddenly the kitchen feels like an altar—quiet, expectant, alive with purpose.This rice begins slowly. Cumin and star anise bloom in oil, reminding me that God often releases fragrance before fullness. What looks small in the beginning carries depth when given time. The onions soften, the garlic releases its voice, and the potatoes—once firm and unyielding—begin to yield. Not because they were forced, but because they were surrounded by warmth.I think about how our lives are seasoned the same way. A little heat. A little patience. A careful balance of bitterness and sweetness. Even the unexpected—like bacon bits or a hint of ginger-miso honey—finds its place. Nothing is wasted in the hands of a wise Creator.As the rice absorbs the broth, it teaches me trust. It does not rush. It does not resist. It receives what it needs and becomes whole. And when it is finally ready, it rests—because even after the work is done, rest is still holy.Topped with a sunny-side egg, its golden center breaking open like grace, this meal becomes a reminder: nourishment is not only physical. God feeds us in layers—through food, through waiting, through small moments of care we give to ourselves and others.May every pot you stir remind you that you are being tended to, even when you cannot see it. And may your table always be a place of warmth, gratitude, and quiet worship.