The Art of Gathering

The initial intention of these beginning pages was to create somewhat of a guide to entertaining. I worked and worked on it, jotting down a few tips I’d learned over the years, but there was something about listing out rules and how-tos on a topic that can be so personal and vulnerable that just didn’t feel right to me. As I thought more deeply about what exactly I’d want to convey, I realized that my heart for gathering has little to do with how I actually pull it off and everything to do with why it matters.

So, this isn’t a hosting how-to. There won’t be a takeaway of my top ten tips for throwing a party your friends will never forget. Nor will you learn a trick for remembering which side of the plate to put the fork on. Because in all transparency, I still have to google that myself on evenings when I feel like it matters, which isn’t often. Instead, I want these pages to be an encouragement, a gracious reminder that the most valuable thing you can do when it comes to gathering, whether it’s an intimate meal with your family, a last-minute dinner with friends, or an event with guests, is to free yourself from the burden of expectations. And to lean into all the life and goodness and beauty that awaits at our dinner tables.

I think it’s part of our human nature to seek connection. I believe that our hearts are naturally drawn toward one another to be in community. But I’ve also come to realize that it’s not uncommon for people to feel immobilized when it comes to inviting people into their homes. I can understand why. It’s a vulnerable thing to share our most intimate spaces with others. And sure, some people may have a knack for hosting and setting a table beautifully, so it can be really easy to look wistfully at the spaces we see in magazines or on social media and feel defeated that ours will never compare. We can get so bogged down by these comparisons that we forget the beautiful simplicity of sharing a meal and swapping stories.

This is a lesson I had to learn the hard way and have continued to relearn over the years. When our kids were young and I was in a season of seeking perfection for just about every area of my life—as a wife, a mom, a designer, and a cook—whenever we’d host a dinner party or family gathering in our home, it became a rhythm for the evenings to end with me feeling completely depleted from cooking, hosting, and then stressing over how it all turned out. I never let myself indulge in the part that was meant to fill me up because I was too busy staring at the placement of the platters on the table, evaluating which ones needed fixing. I grew tired of feeling like my intentions weren’t aligning. There was something in me that cared deeply about creating a space where people could feel at ease and at home within our walls, yet when the doorbell would ring I suddenly started piling on expectations that everything go perfectly.

Thankfully, there was a moment after one of our family get-togethers when I finally asked myself, “Why am I doing this?” If the answer was for my own pride or the approval of others, I knew it wasn’t sustainable. There’d be no escaping that nagging feeling that I was falling short somewhere. So I started placing more significance on the why than the how and I began to anticipate simple weeknight dinners with my family in the same way I would a more elaborate gathering—for the simple sake of a mutually shared experience around the table, as well as for the significance I found in nourishing and being nourished.

Since then, meals in our home have looked and felt different for every kind of occasion. When it comes to simple weeknight dinners at home, it can sometimes feel like a victory in and of itself just to get dinner on the table for seven people after a full day of work, school, and the kids’ practices. Sometimes it’s fun to make dinner feel like a celebration. Even if I’m cooking something fairly simple like pasta, I’ll light a few candlesticks on the table and lay out pretty linen napkins. Just those two really simple details is enough to make the meal feel a little bit more special, no matter what’s being served.

On weekends, it’s not uncommon for a friend or relative to stop by for a few hours and then, suddenly, it’s dinnertime. It’s important to me that people feel welcome to stay as long as they’re comfortable—and to never feel like they’re intruding on a meal they weren’t invited to. So I’ve learned to keep on-hand ingredients for a handful of recipes that can feed a group. And I’m always up for a balanced meal of takeout and homemade. Perhaps it makes more sense to order out for a last-minute dinner while I make something sweet for dessert. When that’s the case, Chip orders a pizza and I know I have the ingredients for at least three different kinds of cookies or cakes stocked in the pantry.

When I look back on some of the dinner parties and family gatherings we hosted early in our marriage, I can’t help but wonder if our guests truly felt comfortable in our home. I can imagine it wasn’t hard to see the anxiety written all over me. And over the years, I’ve watched and witnessed how my own demeanor, even the way I greet a guest in our entryway, can either set someone at ease or cause them to put up their guard.

Nowadays, when I’ve intentionally invited guests over for dinner, I know that the way my home feels and what it’s communicating to people when they walk in is more important than what’s on the menu. I’ve let go of the idea that the couch and pillows need to be spruced or that the floors need to be vacuumed, and instead choose to focus my time and energy on ways to make the environment feel inviting, like playing music, lighting a candle in the background, and turning on a few low lights; really anything that makes my home feel like a warm respite from the outside world and familiar enough that people want to settle in and stay awhile.

For me, the art of gathering isn’t about appearance or aesthetics. It’s about the way people feel when they’re in my home and around my table. Whether it’s my own kids or new friends, I want them to leave at the end of the night with light hearts and full stomachs. Not just from the food we shared but from the time well spent in each other’s company.