Potluck Queen

We moved to Guthrie obediently—but not entirely obediently. God had called us toward community, and we followed… mostly. We changed towns, but we didn’t change churches. Not yet. It took a series of nudges (fine, shoves) to finally get us searching for a new church home.

The search lasted longer than I expected. Longer than I wanted. My heart was aching for belonging, and longing has a way of warping vision. Thankfully, my husband led the process with a steadier hand. He could see what I couldn’t: that desire alone is not discernment.

But then—finally—we found the place that fit. Perfectly. We joined at the start of the year, and almost immediately spiritual growth accelerated. New friendships began to take root. It felt like stepping into soil that had been waiting for us.

We were serious about plugging in, so we started attending fellowship game nights with our small group. At one of the earliest meet-ups, someone was preparing a variety of meats. Not wanting to show up empty‑handed, I made a mac and cheese.

I wasn’t prepared for the reaction.

“It’s like Mee-Maw’s! This is potluck mac and cheese!”

That compliment warmed my soul in ways I had not anticipated. And then the very next Sunday the pastor announced an upcoming potluck.

Message received.

I brought the mac. I made a cake. It was a lovely day.

A couple of weeks later, another potluck was announced. Our oven was on the fritz and a new one was being delivered on Saturday. Just in case, I made a killer banana pudding. Sunday morning, riding the high of the new oven and realizing I had all the ingredients, I threw together another mac and cheese at the last minute.

Good thing I did. The moment I walked in, someone called out:

“You brought mac and cheese, right? The pastor said he’s kicking you out if you don’t bring it.”

I laughed, delighted that it had become a thing. I confirmed I brought the mac—and the banana pudding. There was an audible gasp.

The day unfolded: small group, service, then the potluck. I fixed plates for the kids and sat down with my back to the food table. Through the hum of conversation, I kept hearing it—“you have to try this,” “best mac and cheese in the world,” “banana pudding,” “incredible.”

My son came over, leaned in, and whispered, “They’re all talking about your pudding, Mom. They said you’re the new Kim. I don’t know what that means, but it sounds like it’s probably a good thing.”

When I finally went to get a little pudding for myself, the tray was almost gone. Exactly what I’d hoped for. I tasted it and—look—they weren’t wrong. It was flippin’ delicious. I never get to make it at home because not everyone here likes bananas, so this felt like a tiny personal victory.

As the potluck wrapped up, people kept coming over to compliment the dishes. I received them awkwardly because I am, in fact, awkward. I mentioned my son’s “new Kim” comment, not knowing what it meant but feeling honored anyway.

The person I was talking to paused. Something flickered across his face—wistfulness, maybe even grief. He nodded slowly with misty eyes.

“It’s a big deal.”

I still don’t know the story. I don’t know who Kim was or why her name carries weight. But I feel the significance. Whoever she was, she mattered. And somehow, in some small way, I’ve stepped into a place she once held.

The community I had been searching for is here. And I am officially a part of it.

I have a signature potluck dish.

The joy I’ve been able to bring—through something as simple as mac and cheese and banana pudding—has made my heart nearly burst with gratitude. This is what belonging feels like: not grand gestures, but shared tables, familiar flavors, and the quiet realization that your presence adds something to the room.

The Call Beneath the Casserole Dish

After our very first Sunday at this church, I told my husband something I could barely articulate at the time: I think we’re answering someone’s prayer.

It wasn’t just that God had something for us here—though He clearly did. It was that this church, these people, this community… they needed something we carried. I didn’t know what that meant. I still don’t know the full shape of it. But the sense was unmistakable, like a quiet chord humming under everything: we are meant to be here, not only for our sake but for theirs.

And no, I’m not saying anyone was praying, “Lord, send us someone who can make banana pudding that will bring the congregation to its knees.” But I am saying that sometimes the way God weaves people together is far more ordinary—and far more holy—than we expect.

Because here’s the truth I’m learning: belonging isn’t proven by grand gestures. It’s revealed in the small, consistent ways your presence blesses a room. It’s in the squeals of delight when you walk in with a foil pan. It’s in the gasp when you say you brought banana pudding. It’s in the way someone’s eyes soften when they tell you, “It’s a big deal.”

It’s in the realization that your offering—however simple—has become part of the community’s joy. It makes your family proud.

Somewhere between the mac and cheese and the banana pudding, between the whispered compliments and the nearly empty tray, something settled in my spirit. A deep, quiet assurance:

This is where I’m meant to be. These are my people. And somehow, in ways I don’t fully understand yet, I am part of what God is doing here.

The longing that once distorted my vision has been replaced with clarity. The ache for belonging has been met with abundance. The call to community—the one we only half-obeyed at first—has finally come full circle.

I came searching for a place to belong. God brought me to a people who were praying for someone like me. And now, standing in a fellowship hall with an empty dessert tray and a heart full to the brim, I can say with confidence:

I am home.