Brother Lawrence spent most of his life doing exactly what nobody would choose. He worked in the kitchen of a Carmelite monastery in Paris, scrubbing pots and peeling vegetables. Day after day, year after year. The same steam, the same grease, the same ache in his bad leg from a war wound that never properly healed.
The Kitchen as Cathedral
He wasn't a great theologian. He wasn't a gifted preacher. He was a clumsy man who broke things often and called himself "a great awkward fellow." But somewhere between the onions and the boiling water, Lawrence made a discovery that would outlast every sermon preached in Notre-Dame during his lifetime: God was right there in the kitchen.
Not metaphorically. Not in some abstract spiritual sense. Lawrence described an actual, felt presence — as real as the heat from the stove — that showed up when he picked up a pan with the same attention he'd bring to kneeling at the altar.
Practising the Presence
He called it "practising the presence of God." The idea was stupidly simple: talk to God while you work. Not formal prayers. Just ongoing conversation. "Lord, I cannot do this unless you enable me." That sort of thing. He did it while cooking. He did it while cleaning. He said the busiest times in the kitchen became his richest times with God.
The monks around him noticed something different. Lawrence had a peace that didn't make sense given his circumstances. People started showing up — scholars, priests, even nobility — to ask this kitchen worker how he'd found what they couldn't locate in their libraries and cathedrals.
What This Means for You
The thing Lawrence proved is that God doesn't need you to be somewhere special. He doesn't need you to be someone special. He showed up between potato peels and dishwater because that's where Lawrence was paying attention. Your kitchen, your commute, your desk — it's all sacred ground if you're willing to notice.