The Restaurant Where Goats Fell and Grace Showed Up

Goats on the Roof and Grace on the Table

What a Swedish pancake house, a rain-slick roof, and a sticky apple juice spill taught me about real nourishment

Not a chef, not a critic… just forming

Back in my twenties, I worked at a Swedish restaurant built from Norwegian logs, topped with a grass roof—designed, quite literally, for goats. Not a gimmick. Actual goats. Grazing up there like they belonged in a postcard from old Scandinavia.

Tourists waited up to two hours for Swedish pancakes, meatballs, and a glimpse of those bearded roof-dwellers. But when it rained, the grass got slick. And goats don’t do slippery well. We’d coax them down the back ramp with scraps of limpa bread, load them into a flatbed truck, and drive them back to the farm. One of us had to ride in back to keep them from jumping out. That was usually me. Goats are gifted at headbutts and have no qualms about pooping on your foot—if you don’t move it often enough.

Every so often, one would leap off the roof and take off running. We’d chase it through the lot, dodge a stroller or two, and hoist it back up the ramp. It wasn’t glamorous. But it gave people something to remember.

They didn’t just come for the lingonberry jam.
They came for the story.
And maybe—without even knowing it—for a taste of something bigger than their plate.

Today’s writing prompt asked me to name my favorite restaurant. I’ve eaten in a few places that made good fries. But I have found that my best meals are not from menus.

They come around campfires, where baked beans drip from paper plates and kids lose half their marshmallows in the flames.
They are found in our kitchen, where flour dust floats through the air and muffin batter somehow ends up on the cabinet doors.
They happen at our dinner table, where Lucy—trying to lean closer to her mom—topples off her chair mid-sentence, apple juice flying, laughter rising.

I’ve been to some nice restaurants, but never a Michelin-starred spot where the plate looks like a painting and the bill looks like a mortgage payment. Still, I’ve read about places like Dan Barber’s, where you don’t pick the food—it picks you. Whatever the farm provides that day, that’s your meal. No substitutions. No preferences. Just trust.

Some might find that limiting. But to me, it sounds like grace.
Not the kind you request.
The kind that’s already been prepared.
Not what you ordered. But exactly what you need.

Jesus lived that way. He didn’t cater events. He broke bread.
He turned water into wine because joy still matters.
He fed thousands with a child’s lunch—not because they couldn’t wait, but because He saw them, and had compassion.
And on that last Passover night, He didn’t deliver a sermon.
He offered bread. He poured wine.
He sat at a table full of men not yet fully sure of what they were a part of—some who would scatter, some who would doubt, and one who would betray.
Even so, He washed their feet. He extended communion.
He showed them the kind of love that does not flinch in the face of failure.
It wasn’t only about the food.
It was about the invitation—and the One doing the inviting.

In the wilderness, God gave His people mān hu—Hebrew for “What is it?”
Manna. A miracle they didn’t understand.
At first, they marveled. But soon, they longed for Egypt—for onions, meat, and the strange comfort of predictability, even if it came with chains.
They didn’t want mystery. They wanted control.

I’ve tasted that kind of discontent.
I’ve sat at beautiful tables with carefully prepared food and a distracted spirit.
Not because the meal was lacking, but because I was somewhere else—tangled in thoughts, playing the martyr, unable to receive what was right in front of me.
And I’ve left full… but not satisfied.

I’ve also eaten PB&J or boxed mac ’n’ cheese with my kids, their silly riddles and stories turning the whole thing into a celebration.
A bitter spirit can spoil a feast.
But a grateful one can turn crumbs into communion.

I once watched a documentary about “blue zones”—places like Okinawa and Sardinia where people often live past 100. Researchers found it wasn’t just the diet or the hill climbs. It was the daily rhythm of gathering.
They showed up to the table—night after night—with people who knew their stories.
Who knew their sorrows.
Who knew their name.

Jesus understood that.
He didn’t open a diner.
He opened His heart.
And He set a table where everyone belonged.

That goat-roofed restaurant taught me something:
We are not just hungry for pancakes.
We are starving for connection.
For a seat. A welcome.
A moment that lingers like campfire smoke in your clothes long after the fire goes out.

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So here’s to goats scampering off rooftops, darting through parking lots with gleeful mischief.

To marshmallows lost to the flames, and fingers sticky with s’mores.
To grace that arrives unbidden, filling hearts before plates.
To Jesus, who turned water into wine and gave Himself as the bread of life.
And to you—may your next meal brim with love’s loud chatter, spill with joy’s sweet mess,
and hold a presence so rich, it echoes into eternity.

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Pause and Ponder:
What meal lives in your heart—not for the food, but for the faces?
What hunger did it feed that you didn’t see coming?

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#LivingFromTheInsideOut #Forming20 #GraceAtTheTable #GoatRoofChronicles #SacredMeals #FaithAndFeasting #JesusAndFood #TrueConnection #ModernParables #BlueZoneWisdom