Abundance

How do you describe Istanbul? Vibrant. Layered. Teeming with life. Above all, it is a city of people—people everywhere.

Rarely did we find ourselves in spaces that felt empty or still. Mosques and markets, streets and cisterns, palaces and restaurants—all pulsed with noise, movement, and human energy. Istanbul does not whisper; it hums, calls, gathers, and overflows.

Every corner seemed to offer a glimpse into the city’s religious and cultural complexity. We noticed the many visible expressions of Muslim identity, from styles of dress to the types of beards, each reflecting histories, traditions, and communities we could only begin to understand. Yet Istanbul also carries the marks of many worlds at once. Western influence appears in familiar names and modern storefronts. Wine and liquor are sold openly. Small Christian and Jewish communities remain tucked into the folds of this sprawling city. It is a place shaped by empire, faith, trade, and migration—a city where differences lives side by side.

And then there is the food, which feels like its own language of abundance and welcome. Everywhere we turned, shops brimmed with nuts and spices, meats and fish, dried goods and fresh vegetables. Our group, always eager to try something new, sampled local specialties like lamb intestine and even sheep’s head. We also discovered sahlep, a traditional winter drink—thick, sweet, and comforting, made from hot milk, sugar, and ground wild orchid tubers, then dusted with cinnamon.

But more than anything, the meal that captured our hearts was a traditional Turkish breakfast.

The smell of homemade bread greeted us as we entered Van Kahvaltı Evi. What followed felt less like dining out and more like being gathered into someone’s home. Dish after dish appeared: menemen, rich with tomato and pepper; a variety of cheeses; olives; fresh vegetables; jams; and endless glasses of tea. There was even candied pumpkin drizzled with tahini and honey, so unexpectedly delicious it felt almost extravagant. Our teacups never stayed empty for long, and the Turkish coffee arrived hot, dark, and thick

It was more than a meal. It felt like hospitality as a sacred art—as if generosity itself had been set before us at the table. In that moment, I was reminded that some of God’s kindness comes to us in ordinary, tangible forms: bread still warm, tea continually poured, laughter shared across the table, and the deep human joy of being welcomed.

Even though it had been ten years since my last visit, returning to Istanbul felt strangely familiar—like arriving at a holiday gathering where family members are talking over one another, catching up, laughing loudly, and insisting you eat just a little more. It is chaotic and beautiful, full and alive. You savor every moment, and even as you leave, you already long to return.