A Home Well Loved

 

Last night we had my sister and brother-in-law over. And to be honest, I had no time to pick up the house. Each section of the house had (and still currently has) evidence that WE have been here. WE have lived in these spaces. There are children that live here, for sure. 

As soon as they walked in, I immediately apologized and said "oh gosh, please don't look at my house". Saying this in a nonchalent way of course, to show that it doesn't matter to me, right? Heck, I am one of those cool laid back moms that "doesn't care what people think". But in the inside I cringed. All I could think was, that this sweet newlywed couple with no children was judging hardcore. And maybe they were. 

But my sweet brother-in-law replied how it was a home that was well loved. I thought that was quite sweet of him to say, even though my sister and I joked he is an Enneagram 1. But gosh, it made me feel a lot better.

This home is so well loved. There is evidence of the hot tub evenings and singing in the shower escapades, by all of the towels that are glaring at me from the dirty clothes hampers. Evidence of family meals and dinners at home, from the clean dishes that are begging to be put away. Evidence of being woken from our children, by all of the books and baby dolls that line our bedroom floor. Evidence of my evenings doing the thing that I love the most - journals and books, that have fallen to the floor after I have fallen asleep. Evidence of crunchy leaves in the front yard, that used to reside in smaller piles. But now, they are scattered throughout the yard from the little nuggets who have thrown and jumped in them. 

This home has been well loved. This family has been well loved. 

Sometimes this home has its days, its moments where it glistens and shines. It has its moments in time, when I look at it, I don't get overwhelmed and anxious about all that needs to be done. I think about how things could actually be. How maybe if everything was always put back in its place, nothing was out of order, and hand prints and kissy marks were never on the windows... what would that actually mean for me and my family. Where would the evidence be? How could there be evidence that we were actually here, living and enjoying our home, if I was constantly wiping it away?

I think of how my husband might laugh and jokingly say, is this our excuse to get out of cleaning? That is not what this is. But this is a moment of gratitude. A moment to thank my brother-in-law (even if he was joking), for reminding me that our house looks like this because it is well loved. 

And that, and the people in it, are just that.