It's the day before. You know that day. The day when you're in a state of cleaning mode panic. The day of laundering, dusting, vacuuming, dog-bathing, vacuuming again, glass cleaning, making beds and folding towels and prettying the kids' rooms and making sure every bathroom has toilet paper and a sparkling clean bowl.
This is the day before your visitors arrive.
Tomorrow morning we'll be welcoming my dad and step-mom - nearly seven months past heart surgery - into our home. Our home. Oh, sure, they've sat on our couches and wobbly chairs when we were in the US. But here, in our home, they'll stay a night or two, touring our city, loving our kids, eating our (ahem, Matt's) food.
In. Our. Home.
I've written about home a lot, maybe too much. I write essay after essay about The Pink House, and never show a soul. I write about the attic and the kid in the closet, about Stamullen, about the apartment that was more gift than I thought possible, and about that first walk-up in Chicago (RIP, Cubs). And I write about this home, too.
But today at Velvet Ashes, I'm writing about all the homes cramming for space in a child's heart, about the memories of moves, heartbreak and insecurity, about knowing what it's like - in all its blessings and curses - to be displaced.
As I recounted the ways my children might end up miserable due to our unnecessary – though seemingly Spirit-led – changes, I realized the curse and the blessing of my past (realized is code for: I’m pretty sure Matt told me).
The curse is that I project all my childhood fears and anxieties upon them. Sure, we are happily married and serving the Lord with glad hearts overseas, but I tend to discount the high value of that truth. When I see my children, I see myself walking into that school lonely and afraid, and more than a little bit angry with my parents. I think of all we put them through with moving overseas and back again and don’t even think twice about emotionally self-flagellating.
Read the rest here. And pray for me as I clean. And vacuum. And open the doors of our home, with gladness.