Recently, Paul and I stayed a few days in Dave’s home and then a few days in Anna’s. Shortly after, Anna’s family surprised us with a quick visit. Both of these children live about 800 miles away, and though we try to stay close through texting, emails, skype, and FaceTime, there is something different about being in someone’s home.
At Dave’s we got to see to see how they have opened up their new home to light and the outdoors. We got to see that the kids still really like the car ramp we gave to Olin 4 years ago, to see the way they sit on the counter to watch their mom in the kitchen. We were there for bedtime routines and a couple of 2-year-old meltdowns.
At Anna’s we got to applaud as the children practiced violin and piano, to watch little Ellie dance her way through the kitchen and end with a sweeping curtsy. We saw the way each child has a chore for setting the table and cleaning up after dinner. We got to see how sometimes sisters have fun together and sometimes they quarrel.
When Anna’s family showed up at our house at short notice, the floor wasn’t mopped and dinner didn’t turn out quite the way I planned. But they got to see our abundant garden and our burned lawn. They offered us kudos, sympathy, and advice as needed.
As we visited in each other’s homes, we both came to know some of the reality of each other’s lives—the good things and the hard times—and we came to love each other even more.
So I’ve been thinking about how often I invite others into my house and my life? And what am I missing when I don’t?
My parents entertained friends in their home often. Two or three times a month they would have a supper group or a dessert party or a summer picnic or a game party, either at their house or at their friends'. I remember one Christmas Eve when I was the only child at home, our parents just called a few friends, got out the onion dip and Christmas cookies, and an hour or two later we had a party. Those friends, the ones who shared frequent at-home socializing with my family, remained life-long friends.
Another way to invite people into our homes is through a close friendship, sort of like .Lucy Arnez and Ethel Mertz (well, maybe not quite as zany). When my kids were young, I had a friend across the street with children of similar ages, who also worked part-time. We were in and out of each other’s homes all the time. Once my friend came downstairs in the early morning to find my three-year-old in her living room, watching cartoons, completely naked. Our children knew if their own mom wasn’t home to help with something, they could call the mom across the street for help. We each knew the other’s strengths and weaknesses, and we were friends.
I don’t entertain nearly as often as my parents did, nor do people I know. And, when my across-the-street-neighbor moved, I never found another comfortable-in-each-other’s-house friend. Perhaps with all the digital entertainment available, we don’t feel so much need for face-to-face recreation.
But if we are not in each other’s homes, we miss out on knowing so much about each other. If we only meet our friends at restaurants, if we only know them through what they choose to post on FaceBook, what are we missing out? We are only seeing public faces.
And when we only know public faces of those around us and compare that with the deep dark secrets we know about ourselves-- the laundry pile on the bed? The desk piled high with papers to be filed?—when that is the comparison we make, we obviously will come out below others, inadequate. And we will think, why can’t I get my act together—all the people I know seem to do great!
Someone told me about a close friend who had tried so hard to do everything perfectly all her life, to always show her perfect side to those she knew. But now her grown children were making choices that she felt were decidedly imperfect. She was not only blaming herself for this, but she was also worried about keeping these choices from those who knew her. What would people think if they knew?
We do this to ourselves all too often. We hide our imperfections, assuming people won’t like us if they knew. I knew someone who would not let you in her house if she hadn’t just cleaned it. Trying to portray perfection, we miss out on real love and support.
Perfect is not the point of our lives. Love is. And love means welcoming people into our homes and our lives, sharing who we really are. It means accepting people the way they are and accepting ourselves and accepting help and giving help as we all stumble along, trying our best to get a little bit better. What was great about my recent visits with my children was the way we could love each other even more because we came to know each other a little bit better.
The other day a young mom in my neighborhood generously invited me into her home when I appeared at her door unannounced. She has five young children, so, of course, toys and children were strewn everywhere. But we cleared space on the couch and sat down and had a lovely visit. I learned, not only that she was welcoming and kind, but also that she loved watching the Olympics with the kids (because she was) and that she crocheted darling stuffed toys for her children (because the baby had one in her hand) and that she had a real talent for designing a lovely photo wall (because it was). I would never have known this about her if she hadn’t invited me in. I love her even more now--because I know her even more.
Perhaps if we are willing to open our homes and open our hearts to those around us, perhaps we will understand each other better. Perhaps we will have more understanding of our own and others’ failings and strengths. Perhaps we will understand that no one is perfect, nor do we need to pretend we are. Perhaps we can truly love each other.
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