On the morning of the first of November I woke up early and
began to prepare brunch for fourteen adults and three and a half kids. The bacon sizzled filling the
whole house with its glorious smell. I made blueberry crisp with Greek yogurt, goat
cheese scrambled eggs and three pots of coffee. Sarah J brought pumpkin bread and Sarah R a crust less
quiche. There were mimosas and
bloody marys, coffee cake and oranges.
We used every one in my eclectic collection of mugs, which gave me a profound
sense of happiness.
Most of the morning was spent in my kitchen, around my
island and then my kitchen table.
We laughed and sipped coffee and I realized that brunch may just be my
favorite type of gathering to host.
As our friends began gathering their things and saying their good-byes
Marty commented that this whole morning was “good for his soul.” All I ever want is for my home to be
good for the soul.
*******
We sang happy birthday and Tommy blew out candles on an
icing-less birthday cake a few days later. A simple birthday dinner with his parents and sisters was
one of his nicest. My mom and
sister joined us for dessert and I watched from the doorway between the dining
room and kitchen as all the different conversations happened before me. I watched my husband in his
element, surrounded by the people who know him best, thankful for this place
for everyone to land.
*******
A few days after that a different, larger group gathered for
my brother’s thirtieth birthday.
His birthday was still a few weeks away, but he, along with many other
relatives, were in town for my dad’s memorial service and it seemed as good a
time as any to celebrate him and this milestone birthday. With everyone around I wanted to gather us as much as
possible. I’d planned to keep it
simple that night. I knew it would
be a hard weekend as we approached the anniversary of the worst day of our
lives. I ordered beef sandwiches
and chopped salads from Portillo’s and let everyone else bring appetizers and
booze. That night I
was in our bedroom nursing Red when everyone seemed to arrive at once. I came into my kitchen to a whirlwind
of plates, food, greetings and fullness. Full kitchen, full home, full heart.
We sat in my living/dining room in a large circle for hours
that night laughing full belly laughs.
Long running inside jokes wove in and out of the conversations. Some of our oldest and closest family
friends, the Dunns, stayed last telling story after story of our shared past,
reliving them new as adults.
Something special happened that night. Something got put back together a
little bit in my living room and for the first time in a long time I had hope for
my family. Maybe we weren’t broken
completely.
*******
The next weekend my living room turned into a filming set as
my house church/small group/supper club contributed to a promotional video for
a book we’d been reading. Once the
interviews had been conducted and the “B-Roll film” shot the cameraman left and
I found myself eating chili-mac around my table with the people who have in
many ways carried me through this past year. After dinner we continued our conversations utilizing the
open layout of my living/dining room combo while some sat on the couch and
others stayed at the table, everyone fully engaged in one long conversation.
And again I marveled at how important it is for me to fill
my home with my people. When we
first looked at this house with our real estate agent I stood in my dining room
and looked across the expanse of this great room and imagined my people in it. I could see it. Could see the very scene that now lay
before me in real life. This home
was meant for my people.
*******
Our single greatest endeavor in the art of opening our home
came at the end of the month when we welcomed 25 people in for Thanksgiving
dinner. There were a million
reasons this last party should have been a disaster. I’d never actually cooked a turkey or any of the traditional
thanksgiving foods for that matter.
Tommy and I decided to invite whoever was around from each of our
extended families, which meant that our large gathering consisted of quite a
few people who don’t really know each other. And on top of all of it I wasn’t quite sure how my
immediate family would be feeling that day; the holidays, Thanksgiving being
the first of a long six weeks or so of merriment, have a way of heightening
grief I’ve learned.
On the morning of Thanksgiving I found myself in a state of
panic, worried I’d mess up the turkey, worried no one would interact naturally
with one another and it would be 25 people crammed into my house in varying
states of awkwardness with only my over-done turkey to keep them occupied. In this moment I needed my dad. I needed my buffer of a father who
could connect anyone and make everyone feel comfortable. I needed my dad. And so I threw up the same desperate prayer
I’ve been praying for weeks. Redeem this Lord. Redeem even this.
Please.
We pulled out the leaf again on my dining room table and set
our large card table next to it.
I put on the new table clothes and used my most colorful cloth napkins
trying to create a lovely space that would make people feel comfortable without
going too crazy because table settings aren’t really my forte. I set my timer every thirty minutes to
baste the turkey and prepared everything I could ahead of time, all while
pleading with Jesus to do his redemption thing.
And miraculously he did. People arrived, strangers forged connections, laughter
reigned. For weeks afterwards
people let us know what a nice time it was at our house on Thanksgiving.
*******
I don’t share this to regale you with tales of my hostess-ing
prowess. I’m actually not
naturally a very good hostess. I
constantly forget to offer people drinks or take their coats and I can never
seem to remember people’s dietary need and preferences. I’ve made meat for vegetarians and
pizza for gluten-frees. I
tell you this because November was supposed to be the worst. November was supposed to be a dark
month filled with dark days and dark memories of what had happened a year
before.
Instead November was a whirlwind of opening my home to
pretty much every cross section of my people. It was a steady cycle of laying out glasses and table
settings, piling coats on the coat rack, serving meals, loading the dishwasher,
lather, rinse, repeat. And something happens to me when I do this simple act of
welcoming my people into my home.
It fills me up in the simplest way. It floods the darkest parts with light. I can’t explain why, or how, but having
a home filled with people is good for the deepest parts of me. November was supposed to suck. But it didn’t. I didn’t plan on filling my November
with all these gatherings; it wasn’t until mid month that I really looked at
the calendar and saw what had happened.
But I don’t think it was coincidental at all. It wasn’t an accident that during the month I needed it most
I was already set up to do the thing that makes me whole.
I want to encourage you to do whatever it is that puts you
back together. For me it’s filling
my home with my people. Maybe for
you it’s painting furniture or creating jewelry, writing, or going to movies
alone. Maybe it’s dancing or
dinner with your most favorite person or holing away and reading alone for
hours. Whatever it is, do it with
reckless abandon. Let these acts
put you back together when you’re finding yourself at the end of yourself. Do the thing that fills your inner
darkness with light and don’t apologize for it. We need to do the things that make us whole, even when, especially when, we don’t think we have
time for it.
November was supposed to suck. And it didn’t.
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