How To Make a Home

We woke to rain this morning.  Enormous drops of water spattering the world outside.  I started the coffee and cheese omelets for the kids before making J's lunch.  One by one, bleary eyed children made their way downstairs, into the kitchen to accept a steaming plate of eggs.  Nothing special, just a normal rainy Tuesday.

I've read a lot about homemaking over the years.  Buried myself in cleaning schedules and House Beautiful magazines.  I'd get organized for a bit, usually burning myself out after a few days of manic cleaning - and then go right back to my normal way.  Shelves that never stay dusted for long.  Stacks of books on every surface.  A train track snaking it's way around the living room and back.

All of it kind of fell flat for me because even at it's cleanest, my house isn't any more a home than when I've let it all get a little (or a lot) behind.  You can buff the floors to a brilliant shine and never make a home. Even offices have housekeepers, but they aren't homes.  It's all fine to have a clean space, chores for the little ones, to take pride in your surroundings.  But when flower arrangements and candles and  take the place of grace and a peaceful spirit, a house can feel just as empty and cold as if no one lived there at all.  Homemaking is more than that.

The people are the heart of the home, the lifeblood coursing away.  The temperature inside can drop several degrees based on the attitude within.  When I'm spending all day scrubbing and shrieking each time someone touches something - I may be cleaning.  I may be making the house "nice."  But I'm not making it any more of a home than when I was sitting cross legged on the floor of my daughters' room, back against their bunk bed, reading Charlotte's web to an audience of little faces and stuffed animals.  Yelling at my kids to get those dirty feet off my spotless floors isn't building a home.

You make a home by putting people first.  You make a home by trading stress and worry for peace and rest.
An operating room is as sterile as possible, but no one could call it homey.  The staged photographs of homes on the pages of a glossy magazine never had a child's bare feet pad through them, never saw a pillow fight or a fort made right there on the living room floor.

You make a home by allowing life to happen there - in all of it's imperfect glory.

You make a home by extending grace to people of all ages.  You make a home by enjoying all stages of life and development, calling it good, calling it family.  You make a house a home by letting yourself relax and enjoy people just as they are.

You make a house a home by allowing family to make it their own space.  By decorating your fridge with your kids' creations, and letting your son tack that poster up in his room.  You make a house a home by understanding that everyone has their own ideas of what home should feel like - and giving space to each family member to find that place for themselves.

You make a home by letting the walls speak the testimony of your lives, even if that testimony causes you a bit of chagrin.  My house looks like 6 happy, wholehearted, often dirty little kids live here.  Guess what! They do!

You make a home by inviting God into your space.  By being grateful for His provision.  By being contented with what you have.  You make a home by letting the light in your heart shine and touch all who enter, wrapping them up in love.

Jonah comes into the kitchen with a yawn and a stretch. "Whatcha making, Mom?"  He crosses the room and wraps his arms around my waist.  "Eggs.  Want some?"  Rain drums down, and we're both bathed in the golden glow of home.


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