We have a small house. I’ve mentioned this before. We have nine people living in 1289 square feet and it works… it even works well. But the house is full. I’ve gone down to bare minimum to live fairly comfortably but it still leaves us with a full house. And I’m okay with that.
I rarely invite people over. It stresses me out. I have always said it’s because where will they sit? Our table just fits us. The kids can sit on the floor or play outside, but the two couches and one chair that fill our living room barely seat our family if the kids want to join us.
What will people think?!
That’s what it comes down to. I look at our life that is so very different than many others and fear what people with think. That they’ll be inconvenienced by being in our home and think poorly of the family we have. I’ve never considered trying to keep up with the Joneses. But apparently, I have.
Imaginary stresses, anyone?
I’ve come to conclude that they will either see a family, larger than most, living and loving and growing and happy, or they’ll criticize the space we don’t have, the five girls sharing one small bedroom, the boys sharing their room with the schoolbooks, the one bathroom that might as well have a rotating door it’s used so often.
But really, why do I care about the latter?
Coming to terms with these thoughts this morning. Trying to learn to get over it, commit to more hospitality and less concern over what others might think. After all, I love my little house. It serves us well. It has crooked old hardwood floors that I love and no carpet and is totally kid friendly. It has colorful walls and a fabulous wood furnace, a concrete patio to play on and five acres that provide room to run for my children and a giant tree in the front yard that boasts four swings.
How is it that, in choosing to embrace life and the gifts God has bestowed me in my children, I have shunned the world’s view of normal and acceptable, and yet I still care what is normal and acceptable?