Last week we hosted the African Children’s Choir at our house. They came right in the middle of one of the busiest weeks of our year, including the kids’ Christmas Program, faraway basketball games, big work deadlines, etc, etc.
Late at night, when I was exhausted and needed to go to bed for the night, I cleaned and straightened and grumbled. Vacuum! Wash the windows! Company is coming!
When the choir finally got to our house, I instinctively apologized for the piles of homework still on the counter and the pine needles on the floor. The boys from Africa giggled. Their chaperone all but rolled his eyes. “Everyone apologizes for their house,” he said.
The last time the African Children’s Choir stayed with us, the chaperone had also reported this. Americans were always feeling bad about their houses. “These kids come from shacks with dirt floors. They walk an hour for water. Nothing in America even compares to that.”
Even though I knew it was ridiculous, I STILL couldn’t stop apologizing for our messy house. Or how embarrassed I was when we didn’t have enough bananas for all our guests. When those kids remember their visit to Katy, Texas they will surely recall the machine-gun apologizing I was doing for everything.
My house shame is deeply rooted in a few moments from my past that I replay over and over. By the way, as we’ve all discovered by now, replaying shameful moments over and over is EXACTLY HOW SATAN KEEPS US STUCK.
I’m stuck in Seventh Grade, my first year in public school, when I invited my first friend over to my house. Before she visited, she asked about my house, and I told her it was a five-bedroom house on an acre of land. Which, intentionally, made it sound much like the mansion it was not.
The sleepover was fine—until Monday morning, when Carly told everyone “Tina’s house is a piece of crap.” She described the unfolded laundry on the couch, the cobwebs in the corner, and the washing machine in the kitchen. She wasn’t just making fun of me; she was telling the world the way my family lived was not okay.
After that, I didn’t invite many friends over to spend the night. Looking back now, I see my friends’ houses were just like mine: their couches also had unfolded laundry. Some even had huge, Galveston roaches. But my shame was already rooted inside me, making me afraid about what people thought of my house.
Thirty years later, shame still wins sometimes. Our carpet is stained, our couches are old, and I have no knack or time for funky, chic decorating. I’m scared our guests will see our dirty dishes in the sink and categorize us as slobs. These imaginary guests won’t give us any grace for having four kids or a busy schedule, they’ll just judge us.
Not inviting people over to our home is damaging in so many ways. It reinforces my shame that the way we live is not okay. But even worse, it keeps us from the joy of hosting. It stops us from teaching our kids how to be hospitable.
Because the truth is, no one really cares about how clean our house is. Eight-year-old boys from Uganda are not checking to make sure our windows are clean. Most everyone who walks through our front door welcomes our house as a busy place where we’re living a chaotic life the best we can. Before they notice the fingerprints on the mirrors, they’ll probably notice all the hugs we give each other. Before they notice the stacks of homework on the kitchen counter, they’ll notice how much we love dancing in the kitchen while we trudge through Memory work. Hear this, everyone: no one cares about how clean your house is.
Bit by bit, I’m getting to this comfortable place with visitors. Nothing takes away shame’s power like taking a risk. This year, we’ve taken a risk by hosting some parties and by inviting more and more people into our home.
Shame won when I cleaned for hours before for these visits. Shame lost when I didn’t spend my energy covering up the cobwebs, but I sat down in the living room, on our old couches, and made our guests feel comfortable.
By watching me welcome guests into our messy, comfortable home, our kids learned how to be proud of where we live. They learned conversation is more important than clean baseboards. Our kids learned the beauty of hospitality.
So, what about you? Who will you invite over today? Who will you open your door for, telling them and yourself that you have nothing to be ashamed of?
