Come Over to My House

There's no place like home for playtime
and friendship.

“Can you come over to my house to play?”

Was there ever a more exciting question a child could hear asked of him or her? It may be common now to have playdates with friends at the local destination, but when I was a kid, we played in houses. Remember all those messy houses mentioned in the previous post? They were mostly messy because we were playing in them. We still made trips to the zoo and enjoyed an occasional outing to a museum, but those were special events, not playdates. We socialized with others by hosting them in our own homes, where the possibilities for entertainment could be boundless, depending on the parent who owned the hosting house. 

Warm afternoons found school girls skipping rope or playing hopscotch on the driveway. If we got bored with conventional games, we would take turns tying someone to a tree in a game of knots, testing our skills at tying and untying. On chilly winter days we might sprawl out in the sunny spot of the kitchen floor for endless games of Jacks, laughing together when a ball bounced into a cocoa mug. Tea parties were also a choice activity for girls eager to enjoy tasty tidbits elegantly served in a manner reminiscent of the latest Montgomery read. We would rummage through bins of old bridesmaid dresses or not-quite-vintage castoffs from our mothers’ adolescent wardrobes and then spend the tea recreating scenes from Avonlea. On special evenings, we might snuggle up in sleeping bags on a living room floor and watch a favorite movie together, sipping our raspberry ginger ale through Twizzler straws.

While my friends and I trooped around in tripping skirts, my brother and his friends left their mark on our home by smelting in the dining room (with my mother’s permission; she didn’t think the splatter would reach the ceiling). When the projects grew bigger, they moved to the backyard fire pit, which they redesigned as teenagers to be a more effective furnace for their blacksmithing adventures. The Lord of the Rings inspired more than one boy to craft his own sword. The added bonus of all this fire-making was an opportunity to invite families over to enjoy hotdogs and marshmallows at a well-established bonfire. In the snowy months, our backyard was often alive with hammering and feasting.

Inevitably, we outgrew tea parties and swordplay—but never cocoa or friendship. In fact, as I settled into hosting college girls and working women at my own apartment, I found that while these women appreciated being treated at a local coffee shop, what they all loved most was simply flopping down on my sofa, burrowing into the abundance of fuzzy blankets, and talking. Candles, chocolate, and undistracted conversation in a real living room soothed many an anxious or lonely spirit. What homesick hearts need most, of course, is simply a dose of home. Nothing can give that like a house cluttered by humans and busy with living. We may grow in our sophistication, but we never outgrow our need of home.

Home. So ordinary, but so much scope for the imagination. So much freedom to move, talk, eat, and laugh.

Zoos are fun. Museums can be interesting. Indoor playgrounds are a must for expending pent-up energy in the midst of polar winter. Coffee shops are convenient. All of these places have their advantages as meeting places. In some cases it might lessen the distance each family has to drive to see each other. Also, when we go somewhere else, we don’t have to worry about the messiness of our house, the refreshments (or lack thereof) we might offer, or how to keep kids entertained. We don’t even have to worry about the mess that would be made by playtime. The bathrooms at the zoo are someone else’s responsibility. At a museum, everyone treats themselves to necessary snacks. No one bears the weight of hosting. It sounds so very carefree. And yet, does it really provide a satisfying visit?

My kids love the zoo and they love seeing their friends, but when I see them at the zoo with their friends, I see the tug-of-war going on in their minds. What do they pay attention to: their friends or the animals? How can they converse in hallways reverberating with noise? How do they play in a place not meant for tea parties or imaginary battles or races? How can they engage their friends when their friends are bombarded with stimulation from all other sides? For that matter, how can I? It can be hard to focus on getting to know someone better when navigating crowds, keeping track of children, and trying to locate the nearest possible restroom.

I recently asked my mom: why didn’t we make more of an effort to meet up with friends outside of homes? Why did we host in our homes? Sometimes it did come down to budget—there simply wasn’t money to go out. It also kept life simple, encouraging us to be creative and resourceful together in finding fun with what we had on hand. But most of all, it kept life relational. The focus of our time together was on relationships, not entertainment.

Hospitality isn’t about entertainment. It’s about individuals. The point is to have this time to be apart together and focus on each other in a way we can’t when surrounded by a crowd in a public place. At home we converse in a way we couldn’t otherwise. When we invite people into our home, we are inviting them in out of the crowd, into our personal refuge where we can talk, struggle, pray, and know Jesus better because of the friendships He has given us. 

It’s been a long time since I played Jacks or dress-up, and a good many of my childhood chums live out of state. However, the friendships built in those frequent playtimes in messy homes live on. They live on in text messages and phone calls, in snatched visits when someone comes to town, in emails asking for prayer, and even on social media. When I mentioned memories of our five gallon bucket in the previous post, my friends went into reminiscing mode about our simple and shared childhood. The highlights that surfaced most were Totino’s pizza and movie nights with our parents. Some may say we’re just nostalgic. Some may say we’re crazy. Maybe we’re both, but the fact is we still love each other and care about each other. We’re still real friends 20 years, even 30 years later. That’s what matters most.

So please, come over to my house! It won’t be perfect, but it will be full of possibilities. It won’t be spotless, but it will be spacious. Please inconvenience me; please come make a mess. It will be more comfortable and fun than any mall play area you can find. Come over and enjoy the sun warming you through my kitchen window while our children run and play. Come over and let our walls ring with our shared laughter. Come over for a chat and let our kids learn how to talk to each other, how to share ordinary life together. We can visit the zoo another day—come over to my house and play.