Messy House Hospitality

Hospitality doesn't mean the table is flawless,
but that it is full.

It’s a Thursday evening in June. You’ve just started busing dirty supper dishes to the counter—the sink is already filled with dishes from earlier meals in this B.D. (Before Dishwasher) era. The phone rings. Leaving the dog to prewash the casserole dish, you answer.

“Oh good! You’re home. Hey—we’ll be over in about 10-ish minutes with a big bucket of ice cream. Make sure to have some bowls ready.” Click.

Ten minutes. Never mind the pans. You have just enough time to clear the table, wash and dry bowls and spoons for eight people, and make sure that there isn’t any dirty underwear hiding out in the bathroom. The rest… well, you don’t even think about the rest.

This was a normal occurrence in my childhood. There were premeditated social gatherings on the calendar, planned in advance with time for extensive cleaning, but most of our social life happened in those spur-of-the-moment ice cream calls or bonfire-in-the-backyard invitations. The point was to spend the time together, laughing at our experiences of life in an inner city, sharing memories from vacation or parents’ childhoods, or rejoicing in God’s goodness in providing kids with bikes, parents with cars. I remember many evenings of full tables and good conversation, but not clean houses.

By “clean” I mean “immaculate”—homes with no visible crumbs on the carpet or dust on the knick-knacks. Those houses were a minority. It wasn’t that we didn’t care. I remember cleaning! It’s just that in certain seasons of lots of children and ministry and work, things piled up. Lego creations, markers and papers from craft projects, books from homeschool, baskets of laundry (sometimes dirty, sometimes clean; check carefully), and the half-finished games of Monopoly and Battleship littered the house. It took a while to get to the dust on picture frames. The goal was tidy. You should be able to find a place to sit down, a table to eat at, and a toilet and sink above reproach. Dust bunnies were barely noticed anyway, overshadowed by the always present “conversation piece” of unfinished house repair. Most of us lived in houses going on eighty or ninety years old that demanded attention. When our bathroom sink pipe refused to drain or be drained, we simply removed part of the offending pipe and put a five gallon bucket in its place to catch the wastewater, which would be emptied into the toilet (a great way to study water usage, by the way). The repair was potentially complicated, so we lived that way—and hosted that way—for years. It became its own kind of ice breaker with guests at the dinner table. I never thought of it, except to warn my friends to let us know when the bucket was getting full. We never thought of not hosting because of it. The fellowship was more important than the fuss. And what do we remember most now? Chaos, perhaps, but chaos dominated by friendship, warmth, and hospitality in Jesus’ name.

Today my husband and I live in a relatively young house, but chaos remains a theme. With four young children—a collector, an artist, a mother-in-training to animals and dolls, and a builder—there are days when there is more tape on the floor than on the walls. It takes talent to do that. While our kids are working hard at learning to do chores cheerfully, it seems that the more they clean, the more they feel free to clutter. What’s a mom to do? Locking the door and barring the entrance hardly seems an attractive solution to the problem. After all, it’s fellowship that we need most right now—other people to come and laugh with us through this tornado. But hosting people in this? This jumble of dolls, paper, rocks, and magnet tiles?

While preparing to host a playdate this spring, I turned into the monster-mom, banishing dust bunnies and stuffed animals with a fervor that sent kids running. I had twenty minutes and every toy in the house seemed out of place. Also, the bathroom vanity still held traces of yesterday’s dirt from my diggers’ splashing hands. Scrubbing and sweating up a storm, I suddenly stopped and looked in the mirror. What I am trying to do?  I asked myself. Who exactly am I trying to impress? You see, the person coming to my home was my former roommate—that person I shared a bathroom and bedroom with for four years. We had scrubbed and swept together. We had seen each other’s dirt. Not just that, she was bringing her own four young sons over to play.

I finished wiping the sink and put away the cleaning supplies. The monster left. I made a cup of tea and told my kids it was all right. It was all right. The house wasn’t spotless, but it would be just fine. It was. As my friend wisely pointed out, “If I waited until my house was clean to see people, I would never see anyone.” The seeing is what is most important. Our eight kids ran amuck slaying dragons and making birthday parties for stuffed bunnies while we shared tea and thoughts. We didn’t need an immaculate house. We just need a tidied corner of kitchen to sit down for a chat in a house that let our kids enjoy playing together.

We regularly host people—with children and without—in our house. We do our best to keep things tidy, but mostly, we try to make it comfortable and welcoming. We still fight clutter, but we have come to realize that atmosphere is mostly about attitude, about a host with a heart at peace. In the last minute visits of my childhood, I don’t remember my mom turning into a cleaning monster storming the Lego lands of the living room. You just cleaned the bowls, cleared the seats, and made sure the bathroom was decent. Love covers a multitude of sins, and I suspect that true hospitality hides a heap of imperfections. That’s likely why my memories are more about ice cream and laughter than messiness.

So friend, you’re welcome. Give me a call. The house may not be spotless, but if you give me 10 minutes, I’ll put the kettle on, make sure the underwear is in the hamper, and that one bathroom is wiped clean. There will be a comfy chair free for you. Better yet, as the days grow colder and we Minnesotans can’t share a playdate on that neutral plot of playground, invite someone into your own home. That other mom with toddlers and cabin fever? The mom and kids who just moved here? Invite her and her kids into your home—your busy and imperfect home. Share a cup of tea, share laughter over life, and share with her that loving invitation from Jesus: “Come.”