Two bedrooms and one bathroom makes long streams of more-than-overnight company an interesting experience for the Preacher and me. We've had almost nine weeks of such experiences since June.
Long-stay guest visits always mold me into someone different; someone more flexible, less selfish, more loving. God knows I need that.
As I reassemble the house after each visitor leaves, I review the blessings. The joy of sharing meals, of tea on the front deck and BBQ's on the back. Of revisiting old memories and discussing new books. Of walks in the country (fresh snow this time!) and conversations in the kitchen. Of the suspension of ordinary life and the submersion into "company time."
Two batches left today; rolled out the driveway twelve hours apart. We shared a beautiful time. Nevertheless, I was ready. Hope House is just perfect for two.
But I hurt. Felt like my empty house personified. Who hung that "Vacancy" sign on my heart, anyway?
As I stripped sheets, folded up the playpen and let the air out of the mattress in the family room, I resisted the temptation to dull the ache with music or a movie. They'll be back, I told myself as I tidied up the toys, rearranged the furniture, put away the guests' coffee tray and ate the uneaten chocolate pretzels put out for their pleasure. (They didn't help.)
Sorrow is better than mirth, the book of Proverbs suggests. Laughter seldom causes reflection, but a hollow sensation haunting one's heart begs to be probed. So tonight in the passing wake of a full house and the present state of a much quieter one, I sat on a chartreuse flip chair and prayed for perspective.
A Facebook friend posted a comment tonight: "My house is still under reno's it's nowhere being perfect, but I'm beyond caring about whether it is or not. I just want to enjoy my gift of hospitality again!"
She knows it too: empty houses, no matter how beautifully decorated, hurt. My heart-gap reminds me that I have loved - and someone loved back. It proves that banishing selfishness brings joy. It points to the high calling of investing time and treasure in other lives. It whispers that life is fullest when we connect deeply with others. And it nudges me to remember that God gives us homes to share the "enough" we have there: enough food, enough room, enough time, enough love - bright flickers in a dimming world.
The pangs of separation after beloved company leaves are a just cost for an irreplaceable blessing. But for Christ-followers they're something more. Standing at the door, fighting back tears as we wave farewell makes us heaven-hungry - because we know that when we get there, good-byes will be unnecessary. (Not to mention that beds won't have to be blown up or folded down.)
Got a home? Share it, even if it hurts.
