The Most Beautiful Kind Of Home
Lately I’ve retreated a bit. I took a month off of social media in August and still haven’t re-downloaded the apps. I feel an inward pull toward the home—schooling Cyrus, growing a garden, baking bread, all things Laura Ingles would approve of. I’ve intentionally made my world smaller, quieter as of late. The Fall fills up quickly with co-op and Cub Scout meetings and all of the things, but every day seems to be countdown to Friday, a day of cleaning and baking and prepping for the sabbath.
I’ve been putting worship music on while I clean or fold laundry to make the work less monotonous and more peaceful. I recently pulled out the dusty tub of holiday decorations (a jumbled mess of ornaments and plastic pumpkins because the small nook under our stairs only holds room for one box). In the mornings, we’ve been taking Birdie for walks, the boys setting the pace with River rushing ahead and Cyrus meandering 50 yards behind. He stops often to pick up bird feathers (a habit that is probably unsanitary but I don’t really care because I’m learning so much from taking life at his pace).
This picture I’ve painted feels very romanticized coming out, and some days it is—ushering in Fall in a cozy little home with slow rhythms that carry us throughout the week. But many days it is a patchwork quilt of struggles and imperfections. The boys argue and the tasks often feel thankless and never-ending. And all the baking is starting to show in unflattering places. I get weary and lonely and I worry about my oldest having enough friends and fitting in with his peers. I wonder if I’m doing enough to love the weary world from my little spot on the couch or in the playroom.
I look around at this small sanctuary we’ve created and I think it’s perhaps my favorite spot on earth. It’s beautiful and safe and lovely. And mostly it’s filled with my favorite humans. I remind myself often that I’m doing important work, even on my worst days. Even still, I’m tending to a garden that may not bear fruit for years to come, and that idea feels very daunting and uncertain. We won’t know for an extended season what tactics proved most effective and which ones fell short. I can’t tell you how many times a day I have the thought “will my child be recalling this moment in therapy one day?”
The most beautiful kind of home, I believe, has nothing to do with the decor or the furniture and everything to do with the culture we are creating.
The most beautiful kind of home, I believe, has nothing to do with the decor or the furniture and everything to do with the culture we are creating. Is it a safe place to learn and grow and make mistakes? Am I quick to own up to my downfalls and ask forgiveness? Am I sharing it with outsiders and others longing for a seat at the table? Are worship and prayer and time in the Word woven into day to day rhythms so my boys begin to see them as staples synonymous with eating and breathing?
We don’t get to see the outcome. There’s no picture on the cover of how our kids will turn out with a little nurturing and love when we bring them home from the hospital. It is up to us to decide how and when to water the seeds and trust that God is doing a work in our weakness. It’s not beautiful because it’s fancy or perfect or aesthetically pleasing in tiny squares on Instagram. It’s beautiful because it’s real. It’s our life and it doesn’t have to be perfect to be fruitful. It’s beautiful because it matters.
