The Elephant in the Room
We owned a total of three pieces of furniture the day we moved into our home: a bed, our daughter’s crib, and a brand new dining table. Our family of three had been confined to two bedrooms in my husband’s childhood home for almost a year—the last few months of which were consumed with daydreams and longings for a place to call our own. A studio apartment with a card table smack dab in the middle of the “kitchen” started to sound like luxury. We called every fixer upper with leak stains on the ceiling and uneven floor boards ”charming”— even though we had no budget to fix things like that. As long as it was ours, I would go anywhere.
It’s a story for another time, but we ended up in a home beyond our grandest expectations. On our first night there, we settled in our bed—hearts swirling with gratitude and joy—and marveled that this place was our home. We now had more bedrooms than we had bodies at the time, a kitchen filled with white cabinets and granite countertops, and a huge front yard for gathering. Undeniably, we did not deserve this, and we knew that down to our bones.
However, when I wake the next morning, all I feel is emptiness. All I see is emptiness. Our home had become a manifestation of my very soul. Now I had another longing to replace my last–furniture (which we had zero money for). I was once again not satisfied.
I waddled downstairs and plopped my pregnant self onto the cool tile floor next to my husband, where a couch should have been. We sat in silence, tears pooling at the corner of my eyes, as my husband scarfed down his bowl of cereal. The sound of his chewing echoed through our (mostly) empty house, and I cried.
What in the World is Meatloaf Mix?
A few months after moving in, we decided to have a dinner party for the volunteers from church.
“I’m going to cook the entire meal from scratch,” I confidently insisted to my husband.
He looked at me hesitantly. I’ll admit—I’m not much of a chef; if anything, I’m an aspiring one. We knew there was potential for things to go horribly wrong. But cooking is an act of love, and I wanted our volunteers to feel how special they were to us. Plus, I had a trusted cookbook that never steered me wrong.
With a plan to make lasagna (which I had never made in my entire life), I headed to the store with my shopping list in tow.
3 onions
18 garlic cloves
3 pounds of meatloaf mix…
“What in the world is meatloaf mix?”
A quick Google search informed me that meatloaf mix comes in small 1.5 oz packets and could be found on aisle 5.
I did some quick math in my head and calculated that I would need roughly 24 packets of this “meatloaf mix” (math was never my strength). How absurd, I thought, as I dumped loads of them in my cart. This has to be some kind of freeze dried meat or something like that. Either way, the cookbook knows best.
As I went through the checkout line the clerk asked what I was planning to make with these meatloaf packets. “Lasagna,” I explained. He stared at me quizzically, “Where’s the meat?”. I chuckled under my breath. This guy doesn’t know.
The morning of the party I woke up before the sun to start cooking. Step number one: brown the meat.
I tore open the first packet and sprinkled its contents onto the pan. Hmm, it was already brown.
Long story short, I learned a valuable cooking tip that I’m happy to pass along to you: meatloaf mix, in packet form, is simply meatloaf seasoning—a mixture of basil, onion powder, garlic powder, and ground mustard. In other words: there is no meat in meatloaf mix. Also, here’s another pro tip for you: always read what’s in the parentheses: “meatloaf mix (or if your store doesn’t carry this, get a mixture of ground beef, pork, and veal).”
All that to say, I eventually made a killer lasagna, but no one really noticed the food. We spent the evening recounting stories of God’s kindness throughout that year, encouraged each other for what we saw God doing in one another’s life, and laughed hysterically as we came up with all the different options for what I could possibly do with 24 packets of meatloaf mix.
I Can’t Get No Satisfaction
Our home quickly became filled with a mishmash of hand-me-downs. We found the perfect gray couch on Craig’s List (the kind that sucks you in and makes it almost impossible to stand back up again, optimal for napping) and a big leather chair passed on from a good friend, placed in the ideal spot for curling up and opening a good book. We got nightstands and entryway tables from parents and, as a little luxury, we bought a used upright piano that happened to fit perfectly under the awkward overhang under the stairs.
But, as it turns out, I was still left wanting. Now there was a new JoAnna Gaines line at Target with an assortment of items that promised to keep every dining table on trend with the changing seasons and YouTube videos on how to install your own shiplap. There is always more to want.
When Strangers Become Family
Did you know, if you lived between the second and sixteenth century, Christian or not, and decided to go on a journey (which was very common ba
ck then), you would spend your days scanning the horizon for one thing—the church. The church in that day was a home, a respite for weary travelers and lonesome foreigners. It was part of the rule of life for Christians to welcome strangers as desired guests, and everyone knew it. Their tables were full, their beds occupied, and their homes busy in the best way.
My husband and I wanted that to be true of us, and of our home.
The weeks before we moved into our home, my husband and I prayed our neighbors would receive us with open arms. We prayed God would equip us and our home to be a respite for others. That this home would serve as a beacon of light in a dark place.
What started as a simple wave across the street or a brief conversation at the mailbox quickly turned into late nights on the porch and taco Tuesdays on the front lawn.
None of our neighbors are similar. We have an ex-drummer from a famous rock band and a pastor, a cop and a local business owner, working moms and homeschool moms, Christians, agnostics, atheists, and who-knows-ists. But there is something about sitting around a table together, eating comfort food that reminds you of childhood, and fixing each other’s leaky faucets that breaks down a host of barriers.
Now, holidays, birthdays, long hard work days, crazy kid days, and sad days are never spent without each other. We congregate on front lawns and backyards and street corners and dinner tables and share life together in deep and pervasive ways.
This home, the one that once felt so empty, is now overflowing with abundance.
The Very Worst Day
“We’re headed home” the text lit up on my screen.
My stomach sunk as I braced myself for what was next. I scooped our friend’s son up in my arms, knowing his whole life had just changed, and he had no idea. My husband had been with his parents at the hospital all day. His three month old brother had stopped breathing in his sleep. He didn’t make it.
We sobbed and sat in silence and curled up in balls on the couch— shattered and shaken. Our home turned into a trauma center overnight as a steady stream of mourners came in and out of our front door all weekend long. We pushed the living room furniture to the side and filled the room with folding chairs. We heated up frozen lasagna but no one had the stomach to eat. We cried. We hugged. We sang. We prayed. We questioned God. We rehearsed what we’ve read in the Bible and clung desperately to those words with a white knuckle grip as we confessed how hard they were to believe. We begged God to help us see him more clearly.
These walls became a safe-haven for the weary and broken overnight, and we were all reminded how deeply precious this one single life is.
If These Walls Could Talk
If these walls could talk, you’d hear of countless nights where the conversation lasted way past my bedtime. You’d hear many ways those late nights made their imprint on the following days, insisting I never forget how precious sleep is again. You’d also hear how the cost was always worth it.
You’d hear how strangers became friends and friends became family. You’d hear how often our house gets filled with a lot of kids (it can feel a bit like a scene from Cheaper by the Dozen around here). If these walls could talk, you’d know I feel exposed when a friend spontaneously drops in and finds my house a mess, even though I pretend like I don’t care. You’d also know how often, however exposed I feel, I find myself a little more known and deeply loved when they leave.
You’d hear of mediocre meals that I labored over for hours and occasionally delicious ones that have me scratching my head trying to figure out what I did right. You’d also hear of the many times I just defaulted to frozen lasagna. You can never go wrong with frozen lasagna. You’d hear of the times I tried so hard to be perfect and missed out on being present or the many ways I got so caught up in entertaining that I forgot the whole point—that this house was not meant to be a stage for me but a respite for others, a place where someone leaves feeling a little less alone. If these walls could talk you’d hear stories of nights when the dishes piled high and my legs ached and my eyes were heavy, but my heart was full.
These walls would tell you that what I was searching for all along is right here: in people around a table and dirty dishes in the sink and the smell of taco seasoning from the front yard and a cozy blanket around the shoulders of a desperate friend. They would tell you I never lacked a thing, and that God’s been up to something good here all along.
Thanks for sharing this Alyssa ❤️ so beautiful