Into A Real Home

"O you can keep your shoes on. I do anyways." Vicki welcomed us into her home through her garage door. My shoes were half-off already. The kitchen table had brownies and chips on it, as well as some empty glasses ready to be filled with water, lemonade, beer, or diet soda. I would not say their house was perfectly clean. Instead I felt as if I was walking into my own home*. We gradually found seats in the living room, one at a time, as the kids went downstairs to play.

I love our time as a small group, getting together to see one another, to be with one another, to ask one another questions and to listen. At some point we open scripture and ask what we have been noticing in our reading. This fall we've been reading through the New Testament together and this last week we have read a few of Paul's letters to early churches. I noticed that Paul keeps reminding them that Christ is all, that we are adopted by grace into God's family (and not by anything else we have
done), that we have died to sin and have been raised to life with Christ. It's almost like he's saying to the church, "Just relax in God's grace! Christ is enough and it is enough that he has welcomed you in." As we talk, it's like we all begin to sing in harmony as we encourage one another and sit in amazement of who God is. Sometimes there are hard questions and I love that we feel safe enough to voice them. Sometimes the kids come running up the stairs. We share our concerns and thanks and we pray for one another.

By the time we were done, the Tigers and Giants were at the bottom of the third inning so we refilled our beers, got some more chips and hung around for a few innings. Gradually couples left for home with hugs, prayers, and see-you-soons. Nights like tonight give me a taste of God's kingdom. To be welcomed, to be included, to be invited in as a family member into a real home, to not have to pretend to be somebody else, to belong in community, to be known, to be accepted, this is grace to me. It tugs on something deep within me that gasps, sobs and cries out for heaven on earth like a kid who has lost his way home. To be honest I didn't want to leave.



*I have been the guest in many homes. My family has hosted many people in our home. We all know what it's like to be both guests and hosts. As a guest, isn't it so comforting to walk into a home that is a little rough around the edges? It puts you at ease that you don't have to come in as a put-together guest. It also helps you identify with that person, "oh, you leave your laundry on the floor of your bedroom too? I guess I'm normal". And on the other hand, as a host, isn't it so much easier to allow people to come into your home just how it is, to not have to put on a facade, to let go of the fear that you won't be seen as perfect? 
I remember being welcomed into my pastor's home in El Cajon, CA. He has five young and very active kids, but he was happy to invite us over for dinner. Kids were jumping around, toys were strewn about the small house and dishes were in the sink. But as I saw this father love his kids and how much these kids loved their dad, I remember noting how peaceful this house seemed. There is no judgement against a house of love.