Dear 1325,
Thank you.
In the short time I have lived here, your walls have steeled their ears for the revolving door of 9 chattering girls who have called this place home. Your doorways have faithfully winced at every bump and bruise inflicted by the steady stream of moving furniture. And your floors have whispered “Good night” and “Good morning” to more houseguests than I can count.
And you have served well. In the midst of worry about transitions, anxiety about change, demands of ministry, and bumpiness of figuring out life with roommates, I have heard you give me this gentle invitation:
“My walls will grow and stretch. Will yours?”
Your walls have grown and stretched. Your fridge has always had enough room for all of us girls. Your doorways have always given enough privacy, and your doorways have always given enough welcome. Your floors have always been soft enough for sleeping for guests, and your table always long enough for hosting a party. Your walls have always kept things just the right enough of peaceful. Your walls and doors and windows and siding and shingles and floors seem to have always stretched and bowed and leaned enough in order to make space for clamor and chatter that is this home.
And in the same way, as I’ve tripped over my roommates at our too-small counter space in the kitchen; as I’ve convinced the washing machine to spin a load of towels after a house full of guests; as I’ve shared tears and caused tears and hugged over tears; as I’ve set the table for my favorite Baked-Oatmeal-And-Fruit-And-Yogurt-In-Pretty-Dishes-Breakfast-With-Friends; as I’ve been the one home after someone’s bad day or someone’s amazing day; as I have loved and bristled at roommates and loved and bemoaned life with people in general…
House, in the same way that your walls have stretched and grown, the walls of my heart have stretched and grown, too. They’ve creaked and groaned and whined as their too-small structure has been cajoled outward…but my heart-walls have grown, too.
They’ve grown and allowed Patience inside the door, with Compassion quickly trailing behind. Understanding is methodically making his way toward the entrance, but I think that Laughter has already sat down and crossed her legs at our table forevermore. The Hard Conversations are frequently around, but they usually bring Love into the living room, too, so it’s good. And Grace is a sweet new arrival who has been welcomed by Joy.
I am sure that God could have used some other entity to expand the too-small walls of my heart in all of these ways, but I am thankful that he chose you, 1325, a big rambling house, in which to do so much of this good growing work.
So thank you, 1325. Thank you for being a house big enough for people to clamor in by the bunches. Thank you for being a house that smiles kindly at my feeble attempts to cozy you into a home. Thank you for being patient and gracious and kind to me when I am sick of growing and stretching. And thank you for modeling day after day what it looks like to make space for people to grow and laugh and cry and argue and hopefully have their own inner walls stretched a bit.
You’re a good house. And I am thanking God for you and these walls tonight.
Love from my expanding walls to yours,
Amy
PS I'm sorry for destroying your nice paint so often. Think of it as a creative act of love?
Thank you.
In the short time I have lived here, your walls have steeled their ears for the revolving door of 9 chattering girls who have called this place home. Your doorways have faithfully winced at every bump and bruise inflicted by the steady stream of moving furniture. And your floors have whispered “Good night” and “Good morning” to more houseguests than I can count.
And you have served well. In the midst of worry about transitions, anxiety about change, demands of ministry, and bumpiness of figuring out life with roommates, I have heard you give me this gentle invitation:
“My walls will grow and stretch. Will yours?”
Your walls have grown and stretched. Your fridge has always had enough room for all of us girls. Your doorways have always given enough privacy, and your doorways have always given enough welcome. Your floors have always been soft enough for sleeping for guests, and your table always long enough for hosting a party. Your walls have always kept things just the right enough of peaceful. Your walls and doors and windows and siding and shingles and floors seem to have always stretched and bowed and leaned enough in order to make space for clamor and chatter that is this home.
And in the same way, as I’ve tripped over my roommates at our too-small counter space in the kitchen; as I’ve convinced the washing machine to spin a load of towels after a house full of guests; as I’ve shared tears and caused tears and hugged over tears; as I’ve set the table for my favorite Baked-Oatmeal-And-Fruit-And-Yogurt-In-Pretty-Dishes-Breakfast-With-Friends; as I’ve been the one home after someone’s bad day or someone’s amazing day; as I have loved and bristled at roommates and loved and bemoaned life with people in general…
House, in the same way that your walls have stretched and grown, the walls of my heart have stretched and grown, too. They’ve creaked and groaned and whined as their too-small structure has been cajoled outward…but my heart-walls have grown, too.
They’ve grown and allowed Patience inside the door, with Compassion quickly trailing behind. Understanding is methodically making his way toward the entrance, but I think that Laughter has already sat down and crossed her legs at our table forevermore. The Hard Conversations are frequently around, but they usually bring Love into the living room, too, so it’s good. And Grace is a sweet new arrival who has been welcomed by Joy.
I am sure that God could have used some other entity to expand the too-small walls of my heart in all of these ways, but I am thankful that he chose you, 1325, a big rambling house, in which to do so much of this good growing work.
So thank you, 1325. Thank you for being a house big enough for people to clamor in by the bunches. Thank you for being a house that smiles kindly at my feeble attempts to cozy you into a home. Thank you for being patient and gracious and kind to me when I am sick of growing and stretching. And thank you for modeling day after day what it looks like to make space for people to grow and laugh and cry and argue and hopefully have their own inner walls stretched a bit.
You’re a good house. And I am thanking God for you and these walls tonight.
Love from my expanding walls to yours,
Amy
PS I'm sorry for destroying your nice paint so often. Think of it as a creative act of love?