After a particularly trying morning of running errands (rain, grumpy people, chaos and disorder, general errand annoyance), I unlocked the back door and set Hazel down over the baby gate so I could disrobe from the layers of sopping clothes that were chilling me to the bone (hello, April).
The moment her tiny wellies hit the floor, she toddled over to her little pink anywhere chair, sat down, and let out a sigh. This not-yet-two-year-old had taken in the chaos of the world around her and found respite the moment she felt she was home.
I started thinking about how every time we walk through the door of our home, it should truly feel like coming home. Into warmth from the cold, calm from the chaos, peace from the battle. I’m often flustered and distracted, flinging open the old, stuck door, rushing inside with bags and babies dangling from my arms. I take one look at the heap of junk awaiting a Goodwill drop-off, the half-dead plant that once symbolized our marriage unity, but is (unsymbolically) dying, the crooked floor runner, and a dozen pairs of wellies and Chacos, and sometimes it doesn’t feel like respite.
So my goal this week is to get that hallway in tip-top shape, light candles more often, bake yummy things, fix the crooked rug, and breathe deeply every time I enter my home, my safe place, my respite. For it truly longs to welcome me well, if I can only receive it’s welcome.