The Beauty of a Lived In House
“Come in,” Julie invited.
I hadn’t planned to stay, or even step past the welcome mat. This was purely a stop, drop, and run kind of errand. Well, okay, more like a stop, wrestle the big, bulky infant ExerSaucer I no longer needed and couldn’t remember how to collapse out of our Nissan Quest, and drag it to the door kind of mission. But otherwise, I’d intended to make it quick.
You see, we were in the process of uprooting our lives from the purple mountains majesty of the Colorado Rockies to the windblown suburbs of Chicago. In less than two weeks, we’d bid farewell to a season that hadn’t lasted as long as we’d hoped.
Yet, as I weighed Julie’s invitation against my to-do list, suddenly packing the linen closet didn’t seem so pressing. There was something about her — a woman I’d met only once before — that made me want to come in.
As I set my coat and keys down in the entryway, I surveyed my new surroundings. Rich wall colors complemented by neutral, shabby chic furniture greeted me. It was clear that careful planning had gone into the framing and hanging of pictures and wall ornaments. The house exuded warmth — just like Julie.
But that wasn’t all I noticed. While it was beautifully decorated, it was also “lived in.”
Sleeping bags and pillows lay strewn across the living room floor, indicators of a previous night’s sleep over; I could almost hear the little girl giggles and secret-telling that took place. Breakfast dishes lingered in the sink. Piles of children’s books sat in a corner. Here and there a doll or a truck lay where playtime took a pause.
And you know what I felt? At ease.
[Read the rest of the article at iBelieve.]