by I have these two people who mistakenly think they are guests in my home, when, actually, they are family. It’s a long, pandemic-y winter break. Since Thanksgiving, our two sons have been living with us in a condo that is comfortable and spacious for two, but not four. When we downsized in early 2020 as our youngest finished up high school, we weren’t counting on a pandemic, or longer-than-expected winter breaks, or so much….togetherness.
For you extra-precious, cookie-baking moms still posting in January about the joy of having your birdies back in the nest and your chickens all home to roost for months, good for you. Meanwhile at our house, I love my kids, but they keep clogging the toilet and leaving wet clothes in the washer to mildew, and break time needs to be over. (I’m pretty sure my boys agree. As it turns out, I’m no peach to live with in tight quarters for an extended period of time, either.)
Today in my quiet time, I was very busy asking God to forgive other people’s sins, which is a dangerous road to travel because there’s often a mirror at the end. I was reading Psalm 36:7-9, “How priceless is your unfailing love, O God? People take refuge in the shadow of your wings. They feast on the abundance of your house; you give them drink from your river of delights. For with you is the fountain of life; to your light we see light.”
It sounds nice and lovely and generous, but given where I’m at right now, I zeroed in on “They feast on the abundance of your house,” and I started feeling resentful. This felt like the makings of a teachable moment that I could share with others, with me as the teacher of course, and them as the student. And then the Spirit reminded me that I’m not the homeowner in this passage. God is. That’s when the question came, “Are YOU still acting like a guest in the house of the Lord?” Not my kids. Not others. Me. The question is for me.
Decades ago, I was the interloping college student home for an extended break. My mom would treat me like a guest for about three days. She’d let me sleep late. She’d make all my favorite meals. She’d wait on me. But eventually, I had to stop shaking the cracker box and saying, “Mom, we’re out of Triskets.” She would stare at the dishwasher, still full of clean dishes waiting to be put away and say, “You are not a guest here. You’re family. This is your home, too. I need you to pitch in.” Eventually, I had to pick up a broom or toilet brush. If the house was dirty, it was up to me to clean it.
Sometimes, I still find myself expecting to be treated like a guest by God instead of a family member, especially when things are hard or awkward, uncomfortable or painful, or when my requests don’t feel heard or get answered when I want or the way I wanted.
A guest is allowed to sleep as long as they like. A guest overstaying their welcome gets a polite rap at the door, “Coffee’s ready. Are you joining us?” A family member who forgets their place gets the covers ripped off and a pan banged over their head, or at least that’s how it worked when I was growing up.
I’m a member of a family, a body with a job to do. I’m a partaker who participates, not a guest who consumes. Sometimes I forget.
If I plan to stay longer than three days, then I will have to pick up a broom, or a cross. If I want to rise with Christ, follow Him and live with Him, then I have to move beyond enjoying the feasting to doing chores and sometimes enduring waiting or suffering.
A guest sits in the front parlor where furniture is dusted and pillows are arranged, where pleasant conversation happens and everyone puts on their best party faces and polite behavior. A guest shows up just in time for Christmas Eve dinner to be served, (bearing pie, if they’re polite). They awake again on Christmas morning in time for cinnamon rolls and presents.
Family members stay long after Christmas wrapping is cleared away and the cinnamon rolls are gone. They’re there on mundane days and work days, waiting days and sorrowful days. Family members share in the dirty work of running a home. They have access to messy closets and bedside conversations where ugly cries and open wounds are shared.
I often need reminding that I am not a guest in the house of the Lord. I am a follower, a member of the family. I should not be surprised or disappointed when I find myself waiting, or in the middle of a really awkward conversation or when I’m told to pick up my broom, or my cross, and keep following even when it’s inconvenient or painful. I am a partaker, not a consumer, and I am here for all of it.
Featured image by Jan Kopřiva on Unsplash