Recently, both of my adult sons were home visiting, and within about 48 hours, I had the same thought I always have:
Why do these people think they’re guests in my house?
We started laughing about those long stretches when they were living with us during the pandemic—back when we had downsized into a condo that felt perfect for two, but very cramped for four.
We remembered the noise. The constant togetherness. The way the house always seemed just a little messier than it should be. And how, at some point, it started to feel like they thought they were guests…when, actually, they were family.
Honestly, not much has changed.
Even now, when they’re home for more than a few days, I’m reminded: I love my kids, but they still manage to clog the toilet and leave wet clothes in the washer to mildew, and at some point, break time needs to be over. (I’m pretty sure my boys would say the same about me. As it turns out, I’m no peach to live with in close quarters for an extended period of time, either.)
For you extra-precious, cookie-baking moms who revel in the joy of having your birdies back in the nest and your chickens all home to roost—and you cry when they leave—good for you.
Meanwhile, over here in my reality…
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;
in your light we see light.”
It sounds nice and lovely and generous, but since I was recently surrounded by a little too much togetherness with my adult children, I zeroed in on “They feast on the abundance of your house,” and I started to feel resentful.
This felt like the makings of a teachable moment I could share with others—with me as the teacher, of course, and them as the students.
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 Triscuits.”
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 a toilet brush. If the house was dirty, it was up to me to clean it.
Note to Self: I’m Not a Guest in God’s House
Sometimes, I still find myself expecting to be treated like a guest by God instead of a family member—whether that’s in my church family or in a wayward world where things aren’t going the way they should. When things are hard or awkward, uncomfortable or painful, or when my requests don’t feel heard or don’t get answered when I want or the way I wanted, I need to remember that I’m family—and I need to pitch in.
If something needs fixing, maybe I’m the one meant to fix it. Solve a problem, instead of complaining about it or making it worse. I’m not a guest. I’m family.
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?”
But a family member who forgets their place gets the covers ripped off and a wooden spoon banged against a pot held over their head—or at least that’s how it worked when I was growing up.
I’m a member of a family—God’s family. I’m a member of 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 the meal to be served (bearing pie, if they were raised right). They wake up in time for something warm, something sweet, something easy.
Family members stay long after the tabled is cleared and the sweetness is 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. I am not a guest in God’s house; I’m family, with all the benefits, and mess, that it brings.
And I am here for all of it.
