Love Grows Best in Little Houses

My dad stopped by my work this week.  He does this quite frequently. Sometimes I drop everything and chat with him and sometimes I busily and distractedly ignore him.

This week we actually talked. We chatted about homes and money and possessions. Specifically we chatted about “more.” My dad has lived in his 960 square foot house in a modest suburb for 37 years. He had the little house built in 1977 and I lived there with him and my mom for my first 18 years. I made lots of memories in that little house and in that little yard and that little driveway and that little neighborhood. I don’t remember thinking “man this house isn’t enough” growing up. Maybe I did and can’t remember. It was probably on a Sunday morning when all three of us were trying to get ready for church at the same time in our one bathroom. The same thing happens in my own small house, in my own modest neighborhood in our one small bathroom when all five us are trying to get ready at the same time on Sunday mornings. I am certain that I make more death threats and have more evil thoughts on Sunday morning before church than any other time of the week. It’s frustrating.

I watch HGTV, I do Pinterest, I follow home organization pages, I draw plans at home on how to make my house bigger and better and more efficient. I go through spells of house hunting. I drive my husband bonkers. Shoot, I drive me bonkers.

My dad said something the other day that stopped me in my tracks. It’s nothing that I haven’t heard from all sorts of places but on this particular day at this particular time, it was what I needed to hear. He said, “Angela (my step mom) and I would love to have a place out in the country somewhere. We’d love to have a place where we could spread out and the dog could run but at our age”…then he stopped and backtracked as if his dear younger wife was in the room listening and said, “Well Angela’s younger than I am but still...this place is paid for and we don’t have to worry about being in debt up to our eyeballs at our age with a mortgage.”

“Sure we’d love to have a bigger place,” he said.  “Who wouldn’t?” 

And this is where what he said completely resonated with me. 

“Sometimes you just have to stop wanting bigger and better and just be thankful for what God has blessed you with.”

Wow. Totally simple. Nothing I haven’t heard a thousand times before.

But profound for me at that moment nonetheless.

My little house is full of children and animals and Kool-Aid spills and muddy paws and dog hair and ponytail holders and dryer sheets (I swear those dryer sheets multiply in the dryer) but it’s busting at the seams with friends and family and laughter and love. And instead of constantly wishing I have a bigger house or a more extravagant vehicle or designer duds, I need to start being more grateful for what God has blessed me with. That doesn’t mean settling. Nope. The complete opposite actually. It means that I have so much to be grateful for and I need to stop being a brat and embrace it and savor every morsel of my little house and my modest neighborhood and my one bathroom and my LIFE.

(Ok, I’m never going to be satisfied with that one bathroom. What? I’m a girl.)