Tales from a Wannabe Hostess
I have always been drawn to the woman, or the story of a woman, who warms the hearts and fills the bellies of others through an invitation to their home and delicious food.
I did not grow up in such a home (sorry, mom!) We’d have the occasional birthday party or holiday meal, and those always had a special air about them, with lots of food, music, family and friends. But the rest of the year’s calendar was kind of dim in terms of having others over or enjoying a special meal together. We were more of an on-the-go Burger King kind of family.
Back then there was Martha Stewart. Now we have Joanna Gaines to look up to, so effortlessly creating a sense of warmth and welcome with her images of homes and easy meals, made with a little dash of something pulled from the garden that day. Kind of picturesque, and in all honesty, I want that kind of life!
I think most women know that as effortless as it looks on movies or magazine pages, it takes a pretty hefty load of effort, forethought, intentionality - and to do it all with a breezy attitude and a smile is, as I’ve come to find out, not my forte. Like, really not.
I’ve served weird soups that taste great but had a look and texture not unlike baby food. Not just once, either - just ask my friends (hi Minkies!) I’ve made stuffed peppers with beans so hard they’d crack a filling, even though I had gone the extra mile with dried beans instead of canned, and soaked them overnight as the directions said (this, as it turns out, was for a party of 15-20 people. I literally hid under a desk while people were crunching away.) John’s had more weird meals than he could shake a stick (or fork) at, but he rarely complains.
I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve imagined a grand and cohesive feast and come out with a conglomeration of clumsy dishes that I felt slightly embarrassed by, as if a middle-school me had tried to make them. Not to mention, I am almost always sweating profusely from all the hard (not effortless) work, and by the end of the whole ordeal, I’m burnt out. I don’t want to see a kitchen for days, let alone host! #breezy
Here’s the thing, though. I’m pulling the threads on something. I don’t feel the pressure that I have to be this picture-perfect ideal in my head. What I do see is a homely sort of life that is filled with treasures. I see an immense value in the heart and hands who devote their time and effort into quiet, unseen work so that the people in their home feel a sense of belonging, rest, and love. I see a value in the order of a functional home.
Ultimately I know the Holy Spirit makes a home like this, whether people know Him or not. I think maybe there is a special grace in discipline, too, of the person who works hard to prepare for blessing herself, her family, and anyone who comes in her door.
And listen, if I’ve learned anything in my almost 9 years of wife-ing (and before that, 6 years of adult independence) it’s that this all takes practice! For every 3 weird soups, there is one that is amazing. Every time I host and feel the familiar tizzy of frustration and desire to scrub the toilet again before everyone arrives, I relearn that inviting others into your imperfection is part of the deal, dust-bunnied corners, tooth-cracking beans, and all.
I honestly think there is something to our idealistic daydreams, too. May we not use them as rulers by which to measure ourselves, but as visions of opportunity to make a special memory, to invite others in, to share life. And if there’s a middle-schooler-level conglomeration of dishes there too, then well, there’s always next time to try again. Or order pizza.
Perfection is for the dogs. Warmth, trying something new, growing in skill, not taking myself too seriously, the vulnerability in inviting others in - now that’s the gold I’m really uncovering.
With love and holiday pies on the horizon,
Sam
