I had a friend tell me recently that she was embarrassed to have me over because her house was a wreck.
It broke my heart, truthfully, and not because her house was a wreck, not even because she felt embarrassed, but because I have not made it abundantly clear that messes do not scare me.
I know, all too well, the pressure as wife, and mother, and homemaker to keep everything perfectly in line.
Along with the debilitating guilt and the incessant, compulsive reaction to apologize, when alas, we cannot.
I had another friend tell me that she was intimidated to reach out because my “house is always clean and cute and in order,” and it was all that I could do not to laugh in her face. Anybody who frequents my house will tell you that my house is rarely what is seen of it online.
I do aspire for a clean and orderly home because I feel closest to God when I am serving in my own household, and the Lord and my husband know all too well that I love to decorate.
Let me say again, however, that messes do not scare me.
I don’t want to be the friend that you wait to call until the house is clean, and the bills are paid, and your hair is washed. I want to be the friend you call when there are more dishes than countertop.
I want to be the friend you call when life is expensive and you don’t have the funds to leave the house or the ambition to leave the couch.
I want to be the friend you call in those lonely, long-houred, in-between times in life.
I want to sit with you in the mediocrity and the mess, and talk about all the good times to come.
I am not a friend that needs entertained; and nothing about my life is intimidating.
Most of the time, I’m just surviving, myself.
If you need a mom-friend, or a wife-friend, or a God-friend, or just a friend—call me.
Messes do not scare me, I have plenty of my own, but know that I’ll meet you right in the middle of them, every time.