Have I told you about our home? That it’s ours, but it isn’t?
We take in people. It's what we do. But it’s not because we’re good people; that’s a silly thing to say about us, and now it’s my pet peeve to hear it. We do it because of sound advice from someone immeasurably wiser: Do not say to your neighbor, “Come back tomorrow and I’ll give it to you” when you already have it with you.
As it turns out, it’s today, and we already have our house with us.
Also today, we’re at capacity. No need to share the names of our residents or tell their stories here, but all of our rooms are full, and we have a wait list. I’m worried the one who’s next—slated to arrive on April 30 from Guinea, Africa—will have to sleep on an air mattress for weeks if there’s no vacancy before then, but we’ll figure it out.
I observe the dwellers coming and going through their days under our roof. Countless evenings, I’m drawn to our kitchen island where they gather in various combinations and discuss anything. Last night, one of them said life was all about going from one waiting room to the next.
“Hopefully there are snacks in the waiting room,” another one chimed in.
Layers of meaning and fodder for sermons followed. Sometimes I listen and am nourished by it or I’m concerned and pray about it. And plenty of times I just say, “This is all lovely and everything, but I can’t do it. I’m going to bed.” And I go.
I see the residents dealing with post-surgery challenges, new jobs, emergency room trips, travel visa plans, job application rejections, and news of deaths. A newborn lived here with her mama once, and a toddler lives here with her parents now. And in the past two years at our place, three romantic relationships have turned into engagements.
What I didn’t know when we began our open house was that we might benefit. It wasn’t our plan to hear funny stories or join impromptu movie and game nights or get invites to other people's home cooked dinners in our kitchen. But what I really didn’t expect were the constant flowers—flowers from fiancés to fiancées, from Husband to me, from friends to friends, from neighbors to all of us. I don’t always know how the bouquets get here, but does it matter? Vases packed with blooms, spilling color and fragrance into our shared space, end up on the kitchen island all the same.
But of course they do.
*Has My Blonde Life inspired or entertained you? If you wish to toss a tip into my writerly coffers, here's how you can do it: @Tamara-Schierkolk (Venmo), @TamaraSchierkolk (PayPal), or $TamaraSchierkolk (Cash App)
*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka and their husbands (present and future), Snipp, Snapp, and Snurr.