Could I Trouble You?

"As long as it's not any trouble."

That's what my friends say when I invite them over for lunch. When I ask them to stay the weekend.  When I offer to babysit their kids. When I volunteer to carpool.

When did "trouble" suddenly go out of fashion?

I used to love to visit my grandmother's house in Florida. She always went to so much trouble--a hot meal, a clean bed, and a fully stocked fridge in her garage. Maybe that's why her house was always my favorite. For all the trouble she went to, as a guest in her home, what spoke to me loudest was the humble way in which she said, "You're welcome here. I knew you were coming, and I'm glad you came."

There's familiarity in dust bunnies and paper plates and hand prints on the windows.

When I'm at my house.  Not when I'm at yours.

Call me crazy, but I just don't really like being a guest in somebody's home and and finding toothpaste in the sink or a half-eaten hot dog under the kitchen table. Truly, I find it quite disturbing.  It's sort of like discovering a dirty diaper on your kid. Sure. I have a kid, too, and I change diapers all the time.  But that soiled bottom is all yours. I'll wrinkle my nose at that funky smell because it's foreign to me. Unnatural. I sense that I need to do something about it, but I'm all awkward, and it makes me feel funny.

I never felt that way at Grandma's. I dropped my troubles at the door and basked in the aroma of fresh-baked bread, a cozy couch, and a warm bed. A bed that smelled of soap and sun and that beckoned sweet dreams. I doubt if Grandma felt like she was going to a whole lotta trouble when it came time for our visits. She just understood hospitality. Other families might hug or kiss to show how much they care, but mine's not very touchy-feely. Try to hug me, and I feel my shoulders tense up. In fact, we rarely even say "I love you." (But I'll save the commentary on those two things for another post). No, in our family, the way we show our affection is by going to some trouble.

"Mom, I forgot my Math homework." Her reply:  "I'll bring it to you."
"Dad, can you come to Parent's weekend...in Indiana?" His response:  "Absolutely."
"Grandma, we're leaving the beach a day early. Is it OK if we stay the night at your house?" Her reaction: "I'd be mad if you didn't!"

Would any of these examples be "trouble"? Sure.  But for all their trouble, that's how I felt love. Even today, that's how my family demonstrates their affection. Grandma now lives in an assisted living facility near my mom, and my great aunt (who has no immediate family nearby) lives there, as well. Certainly, my mom has gone to more trouble in an effort to care for them adequately than anyone anywhere should have to. Before they moved, she cleaned their apartments, measured their medications, and shuttled them to doctor's visits and weekly trips to the grocery store.   But she's done it. And done it well. That's just how we Adams roll. 

My polite Southern vernacular taught me to say, "It's no trouble at all!" But if I never go to any trouble, I'll miss out on an incredible opportunity to spread the hospitality that's also an inherent part of my stately Southern upbringing. When Jesus said, "Let your heart not be troubled," he followed it with the promise of an incredible place he's preparing in heaven just for you. And for me.  In the meantime, I hope that I can be like my grandma--maybe going to some trouble to manage my home in such a way that people feel welcome here. May my heart be so full of love that no matter what the day brings I can say, "I was expecting you, and I'm glad you came. Drop your troubles at the door, and come right in." After all, wasn't it Jesus who said, "each day has enough trouble of its own?"  (Matthew 6:34)

Your Story Begins With a Place

My shoes squished as we walked across the cemetery, and yet it had not rained.  It was almost as if the ground was moist because of the millions of tears that had fallen there.  Over the hill, another family mourned, and I imagined their tears joining ours, soaking the grass, spilling into that deep pit that is grief.  As my friends led the way back to the car, I followed with my head bowed.  Passing the headstones, I quickly scanned the litanies.  A mother who lost two babies within eighteen months of one another, small children whose parents left tokens of their love with the passing of each season, wives, husbands, sisters and brothers slept together in this soggy berth.  The heavy hearts of their legacies caused the earth to sink where they lay.  I thought of my friends.  This place had become their harbor.  Now, it's the anchor that will shape their character more than anything else.  They will go to the cemetery when they're feeling sad, when there's something to celebrate, and when there's nothing else to do but to "be".

I bet they used to have a different place, but the circumstances of an unforeseen fate have altered the landscape of life as they know it.  Beginnings and new beginnings are always hard.  Yet, in the midst of the joy (and the pain), there is a place.  It's a place where God dwells, "and they were calling to one another:  'Holy, holy, holy is the Lord Almighty; the whole earth is full of his glory.'" (Isaiah 6:3)

As a child, I had a place like that, too.  The woods behind my house invited me to play every single day.  There, I outlined treasure maps, buried my prized rock collection, climbed trees, built forts, and outwitted bullies.  In summer, the trees provided shade and privacy.  But fall was my favorite time of year.  Crunch, crunch.  That's the sound of a crisp, autumn day.  It's the sound of running, jumping, playing, and hiding.  I knew every tree, and I loved it there.  I peeled chunks of pine bark and wrote messages with its brown powder on our back patio.

Now, I'm all grown up, and my place is still those woods.  When I look out the window behind the home I now own, I see trees, but the warm memories they evoke are of the ones I tramped as a kid.  I watch my kids swing from the branches and climb as high as they can.  I remember doing that and thinking, "I'm king of the world!"  My heart smiles when I remember the conversations I had with myself as I walked among the trees.  There, God confirmed that I matter to him.

When I left for college, I traded the familiarity of my childhood backyard for concrete and buildings.  Coming home on an airplane, I loved the descent into Atlanta.  Even in winter, the pine trees stood proud and strong...and green.  Their limbs welcomed me with open arms.

I guess all stories begin with a place.  I wonder where my children's "place" will be?  Will it be our warm kitchen, gathered around the large farm table where we meet for meals and to discuss the minutiae of our days?  Will it be the rolling hills of the camp they attend?  Or the peaceful, sunny beach where we wile away the summers?

Life continues, and the plot unfolds over a landscape that changes with the seasons.  Youth gives way to adulthood, and soon old age chases it through a space-time continuum that's bumpy and winding.  It can be cold and unforgiving.  But there's always a place, a beautiful wonderful place that says, "Welcome home.  I'm glad you're here."