So Chris and I are living out of boxes. Boxes on boxes in rooms closed away so we pretend we don’t see them.
We moved about two months ago. And still, there are boxes.
It may sound crazy, but this is our life. We are busy and we are full. I say “no” to plenty, and I’m pretty in tune with my boundaries, but this is still our crazy, living-outta-boxes life.
It’s easy to feel bad about the state of our house, like that there’s still painter’s tape up in our living room. It’s easy to feel bad, because I do feel bad. But then I think about our busy and full life, and I am content.
We’ve traveled to see loved ones, we’ve hosted others (even if the space is undone), we’ve made small dinners, we’ve worked hard and seen fruits of all our relational and occupational labor.
I guess I hope this house is known for being full of love, more so than the nice things that may fill it. I hope this house is known for how it makes me people feel comfortable, not nervous or– God-forbid– inferior. I hope this house is always a reflection of Chris and my chaotic and strange life of love and relationships.
This is our house. Come by when you can. We love having our friends over way more than we love books on shelves, and office supplies in filing cabinets.