Recently I received an inquiry from a reader. It read:
Dear Jeane`
I noticed your title is “An Open Door” and I’m wondering how (especially with a busy houseful of small children) do you live with an “open door” and stay sane? Are both you and your husband that way? If I’m honest, it’s really hard for me to just drop everything and welcome people into my craziness, even when it’s planned, but especially when it’s not. Please advise.
Sincerely,
HAZEL HOSTNOT
Laurel, PA
{Being one who likes to make sure that everyone’s included in the conversation, I will now share my response.}
Dear HAZEL,
Thank you for your inquiry. As it so happens the title of my section of Neighborlies is only reflective of my style of writing, which is one that invites the reader to a realistic peek into my world. My pride would like
to suggest that the figurative seamlessly carries over to the literal, but alas, it goes against my code.
You posed two questions: How do I live with “an open door?” and “are both you and your husband that way?”. The answer to both can be clearly seen in the telling of one event that is so recent, I am still feeling the effects of whiplash from my (not-so) inner jerk.
Last week during the height of a particularly crazy “full moon” time of day (the hours between 4-6pm), we received a call from a childhood friend of my husband. It was a surprise to hear his voice on the other end and even more, to discover he was not only back in the states on leave from his missionary post near the equator, but at that very moment, only 10 minutes from our house. He had his beloved elderly dad with him who we also had not seen in years, and was wondering if he could swing by to say hello to my husband.
As children were racing by me with all forms of outdoor sports equipment in their hands, dinner was waiting to be made on the counter and swim lessons less than an hour away, I could hear the conflicting message my voice and words sent out. {In the sweetest, most gentlest tone I could muster} “Oh how wonderful! I know Curt would love to see you, I just…hmmm…he’s in his office on a call right now, and as you can hear {shrieking children asking for bandaids/dinner/easter candy in the background} it's a little crazy right now and honestly, we are getting ready to eat a quick bite and get to swimming lessons…hmm...but you’re so close and it’s been so long, just stop in and I will let him know you’ll be pulling in within…what’s that? Five minutes? Ok. Great. Thanks for the call. See you in a bit!”
I hung up the phone and with it, my sweet tone. I marched outside, furiously scribbling on a notepad a message to my husband who was behind his locked office door, located in the barn behind our house to take an important business call. As I stood outside the window that hangs above his desk, harried, sweating and holding up a message in a mean scribble, I held up two fingers, zooming them in and out and then used them to slap the upper surface of my wrist to reinforce that time (2 minutes!) was of the essence. He gave me a cheerful "thumbs up" and I gave him a severe look that is reserved for women who have to communicate important things through a window and without a voice. All in all, I was a vision to behold.
My husband fancies himself a backyard farmer, and as such, proudly owns and wears a pair of deep indigo Dickies overalls. He was wearing them that day, as I vividly recall. The moment I spied the large swath of bright blue meandering through the back door, I made a bee line to convey in a verbal manner that this was not the time for a leisurely visit. I was already worried, because the man has a long and storied track record of being ridiculously nice at inconvenient times for me and my schedule. I tried to keep my inner school m'arm from surfacing prematurely, but all that needed to happen to get my five offspring fed and off to their pre-paid “How To Not Drown” lessons was riding on the line. The gentle farmer did nothing to allay my fears when, after listening to my quiet desperation said, “I hear you, it won’t be a long visit, but I’m not going to kick my childhood friend and his elderly father to the curb either”.
"I am not asking you to KICK anyone to the curb!", I replied with indignation at his insinuation. "I'm simply suggesting a pleasant "chat through the passenger window" could be the best visiting choice in this scenario is all." I know opposites often attract and that we are such a case. Still, I still never liked the feeling that I was the crabby old Miss Hannigan (sans the hangover and silk robe) and he was the meek and mild Mr. Rogers (sans blue sneakers and cable knit cardigan). It's not an easy or flattering road being married to someone perpetually nicer than yourself.
Next thing I knew, I was parting the lace curtains in the living room to witness "Fred" assisting the feeble senior whose appearance has a likeness to Santa Clause (and is every bit as kind and jolly) out of the car, onto our crooked sidewalks and up our banister-less stairs and finally onto a front porch rocker. I came out to make my (one) gracious appearance, embracing both father and son, apologizing for not being able to visit much myself since {everyweightofresponsibilityhasbeensuddenlyshiftedtome} I had to tend to the children in order to get them ready for their lessons.
In Christian circles, there are entire studies devoted to the story of two separate reactions to a very important Guest from sisters Mary and Martha. Mary is held up as the woman who stopped all that she was doing to absorb the presence of Jesus when he stopped by for a visit. Martha…poor Martha --who probably kept Jesus’ and Mary’s skulls from being whacked with stones while her kids played with their slingshots inside the hut—is cast as the shameful doer who didn’t take time to pause and savor. I wish to be like Mary, who is rightfully emulated for her priorities in the story, but I’ve got MARTHA coursing strong and true through my veins. In the midst of situations such as the one I was in, it is hard to remember-or even admire- Mary’s do-nothing virtue.
As I was trying to slap together sandwiches, pull all the swimwear pieces together for ease-of-changing and gather the children together to accomplish it all, I noticed the twins were missing. I ran to the back door and found one boy up to his knees in a mud pit he had just made. I came in, placed him at the sink and told him to wash himself. I then ran to the front door, swung it open to find the Dickie's clad Mr. Rogers still laughin’ and shootin’ the sweet breeze with jolly Old Saint Nick and his soft-spoken missionary son. I then noticed the other twin and his sister sitting on the far ledge of the porch, digging up mulch and throwing it back over their shoulders onto the porch as the big-hearted male trinity were waxing on about the good old days, watching the children creating a colossal mulchy mess.
Hell (ok, maybe Purgatory) hath no fury as a woman who is in a full-on bitchy old Martha mode but is trying her darndest to cop a Mary persona in front of the very nice people on her porch while privately conveying to Fred Rogers that it’s gonna be a very ugly day (and cold, cold night) in his neighborhood if he can’t wrap it up and HELP ME FOR THE LOVE OF GOD with the chaos happening in front of and behind the VERY CLOSED front door. {And can you NOT see your offspring right in front of you sprinkling dirt in the air and on their persons like it’s confetti?}.
I digress. Again.
45 minutes later, the kids were fed, changed, loaded into the van and I was beyond the point of speaking.
I had nothing to say to Mr. Rogers, and the lack of remorse on his face for loving his neighbor (in this case, by extending hospitality to a dear childhood friend and his father who were on a rare excursion nearby) nearly gave me the shakes. By day’s end, my breathing had resumed it’s regular pattern, the children yet again forgave their flustered mother and I (very) quietly acknowledged that there was far more virtue in putting people ahead of schedule as my kinder, gentler husband had done. I may have also told him - and not at all sarcastically- that I hope someday to grow up into a nice person like he is {ahem}.
How my better half and I define “an open door” is as different as we are (which is very). I love to think that I am a spontaneous hospitality-lovin' kinda person, but clearly, I am not. He is the person who will stop, drop and possibly roll for the people who God sends to our door at ANY given time…even when the harried hag is giving him the look of death with her beady big eyes from behind it. And so, dear Hazel, you will see that having a literal “Open Door” is not natural to me. I am yards, nay, I am MILES away from assuming a natural response of carefree “Oh, come on in” response. I’m not resigned, however, to stop learning how to love in the spontaneous moment just because I take after my sister, Martha. I think with an open will, mind and heart, I will someday learn to swing open the doors of my home, whether I'm ready or not.
PS. #1: I am just now realizing this is the second posting that centers around me being harried and me getting children into a van. Perhaps my issues are deeper than originally thought. Stay tuned for another piece in which I describe how calm and measured I am between the hours of 9pm-6:30am. No vans involved.
PS.#2: If any of our fine readers have another question in which they would like me to address, please send them to [email protected], including the pseudo name you would prefer. Thank you.
Dear Jeane`
I noticed your title is “An Open Door” and I’m wondering how (especially with a busy houseful of small children) do you live with an “open door” and stay sane? Are both you and your husband that way? If I’m honest, it’s really hard for me to just drop everything and welcome people into my craziness, even when it’s planned, but especially when it’s not. Please advise.
Sincerely,
HAZEL HOSTNOT
Laurel, PA
{Being one who likes to make sure that everyone’s included in the conversation, I will now share my response.}
Dear HAZEL,
Thank you for your inquiry. As it so happens the title of my section of Neighborlies is only reflective of my style of writing, which is one that invites the reader to a realistic peek into my world. My pride would like
to suggest that the figurative seamlessly carries over to the literal, but alas, it goes against my code.
You posed two questions: How do I live with “an open door?” and “are both you and your husband that way?”. The answer to both can be clearly seen in the telling of one event that is so recent, I am still feeling the effects of whiplash from my (not-so) inner jerk.
Last week during the height of a particularly crazy “full moon” time of day (the hours between 4-6pm), we received a call from a childhood friend of my husband. It was a surprise to hear his voice on the other end and even more, to discover he was not only back in the states on leave from his missionary post near the equator, but at that very moment, only 10 minutes from our house. He had his beloved elderly dad with him who we also had not seen in years, and was wondering if he could swing by to say hello to my husband.
As children were racing by me with all forms of outdoor sports equipment in their hands, dinner was waiting to be made on the counter and swim lessons less than an hour away, I could hear the conflicting message my voice and words sent out. {In the sweetest, most gentlest tone I could muster} “Oh how wonderful! I know Curt would love to see you, I just…hmmm…he’s in his office on a call right now, and as you can hear {shrieking children asking for bandaids/dinner/easter candy in the background} it's a little crazy right now and honestly, we are getting ready to eat a quick bite and get to swimming lessons…hmm...but you’re so close and it’s been so long, just stop in and I will let him know you’ll be pulling in within…what’s that? Five minutes? Ok. Great. Thanks for the call. See you in a bit!”
I hung up the phone and with it, my sweet tone. I marched outside, furiously scribbling on a notepad a message to my husband who was behind his locked office door, located in the barn behind our house to take an important business call. As I stood outside the window that hangs above his desk, harried, sweating and holding up a message in a mean scribble, I held up two fingers, zooming them in and out and then used them to slap the upper surface of my wrist to reinforce that time (2 minutes!) was of the essence. He gave me a cheerful "thumbs up" and I gave him a severe look that is reserved for women who have to communicate important things through a window and without a voice. All in all, I was a vision to behold.
My husband fancies himself a backyard farmer, and as such, proudly owns and wears a pair of deep indigo Dickies overalls. He was wearing them that day, as I vividly recall. The moment I spied the large swath of bright blue meandering through the back door, I made a bee line to convey in a verbal manner that this was not the time for a leisurely visit. I was already worried, because the man has a long and storied track record of being ridiculously nice at inconvenient times for me and my schedule. I tried to keep my inner school m'arm from surfacing prematurely, but all that needed to happen to get my five offspring fed and off to their pre-paid “How To Not Drown” lessons was riding on the line. The gentle farmer did nothing to allay my fears when, after listening to my quiet desperation said, “I hear you, it won’t be a long visit, but I’m not going to kick my childhood friend and his elderly father to the curb either”.
"I am not asking you to KICK anyone to the curb!", I replied with indignation at his insinuation. "I'm simply suggesting a pleasant "chat through the passenger window" could be the best visiting choice in this scenario is all." I know opposites often attract and that we are such a case. Still, I still never liked the feeling that I was the crabby old Miss Hannigan (sans the hangover and silk robe) and he was the meek and mild Mr. Rogers (sans blue sneakers and cable knit cardigan). It's not an easy or flattering road being married to someone perpetually nicer than yourself.
Next thing I knew, I was parting the lace curtains in the living room to witness "Fred" assisting the feeble senior whose appearance has a likeness to Santa Clause (and is every bit as kind and jolly) out of the car, onto our crooked sidewalks and up our banister-less stairs and finally onto a front porch rocker. I came out to make my (one) gracious appearance, embracing both father and son, apologizing for not being able to visit much myself since {everyweightofresponsibilityhasbeensuddenlyshiftedtome} I had to tend to the children in order to get them ready for their lessons.
In Christian circles, there are entire studies devoted to the story of two separate reactions to a very important Guest from sisters Mary and Martha. Mary is held up as the woman who stopped all that she was doing to absorb the presence of Jesus when he stopped by for a visit. Martha…poor Martha --who probably kept Jesus’ and Mary’s skulls from being whacked with stones while her kids played with their slingshots inside the hut—is cast as the shameful doer who didn’t take time to pause and savor. I wish to be like Mary, who is rightfully emulated for her priorities in the story, but I’ve got MARTHA coursing strong and true through my veins. In the midst of situations such as the one I was in, it is hard to remember-or even admire- Mary’s do-nothing virtue.
As I was trying to slap together sandwiches, pull all the swimwear pieces together for ease-of-changing and gather the children together to accomplish it all, I noticed the twins were missing. I ran to the back door and found one boy up to his knees in a mud pit he had just made. I came in, placed him at the sink and told him to wash himself. I then ran to the front door, swung it open to find the Dickie's clad Mr. Rogers still laughin’ and shootin’ the sweet breeze with jolly Old Saint Nick and his soft-spoken missionary son. I then noticed the other twin and his sister sitting on the far ledge of the porch, digging up mulch and throwing it back over their shoulders onto the porch as the big-hearted male trinity were waxing on about the good old days, watching the children creating a colossal mulchy mess.
Hell (ok, maybe Purgatory) hath no fury as a woman who is in a full-on bitchy old Martha mode but is trying her darndest to cop a Mary persona in front of the very nice people on her porch while privately conveying to Fred Rogers that it’s gonna be a very ugly day (and cold, cold night) in his neighborhood if he can’t wrap it up and HELP ME FOR THE LOVE OF GOD with the chaos happening in front of and behind the VERY CLOSED front door. {And can you NOT see your offspring right in front of you sprinkling dirt in the air and on their persons like it’s confetti?}.
I digress. Again.
45 minutes later, the kids were fed, changed, loaded into the van and I was beyond the point of speaking.
I had nothing to say to Mr. Rogers, and the lack of remorse on his face for loving his neighbor (in this case, by extending hospitality to a dear childhood friend and his father who were on a rare excursion nearby) nearly gave me the shakes. By day’s end, my breathing had resumed it’s regular pattern, the children yet again forgave their flustered mother and I (very) quietly acknowledged that there was far more virtue in putting people ahead of schedule as my kinder, gentler husband had done. I may have also told him - and not at all sarcastically- that I hope someday to grow up into a nice person like he is {ahem}.
How my better half and I define “an open door” is as different as we are (which is very). I love to think that I am a spontaneous hospitality-lovin' kinda person, but clearly, I am not. He is the person who will stop, drop and possibly roll for the people who God sends to our door at ANY given time…even when the harried hag is giving him the look of death with her beady big eyes from behind it. And so, dear Hazel, you will see that having a literal “Open Door” is not natural to me. I am yards, nay, I am MILES away from assuming a natural response of carefree “Oh, come on in” response. I’m not resigned, however, to stop learning how to love in the spontaneous moment just because I take after my sister, Martha. I think with an open will, mind and heart, I will someday learn to swing open the doors of my home, whether I'm ready or not.
PS. #1: I am just now realizing this is the second posting that centers around me being harried and me getting children into a van. Perhaps my issues are deeper than originally thought. Stay tuned for another piece in which I describe how calm and measured I am between the hours of 9pm-6:30am. No vans involved.
PS.#2: If any of our fine readers have another question in which they would like me to address, please send them to [email protected], including the pseudo name you would prefer. Thank you.
