This weekend some of my oldest and dearest friends came in from out of town and stayed with us for a few days. It was an absolutely lovely time: we hadn’t been able to see them in quite a while, and they were finally able to meet Michael.

All of us are introverts, so it was a delightfully relaxing and quiet weekend. We sat and talked, and read, and ate, and made new cocktails, and knit and crocheted, and sat outside in the sunlight, and stayed up too late laughing over silly movies.

A small part of me had been nervous hosting guests for the first time in our new house. I knew there was no way we would be fully unpacked (especially with a nine month old whose new trick is pulling things out of drawers). I had no idea where a third of our stuff was. Things would be messy. Dishes mismatched. Meals simple. Boxes stacked in closets.

But the rest of me knew that didn’t really matter. Not only are these some of my oldest and closest friends, but there’s something about hospitality hallows a place and makes it into a home. Making others food and eating at the same table, playing with each other’s kids, laughing late into the night, sleeping under the same roof and waking bleary-eyed, sharing coffee and sitting in pjs with rumpled hair: together they make a magic that sinks into walls and floors and IKEA furniture and transforms them into a home.

When they drove away, our home felt more like a home than it had before.

When we sat around my kitchen table, I was reminded of the ways homes and hospitality have transformed my life. Our kitchen table is a loved hand-me-down from my parents that was in our old house. I remember my siblings’ high chairs crowded around it, eating dinner as a family when my Dad came home from work. I remember my childhood friends joining us for dinner too, we kids ate from mismatched cartoon character dishes.

And as I looked at the people sitting around my table this weekend, I was brought back to the weekly Friday night dinners I grew up with, hosted by these friends we consider family. They were foundational to my childhood: sitting around a crowded table, piano bench and folding chairs added to make enough seats for all. The smell of the barbecue, paper plates, terrible puns, the sound of wind chimes through the open patio door, children laughing; adults talking.

Now we live far away, and many things have changed since those Friday nights of my childhood. It’s a bittersweet feeling: looking around my own home and realizing it’s my turn now. It’s time for me to make my table the one crowded with friends and family. It’s time for me to make my home the same sort of place I cherished as a child. It’s time to open it to others, in spite of its flaws and messes.

It’s not unpacked boxes or clean floors or fancy meals or perfect aesthetic that make a home. It’s the Friday night dinners: the simple food, the memories, the people, the prayers, and the love.

Postscript: I would like to end with a prayer request: my grandmother is in the hospital fighting an infection, and has been pretty sick for the last two weeks. Please pray she recovers well and is able to come home soon!