Next to the sink in the kids’ bathroom is a makeshift aquarium. Makeshift, because it’s actually the see-through, plastic part of a paper shredder our daughter bought for fifty cents from a neighbor’s yard sale. The kids ditched the paper shredder, turned the plastic container upside down, and filled it with water. Three plastic jellyfish are bobbing around inside. They’ve never been to Hawaii, and I suppose this is how they cope.
In the reflection of the “aquarium,” I see our daughter’s Frozen toothbrush, with little flecks of toothpaste still in the bristle and a faded smear covering Elsa and Anna. Across from the sink are three bottles of shampoo, each a blend of water and shampoo. (None of our kids seems to know how water got in there.)
I glance at the bathtub, and I wonder if there are more toys here than in the kids’ closets. Then again, maybe it saves us money on our water bill. (The tub fills up faster, right?)
Walking into my son’s room, I’ve got a 50/50 chance of my bare feet being assaulted by sharp lego pieces. That’s if I don’t trip over the cushions and blankets set up like a fort.
Meanwhile, our living room looks like a used miniature-car lot, and the bookshelf next to our television has become a miniature Nascar arena. That’s where our eighteen-month-old son plays with his matchbox cars, flanked by the hardcover spines of books by Billy Graham, Fyodor Dostoevsky, and G. K. Chesterton.
The kitchen table is for more than eating. During the day, it’s the magnet for all the kids’ schoolbooks and papers. Drawings from school, Gospel Project activity sheets from church, book reports from our fifth-grader, and spelling lists from our first-grader: they’re all there. When it’s time for dinner, we shuffle the papers and folders over to the counter where they mesh with sippy cups, bottles, and lunch boxes. Three stages of life, all piled onto one countertop.
This is the stuff of life. The clutter of childhood. The messiness of joy.
I used to get frustrated when the house was cluttered with kids’ stuff. Not anymore.
This is the stuff of hope.
Broken crayons held by hands that will shape the next generation.
Lego pieces put together by the kids who will build tomorrow’s churches.
Drawings from today’s dreamers and tomorrow’s leaders.
As our kids get older, I’m grateful for all this stuff and what it signifies. Love is present in this house. That’s what makes it home.
