Ashamed of My House

Sigh. What do people think of us when they see our house?

Boards in the fence are either missing or hanging on for dear life. The lawn is dead (brown is the new green, right?), which gives our faded-orange-sherbet house a very monochromatic, tired look. The kitchen is also tired, so much so that the dishwasher, faucet, stove, and cabinets seem to be giving up on us, one by one. Cracks and holes in the walls cry out for patching and a fresh coat of paint. The backyard is in its usual state of chaos, like the rest of the house– the house full time of mismatched, hand-me-down furniture and loud, energetic children.

We are the "ugly" house on our street. The "poor" family. "Those" neighbors. Sometimes, I admit, I am ashamed of my house. I wish it looked more shiny and welcoming. I wish I had more time and money to spend on landscaping, remodeling, and decorating. To steal a line from the musical 'Into the Woods', "I wish…"

Then a family from Iraq visits us. We have a wonderful, simple time together learning about each other's culture. Without knowing why, I start feeling a bit uncomfortable.

What do they think of us when they see our house?

A feeling of shame comes over me again, but not because my house isn't as lovely as I would like it to be, but because it is more than anything they have in Iraq.

Air conditioning and heat. Sturdy walls and a roof. Appliances that wash my clothes or heat my food and water. Four bedrooms, two bathrooms, and two living areas. A patch of lawn.

And this doesn't include the amazing food we eat, the general good health we experience, and the feeling of security we have.

I live a blessed life of ease and luxury.

But my Iraqi friends don't lecture me for our extravagance. They are grateful for our friendship and the hospitality we show them. And yet, I know that they have seen refugees run for their lives with nothing more than the clothes on their back. They live among the truly poor– people who live in cardboard houses in the dead of winter. Their church meets in a small building furnished with only old couches and folding chairs. And they are not ashamed to say, "Come visit us!"

It is my turn to be grateful– for renewed perspective, for brotherly love that knows no boundaries, and for a shame that leads to repentance and contentedness.