An Open Exchange

Whatever season of life, I want an open home. Even though I know it comes at a price.

Because openness is seldom convenient.

It is messy, not measured.

It interrupts carefully planned days, causing me to morph my wants and curtail my desires for quiet.

It topples calm with chaos and the ensuing noise of many, instead of two or few.

It shows up at the worst of times when life is already full and bursting at the seams, squeezing and crowding its way with laughter that is sometimes too boisterous for ears craving silence.

But open always escorts in love.

And love covers a multitude of infractions.

Love makes up for the overflowing basket spilling boots and flip-flops onto a muddied floor.

Love makes up for scraped-clean pans stretched to serve an extra mouth or two, or three or four or five. . .

Love makes up for the quiet robbed by voices rising to be heard over each other.

Having an open home means lots of exchanges happen here.

A simple dinner for two exchanged for whatever-can-be-scrounged-from-a-rapidly-emptying-refrigerator and pulled together as quickly as cars unexpectedly pull into the driveway.

A clean home exchanged for toys strewn across a living room floor . . . and Legos assembled on dining room table . . . and baby dolls cluttering the couch accompanied by pleas for a playmate to join in the fun.

Early bedtimes exchanged for late-night talks and laughter.

Curling up with a cappuccino and a newest bestseller exchanged for children’s books begging to be read — one after another after another.

A game of solitaire exchanged for a group of young adults playing board games until the wee morning hours.

A quiet evening exchanged for toddler yells and laughter as chubby arms wrap about a grandma’s legs as solidly as little lives wrap about her heart.

Open means full.

In every way.

And open is good.

Even if it interrupts and leaves a mess in its wake.

Because open leaves a trail of love in its wake, as well.

And love is worth it all.