The girls and I had the idea one early autumn afternoon that since Halloween fell on Friday night this year, maybe we should have some friends over for Friday night pizza.
They invited families from school and church and I spread the word to friends of my own who would keep on the path to sanity for the night. We ringed a patch of dirt with old landscape stones and called it a fire pit and broke out the paints for a little craftiness.
I stressed about who we had invited and if they would come and who we hadn’t and if they’d be hurt and people said–it’s okay if you just order the pizza.
But it wasn’t. Not because I wanted to show off or be prideful but because if you come into my home, I want to offer you a part of myself, a glimpse into our everyday chaos, a seat at our family table.
Even though we set up outside and banished all twenty-five kids from the front door.
I make pizza on Fridays because I enjoy it. Over the years it’s become a therapeutic ritual our family relies upon. Every other night’s dinner might be made up on the fly, but pizza has become a predictable routine they expect. And in a world that is constantly unexpected, it’s a small gift to keep something the same.
So I made eight pizzas and friends drifted in and out of my kitchen to keep me company and kids spilled off the back deck into the yard and I didn’t worry about our imperfect bathrooms or lack of living room square footage or carpets that desparately need to meet a Stanley Steamer.
I just made pizza.
There were people we’ve known for years and friends we’ve just met and at one point I wasn’t sure if those were trick or treaters or guests on our front porch. It was wildly disorganized and delightful.
And you know what surprised me most? That after we had canvassed the neighborhood, people came back. They drank coffee and cocoa and sat around and talked and listened and we all ignored the mess and the candy wrappers in the kids’ rooms.
I don’t host parties very often. We’re not asked to be the home for the socials. Our house is small and there’s no denying it. But what we lack in space, I’m learning to make up for with a face of brave hospitality.
That’s a catchphrase these days for inviting even when you aren’t ready, welcoming even when it’s a stranger, cooking even when you think you’re not as good as the delivery down the road. In this social media driven world of perfection, there’s a group of women in my generation who are striving to be less perfection and more purpose. To love like Jesus loved on purpose.
Over the kitchen table with marker stains.
Over the broken bread and wine that might look like coffee and scones but feels like communion.
Over in the small house with pizza in the backyard.