I’ve been thinking a lot lately about family. Particularly my grandmothers. Those brave, strong women who came before us. Women who perfected the art of homemaking and hospitality. Women who churned butter and kneaded dough by hand. Women who did it all without Pinterest, Allrecipes.com, and flush toilets.
I wish I would have gotten to know them better. I wish I would have paid more attention. I do have a little of each of them with me in my kitchen – a potato masher from Wilda, pans and a stock pot of Anna’s, a pitcher and juice glasses that belonged to Esther, teacups from Erma. I have an apron that was Grandma Blaesing’s and it almost, almost, still smells like her.
Can we live out the example that they set for us? Can we open our homes to the hungry and the hurting? Can we make everyone that dines at our table feel like this was all just for them? Can we keep a home that may not be perfectly spotless but is perfectly warm and welcoming?
I’m sure they would have been the first to admit their imperfections. But I also know that many of my best memories were made in their homes, around their tables. My hope this Christmas is that whoever enters my home, whoever sits around my table, feels as welcomed as I did in theirs.