We hosted Friendsgiving last night and a little teacup got broken. It was an accident. I usually count on at least one dish casualty when we get to host an event, so this was not unexpected. While it’s always a little sad to bid goodbye to a well-loved dish, I wasn’t heartbroken. This is the cost of welcoming people into our home and risking what might be comfortable and safe to express extravagant hospitality.
In the moments when I hear a crash, all I can remember is the sound of the mirror smashing off our minivan as I clumsily backed it out of the garage when I was a teenager. I remember sitting in the driver’s seat, slumped over the steering wheel and crying. I was embarrassed and I felt terrible. I remember my dad quietly and intentionally walking into the garage, squeezing around the busted mirror, climbing into the passenger seat, patting my back and saying, “People are more important than things.” Every time something breaks, I hear his voice again.
It’s made me wonder if in heaven there’s a China Room like the one in the White House. But instead of the fancy plates and priceless cups, there will be all the broken things made new. The teacup broken when it slipped from a friend’s hand during our Friendsgiving feast. My favorite mug that was knocked off the counter by a careless child’s elbow. The stack of plates that accidentally tumbled off the counter during the silent standoff of 2002 when my husband and I were figuring out who was responsible for doing the dishes when we were both exceedingly busy. The bowl I broke as a kid that was full of rice meant for a special meal before my dad went out of town. And maybe even the glass candle holder my husband accidentally broke by bumping it with the broom handle. He didn’t know why I was crying, but it was one of the few things I owned that was my grandmother’s. Even then I could hear my dad— People are more important than things.
Maybe in heaven all the dishes are restored. Maybe we’ll truly understand how much more important people are than we ever really understood in this life. Maybe we’ll see clearly and know fully just as we’re fully known. All the sacrifices of this hospitality life. All the risks of loving others and letting ourselves be loved. All the ways we get broken and break each other. Maybe we’ll see it all redeemed. The dishes broken on accident right beside the dishes thrown in anger and everything made right.
We want to be good stewards of the gifts we’ve been given. We don’t want to be foolish or careless when it comes to our time, our hearts, or even our things. But it’s the eternal perspective that allows us to give with joy.
When we keep that perspective in mind, it becomes easier to pull out the good dishes. When we see our things as tools instead of as the goal, we can use them to create an environment of warmth and hospitality to bless those who need it. With heaven in mind, it seems natural to risk being hurt for the sake of expressing love and care to those who may not know how to respond to it. We can love those who don’t know how lovable they are. We can remind them that people are more important than things— that THEY are more important than things. We can do that when we share our things, open our homes, use the good dishes, and forgive even when something gets broken.
In light of eternity, it’s much easier to keep our focus on the right things. I trust God to restore what we’ve lost in whatever way it seems fit. If that heavenly China Room is full of what we’ve sacrificed, what we’ve given up, what we’ve risked so that the people around us knew how important they were, that’s a risk I’m willing to take with my china, with my time, with my heart.
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