I love to decorate my home. I like to hunt and buy and obsess and mull and massage and create spaces that are just freaking awesome places to live.
And it’s not always for the right reasons.
I’m not decorating with 100% fair trade, organic goods made only in my home country with an attempt to make a loving environment where the Spirit may dwell, holy fellowship occurs, and living water pours from our faucets. Blessed milk and honey is sprinkled on all thee who enter here…yadda yadda yadda.
It’s typically because I just down right love it.
I love unwinding the intangible thoughts in my mind on a tangible dwelling space. I think it’s hilarious and if I’m candid with myself, I’m often shocked with the outcome. I get a kick out of finding some quirky item that simply speaks to me, the way they do in the Pier 1 commercials, and toting it home.
I peruse the house, again as if I’m in the Pier 1 commercials, and wait until the best location jumps out. Or I set the item down, let it live there for a few days, and decide if that is its home. If not, me and my now anthropomorphic tchotchke find a new place and move on.
It’s a process. And it is fun, busy, and ever-changing. And you’d think God has no place in this foolishness. I’ve judged people with neatly decorated homes. You know those folks with their intentionally tossed, perfectly tousled blankets and their decorative tissue box covers that are so stylish they put my drapes to shame. I assumed a neatly decorated home was a sign of vanity and material obsession.
How could God care AT ALL about the things we put in our homes?
Well, it started a few weeks ago…
I’ve been learning a great bit about myself this year. I think part of it is being 25. You don’t feel old, you don’t feel young. You just feel like you, whether you like it or not. Something about this year has made me extremely intentional about figuring out just who the heck I am. It’s been mostly healthy yet altogether crushing at times. Either way, I’m finally getting to know myself.
And among my deep, reckless, agonizing soul searching, I freshly arrived at this alarming admission – I want a disco ball.
It’s dumb, yes. Momentary and altogether hideous. But I don’t care. Ever since I saw The Nester’s collection sprawled out on her kitchen table on her blog, I realized, without a beat, that I felt fascinatingly attached to this idea. It was instinctive.
At first I thought “Oh, how neat, no one will have this in their home.”
A few swigs of coffee later I thought, “This will look awful in my home.”
And somehow, weeks, months and 12 pins featuring ironically placed mirrored balls later, I’ve arrived at “It needs to look out of place.”
I need to be reminded to not take life so seriously, to not care if I splatter sunbeam polka dots all over a carefully decorated room on a regular Wednesday, and mostly to ensure that I take time to stand out. Not for myself, but for what I stand for. Mostly, Who I stand with.
What am I reflecting?
Who do people see when they look at me?
Am I blending in for the wrong reasons?
Am I standing out for the right ones?
Am I seeking attention?
Do these mirrors make me look fat? (wait… what?)
God hangs out in the mundane. In fact, I think he hides out there. In plain sight, we do things we think He has no involvement in. We fool ourselves into thinking he is absent.
And suddenly — like a disco ball hanging proudly in the middle of my Pottery Barn inspired den — he commands our eyes, calls for our attention and busts through the monotony with glitz and glam.
Placing a disco ball in the middle of my life is exactly what I need… “Thus saith the Lord.”
How does God remind you of His presence?