Because it’s not just about me.

My family and I live in a little (as in LITTLE) house on a little street smack dab in the middle of southern California. We made the decision a long time ago to stay in the starter house that we could barely afford, because it turns out you can buy a house, but not a neighborhood.

And we like our neighborhood.

But more than that, it’s this little house that has raised so many, fed so many, blessed so many. And we know, without a doubt, what a gift we have been given.

There’s a saying…bloom where you are planted. And planted we were, and bloom we have, all those years ago.

There are a few of us who live, or have lived, here. There’s that guy that I like so much, who spends his life serving the church. And because of what he does, we have a ‘family’ that is huge.

The real branches to our vine are below. Three boys, our trio, all miracles with stories of their own. Their whole lives are journaled on my old blog http://www.ahousefulofboys.com, which I’d love to somehow move over here but have no idea how??? The poor guys have been written about for decades and are probably thankful for a little breathing room.

There’s Alex, our middle born. He’s the tallest and loudest of the bunch, who spends his days wiring buildings so the lights turn on and off. Every family should have an in house electrician,

There’s Matthew, our oldest. He lives in China, teaching music to college students. In Mandarin. He started a business there, too, so we question whether he’ll ever come home. So thankful for technology so we can talk lots!

And then there’s the exclamation point…Brian. He completed us. He’s a senior in college, working lots of hours when not in school and will someday fix all our aches and pains. For free I hope.

As for me, I have a job that I like that allows me to be based from my home. It helps pay for college and humbles me daily. But most of all, I love to feed people. Give me a houseful, whether it be my boys or family or friends and seat them around our garden table. I want to watch the cares of the world leave them for a bit. I want to hear their stories, laugh and pray and cry and drink wine with them. I want their plates – and belly’s, full of food. Not just on the weekends…people need to eat every night of the week.

Don’t they?