The Dumping Ground

For the past several weeks I have been watching a friend’s young daughter after school. Each day I pick her up from school, drive her to the house, open the door,
…and watch her dump out the rocks from her shoes all over the front porch.

Then she’ll stack her shoes in the entryway next to her backpack and start working on a craft I have set out for her to do while I sweep up the mounds of pebbles.
Every.single.day.

At first I didn’t think too much of it. She was just a little girl starting a new routine in a new place. We’d figure out a better way soon enough. But after the third straight week of sweeping up those rocks, I felt myself start to get a little frustrated.

She had walked around the majority of the day with those rocks in her shoes. Why didn’t she empty them on the playground? Why not in her classroom trashcan? What was it about stepping foot on my front porch that gave her the instantaneous desire to empty them? Right in the doorway! Why was she waiting to empty the rocks at my house?

As soon as I thought those last words to myself, I felt a small voice whisper in my heart:
“Liz, a six-year-old girl walked around all day with rocks in her shoes. This home is the first place that gives her a chance to dump those rocks out. Let your home be a place where people are able to dump out all of their rocks.”

I continued sweeping up all the pebbles on the stoop and thought about how uncomfortable they must have been for her to walk on all day. I thought about how heavy they must have made her little footsteps. I thought about how the moment she walked inside my door she would slip around on her little socks down my hallway like she was on ice skates—happy and free.

In a matter of moments, the pile of rocks in my dustpan made the switch from minor annoyance to major calling card.
I don't want my house to be a rigid place where people feel they have to act presentable and perfect all the time.
My house is the place where you come to dump your rocks out.



About a half hour later, I watched my own children come through the door and greet their young house guest. As I went through their daily folders they complained about the amount of homework that they had, how they miss their old teachers, how they are still having some issues acclimating to their new school…and I listened to them as they “dumped their rocks out.”
I served them a snack and reset their backpacks for the next day and helped them with their homework—sweeping up whatever piles I could.

A few hours later my friend came to pick up her daughter and, exasperated, told me about the hard day she’d just had at work. I listened as she “dumped her rocks” right there inside the entryway, and I gathered up her daughter’s belongings, organized the loose pieces scattered around the floor into neat piles, and helped them carry some of the load to the car.

My husband and I sat around the fire later that evening, leaving our own little piles of rocks at each other’s feet; letting ourselves feel a little lighter than we were before; entering our home again happy and free.



The next morning, I placed an order for something with my little house guest in mind. When it arrived, I eagerly situated it out front and left to pick up the little girl from school. Then I drove her to my house, opened up the front door, and watched her take off her shoes to dump the rocks out.

She looked up at me from the new door mat and commented, “Oooh! This feels really soft on my feet!”
Then she skated down the hallway on her socks towards her craft while I grabbed the broom and swept her little pile of rocks away.

And it made my heart so glad.

p.s.
Texas Forever ;)