The Dust on Mama’s Piano

I’ve come to believe there are two kinds of people in this world.

The first kind walks into your house looking for a place to sit.

The second kind walks in looking for something to criticize.

They’ll notice the fingerprints on the refrigerator before they notice the family pictures hanging above it.

They’ll spot dust on the television before they see the children laughing in the floor.

They’ll leave knowing your chandelier needed dusting, but never know your heart.

If that’s the way a person visits, I have a simple suggestion.

Please don’t come back.

Not because my house is dirty.

Because your heart is.

I grew up on a dirt road in North Mississippi. When I say dirt road, I don’t mean one of these fancy gravel roads folks complain about now. I mean red Mississippi dirt. The kind that climbed into your car, your shoes, your curtains, and apparently signed a year-long lease.

I was married and had a child before they finally paved that road.

By then, the dust and I were practically related.

Mama had a beautiful black baby grand piano sitting beside the dining room table.

It was the prettiest thing in the house.

It was also the biggest dust magnet God ever created.

Every time the school bus came by, dust rolled across the yard.

Then the mailman came.

More dust.

If somebody drove down the road looking for a lost hunting dog, here came another cloud.

Unless the Lord planned a solid week of rain, that Baby Grand never stood much of a chance.

I sometimes wonder how many people left our house saying, “Lord, did you see the dust on Mary’s piano?”

I hope they also noticed the table.

Not whether it was polished.

Whether there was room for one more plate.

I hope they noticed the sweet tea.

Not whether the glasses matched.

Whether they stayed full.

I hope they noticed that if you were hungry, Mama fed you.

If you were hurting, she prayed for you.

If you needed a place to sit awhile, there was always a chair waiting.

Funny how some folks can remember a layer of dust for twenty years but completely forget the kindness that was sitting right beside it.

The older I get, the less impressed I am with spotless houses.

I’ve seen houses so clean they felt like museums. Nobody laughed. Nobody lingered. Everybody was afraid to touch anything.

Then I’ve walked into homes where toys were under the couch, biscuits were in the oven, a dog was asleep in the hallway, and somebody hollered, “Come on in. We’ve got plenty.”

Those are the houses I remember.

Not because they were perfect.

Because they were welcoming.

The Bible never tells us to be entertained by perfect housekeeping.

It tells us to practice hospitality.

There’s a difference.

Hospitality says, “I’m glad you’re here.”

Judgment says, “You missed a spot.”

One feeds the soul.

The other feeds the ego.

So the next time you’re invited into somebody’s home, don’t spend your visit inspecting the mantel or the ceiling fan.

Look at the people.

Listen to the laughter.

Notice the love.

Because one day, long after the dust has settled, that’s all anyone is going to remember anyway.