The moment I walked into the house we are currently renting I noticed the linoleum floors.
I cringed, and turned towards my husband, mouthing “no way,” for his eyes only. The floors were old, stained in spots; dirty, and peeling in the corners in others.
After looking at the rest of the house I started to forget about the dingy linoleum on the first half of the main floor. The living room was warm and cozy, there were two bathrooms, and three bedrooms, large windows, and an amazing location a short walk to the best parks in Guelph.
Almost everything was checked off of our list, and the price was within our budget, something we had been unable to find in our months-long search. But those floors.
After chatting with the landlord I made it clear that the floors were too beat up for my liking. We made a verbal agreement that the flooring would be replaced while we lived here, and I signed the lease with a sigh of relief.
It’s been two years and we’ve come to accept that the linoleum floors are here to stay, but they still haunt my nightmares and irritate me on a near-daily basis.
The other day I showed my husband a house listing a few blocks away from our house, begging him to consider moving.
“It’s three hundred dollars extra a month!” He exclaimed.
“But the floors! They’re beautiful! And look, they have a dishwasher!” I said, knowing how foolish I was being.
I would be completely crazy to move my family out of a home and neighbourhood they love, into a new school system, and a less safe street, all to get away from the hideous linoleum.
I couldn’t sleep the night of our conversation.
Why can’t I just be content with what I have?
Why was I always comparing my house, right down to my flooring, to other peoples?
I realized that I can’t knock a good thing, even if it does have some imperfections, all because of my own pride and desire for perfection.
Our lives have had some trade-offs, that’s for sure.
We’ve chosen the ministry life, which requires the sacrifice of wealth, security, and, well, tropical vacations.
We’ve mutually decided that I would stay home, and we’ve been happy with that decision, even if it means more financial sacrifice. It also means more time with the kids, a schedule that is flexible and fairly relaxed, and the ability to pursue a career in writing.
These decisions led us to our home. Our rental. Something that isn’t ours permanently, but is ours for now, in this season, and time of our life. It’s taught us that so much in life is impermanent, and not ours to keep.
The cracked and dingy linoleum, which was in this home long before we were, and will be here after we’ve moved on, has offered us its own lesson. Sometimes an ugly thing is there just to expose our own selfishness, and our own desire for an unattainable perfection.
I chose this home that keeps us warm and contains our lives; the ugly floors just happen to come with it.
