Some time ago, Tan Books published a series of art books entitled The Theology of Home. As a great admirer of the theology of the body, and with a strong desire to make my home a place where my family can grow in peace, wisdom and holiness, I was immediately intrigued. My lovely parents-in-law kindly gave me the first two volumes, but I must admit they were not quite what I had expected.

Perhaps the excellent upbringing I received from my parents led me to take for granted things such as thoughtfully decorating one’s home or gathering around the table together without phones. What I had hoped to find in these books was a combination of profound theology – along the lines of what John Paul II offered regarding the body – and practical guidance on how to apply those principles to everyday life: for example, how to make liturgical living tangible through the ordinary objects and traditions that shape daily family life.

To give them their due, the books are beautiful. The photographs depict attractive homes and what appear to be warm family moments, with people chatting over a glass of wine. There are numerous quotations – from both secular and sacred sources – on the themes of home, family, hospitality and community, and the volumes are filled with anecdotes and reflections on these subjects. The authors have done an excellent job of exploring the art of living well together, whether as a family or as a wider community.

Yet I wanted to explore something that the books do not address – something that the beautifully curated photographs themselves seem, perhaps subconsciously, to affirm: the standardisation of our interiors.

Of course, I understand that photographs of open jars in the pantry, flour scattered across the worktop or a bedroom floor strewn with toys are hardly aesthetically pleasing, and I am certainly the first to remind my children, repeatedly, to tidy the house. Nevertheless, this raises an important question: what is the purpose of our home? More specifically, as Catholics, do our homes have a different purpose and mission from those of non-believers? I believe they do.

When I was a child, I was terrified of visiting my grandparents. Their house was so immaculate and orderly that it felt as though our presence could only make it worse. The white leather armchairs, the empty rooms, the almost antiseptic atmosphere throughout the house: our very presence seemed a form of disorder.

Of course, it is our duty, both as hosts and as guests, to keep a house clean and tidy, so that it honours the dignity of those who live in it and remains at their service. But it should never be the other way round. As Catholics, I believe we are called to live differently from the world, even when doing so comes at a cost.

When I buy furniture, I try to choose second-hand pieces whenever possible, both because it is more environmentally responsible and because such items are more likely to have been crafted by skilled artisans. They tell a story and they are built to last a lifetime. This means I cannot follow every passing trend or continually purchase the designer lamp or tableware collection featured in interior magazines and promoted in the Pantone Colour of the Year. Yet my home is truly my own, filled with heirlooms that remind us of the skill of craftsmen and of our family history.

It is not only the way we decorate our homes that should be different, but also – and even more importantly – the way we inhabit them.

As summer draws near, it is worth reconsidering the way we behave both as hosts and as guests. Hospitality is not merely something pleasant or optional; it lies at the heart of the Christian life. As the author of Hebrews reminds us: “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.”

As guests, we should be mindful not to become a burden to those who receive us. We ought to leave a home in as good a condition as we found it and, whenever possible, lighten the load of our hosts. We might prepare a meal, wash the dishes or read a story to the children so that their mother may enjoy a moment of rest. True gratitude is expressed not only in words but also in service.

As hosts, we should prepare for our guests with love and care. We should ensure that they have moments of privacy and rest, endeavour to cook dishes they particularly enjoy and attend to the small details that make a person feel welcomed and cherished: a bouquet of flowers on a bedside table, an extra blanket folded neatly on a shelf in case the evening turns cool, a favourite tea waiting in the kitchen cupboard. Such attentions may seem insignificant, yet they speak eloquently of affection.

Whenever we expect guests, my husband, our children and I pray for them before they arrive. We pray for a safe journey, for a happy stay and for the strengthening of the bonds that unite us. I also make a point of placing a crucifix or a statue of Our Lady in every room. Verses from scripture are framed and hung upon the walls, and branches blessed on Palm Sunday are displayed throughout the house. The presence of our faith is discreet rather than ostentatious, yet it is unmistakable.

That being said, I believe that both guests and hosts should keep their attention fixed on people rather than on things. As a teenager and young adult, I was fortunate to spend a great deal of time in the homes of my friends and their families. Those houses were not always immaculate. There might have been cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling, but that was because people were outside enjoying life rather than constantly attending to household perfection. The fabric of the armchairs might have been worn thin, but only because they had welcomed countless conversations. Books bore stains and dog-eared pages because they had been read and loved. Plates were occasionally chipped because generations of young hands had carried them to and from the table.

These signs of wear were not defects; they were evidence of life. They testified to homes that were lived in rather than merely maintained, to places where people mattered more than possessions. The furniture served the family, not the family the furniture. A Christian home should certainly be cared for, but it is not meant to impress visitors with its perfection but to receive them with charity.

So this summer, when I invite people over – which I am very much looking forward to doing – I shall lay the table with the plates from one grandmother, the cutlery from the other and the glasses that once belonged to my great-aunt. I shall place on the table the silver candelabra I bought for five euros in a charity shop, and we shall gather around a meal, paying little attention to the wall I still have not found the time to repaint or to our youngest child, who is not yet entirely accurate with his spoon as he learns to feed himself.

Instead, we shall be making memories: the kind that endure, the kind that bind a family together across the years. We shall share stories, laughter and conversation. We shall linger at the table longer than necessary. Together, they will become part of the history of our family.

And perhaps my imperfect, unfashionable, slightly quirky – but, I hope, welcoming and charming – home may offer a small glimpse of what awaits us when we are gathered at the Marriage Supper of the Lamb in the Heavenly Jerusalem. Not because it is beautiful or impressive in itself, but because it seeks, however imperfectly, to reflect the love, joy and communion for which we were created.

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