I love to have guests, but I’m not much of an inviter.
Even when my heart is willing, acute self-consciousness creeps in and overwhelms my good intentions.
My nearsighted housekeeping, worn out furniture, fear of saying the wrong thing, and decidedly awkward inability to carry on a casual conversation stops me if I even have a minute to think about being a hostess.
I want to invite, I really do. I know how loved I feel when I’m invited. I watch friends do it with ease and grace and admire them for their ability to fold people into their lives.
But I’m not wired that way . . .