If Walls Could Talk

I love old homes – homes with history, homes with a past either known or obscure, homes that have LASTED a hundred years or more…

I imagine what life was like for the very first family who lived there and those who followed. Did that first family build the home themselves or was it built for them? What was our country like at that time and how did the home’s family fit into their community? Who visited their home? Were there any weddings there? Was anyone born there? Did anyone die there? What were holidays like? Did they have servants or did they do everything themselves? Were there any balls or parties held in the home? What secrets or declarations of love were whispered in the alcoves with only the walls privy to hear?

I think about the stories that the walls could tell if only they had a voice. What did they see? What did they hear? I can imagine them weeping with their inhabitants in times of sorrow and laughing along with them in times of joy. To sit and listen to the walls would be like sitting and listening to my grandmother tell stories of growing up in rural West Virginia at the start of the 20^th century. I would sit in rapt attention. I would laugh, I would weep and I would ask the walls to tell me again…and again….

It got me thinking. In all the homes in which I’ve lived, what stories could the walls tell about ME? About MY life? Would they be things I would want others to hear and know about or things that I’d rather have kept silent with no voices to tell of my past or even my present?

The walls of our homes hear our conversations. They see our actions. Would they speak of love, of joy, of good-natured teasing and of forgiveness for the times when mistakes were made? Or, would they speak of anger, bitterness, chastisement, ridicule, pain, rage, infidelity, coarse language and hidden sins?

I think each of our homes would speak of both – love and rage, forgiveness and ridicule, joy and pain. That’s life. What matters is what we do in each of those moments, how we handle those times and most importantly, how we care for the hearts held within those walls. We choose.

Anger and mistakes can be forgiven and let go…or they can be held onto, festering and infecting all those within reach. Simple joys can be looked upon with delight or scorned and thought of as ridiculous. Even times of sorrow can be shared together in common grief and the journey of healing traveled as one…or the walls can echo with the sounds of blame, rage, and the tearing apart of the very fabric that has bound the family together.  We choose. Each time, we choose.

I long for the walls of our home to resound with the worship of the Lord of our lives. I want them to ooze love, getting it all over anyone who enters. I want the very air that we breathe in to be filled with His presence and for each person who comes through our door to sense Him and His sheer delight in their very existence. We choose.

We’re not perfect. Our walls WILL tell of anger, of harsh words, of pain and even of hidden sins. But…they’ll also speak of the unconditional love of the One Who gave His life in order for us to be forgiven for all of the times we’ve made mistakes and hurt those whom we love and how that unconditional love has made it possible for us to forgive one another. They’ll speak of the ways we made things right when we got things so wrong. They’ll speak of the love between us that chooses to believe the best even in the face of the worst. Our walls will speak of courage in the face of shame and failure and they’ll tell our stories of success.

If the walls of your home could speak, what would they say? You choose.