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 20th 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.
