I grew up here, down a gravel road, where fields surround our house and open skies are not hidden by trees. In a square white house with scraggly grass and wood piled up for the winter. Worn wood floors and creaky stairs from years of use are solid under my feet. Each time I step through the door, my heart sighs, because I know I am home.
There is a shell of a barn on its last limbs of life, beside a well climbed windmill where you can see miles around from the top. There’s a lone barbed wire fence holding some cows and usually a calf. A plethora of vehicles are parked out front, some working and some ready for the bone yard. The dining room is filled by a large wooden table, the nicks and scratches are scars from years of use. Many times this table has been surrounded by people filling their stomachs and being blessed by the company they share it with. We have a little golden arm chair that was my great grandmother’s, it is the perfect size for me. This house has a history, and you can almost hear the voices of the past coming through its walls.
This is where I grew up, in a house of rough and tumble boys, and later one tiny little girl to be my only sister. This is where I learned to forgive and to love, where I learned the teachings of Christianity. Upstairs before bed every night we would gather in one room and say our prayers. I learned to not only be a sister, but to be a friend to my siblings. I was taught to leave the doors unlocked and be waiting with an open heart to any that might stop by. Our house is a comforting place, one where any can come and rest their feet even for just a moment.
I grew up here. In a place that God has blessed, down this gravel road is where I will always return when I need a place to call home.
"For we know that if our earthly house of this tabernacle were dissolved, we have a building of God, an house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens." 2 Corinthians 5:1