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
