Homestead

When I mentioned how much I like old farmhouses, my husband said, “Oh, that’s what we have!” He’s funny. Our new house doesn’t have the charm I referred to.

The Homestead

The jerry-built shed is nothing like an old barn. Very few items date back to the time the nearby canning kitchen was in operation: a couple of doors and the window over the kitchen sink. Those items are my favorite. They remind me of simpler times.

Times when people stored a harvest in the cellar for winter. Times when large closets weren’t a necessity. Times when families huddled indoors for long winters. Times like we are having right now.

Our tiny, ugly house is slowly being transformed from the inside out.

The cellar isn’t full, but boxes of potatoes are stored and green tomatoes are ripening. Our bedrooms don’t have closets, so we keep only the clothes we really wear. The kitchen and living room are now a fresh shade of yellow and new carpet was installed today.

After Dylan hacked out two walls in the bathroom, we hung a curtain for a door. It will be replaced and that space made more functional. Books will come out of boxes and our routine of learning will resume.

This 1920 house was beyond my vision. I walked through imagining. Ideas completely clouded over by the last room. The choke came and my silence said it all.

Falling asleep that night, I mourned and felt so foolish. The house we left in Texas wasn’t pretty when we bought it either. It was bigger, but not pretty.

Tears in the night evaporated in the morning. Friends came to help us. Lots of friends who unloaded our moving truck and tore off paneling and brought food. Laughter came with them and then I knew this little place would become home.

(Photos to come.)

One Birthday Tradition

I chose one thing. One birthday tradition we all enjoy. Today it pulls me from bed before the sun. Usually I create at night after the children plod to their beds, but last night I fell asleep in the arms of my husband. He came home just in time. His vow true.

Today a beautiful little girl turns six, so I measure and stir and pour in the quiet to make a cake chosen weeks ago.

Sunshine flipped through a well-worn magazine Grandma found at a yard sale, a whole book of cakes cut from simple shapes. The page with an artist palette was marked not only in the book, but in my memory. I had the same cake as a little girl!

Baked butter and sugar fill my nostrils before cake falls out of the pan to cool. Boxes piled high in every room and the moving truck comes tomorrow, but here in this moment I pause from the busyness to create.

This one expectation is of my own making and I am happy to fulfill it. Packing will wait.

It doesn’t take twenty-one traditions to make a birthday or a holiday special. Those lists tend to grow each year.

One homemade cake will be all the decoration and party we need. It will bring the smiles, imprint a memory, and connect our family for generations.

What is your favorite way to celebrate birthdays? Are you simplifying holiday to do lists this year?

Two Months Alone

The conversation began with a different question. Usually, it’s something related to science or the meaning of a word. This night the churning in a young man’s soul surprised me:

Mom, do you feel divorced?

For sixteen years I have never been apart from the man who taught me to relax, to dream, and to accept myself. He gave me a confidence I never had on my own. He struggles, like we all do, but his every cell oozes love for his family. I know this. I live this. I bask in it, and it exists even without his arms around me.

No, son, I don’t feel divorced. Just lonely and stretched.

Dylan’s strength and joy buffer my moods. Fixing the car and cleaning rain gutters have never been on my list of chores. Small problems glare that he would fix in a moment. I wonder what else I take for granted.

Perhaps, my own delusions of strength. I think I’m consistent and determined and patient. My tendency is to blame any issues in our family on my husband.

Reality reveals otherwise. There is no one else here now. I am exposed.

The press squeezes out the best and the worst. The satisfaction of facing a fear or the joy of cuddling with my kids. Other times it is the frustration of yelling or the guilt of laziness. I haven’t suddenly changed because my husband is gone. I was this way while he was as near as his dirty shoes on the kitchen floor.

He loved me then and he loves me now. A blessing that snags in my heart and knots the words. Those scattered shoes look different in my mind now. I see with a new grace for him and for me. Love covers.

Where Is Home?

I don’t want to think and process right now. There are too many unknowns. Papers on the table carry the weight of hope, but a mere cough can blow them away. Dare I breathe? Dare I plan?

Determination wanes during the arduous separation. Twice I pleaded with my beloved to come back. Twice my cries were overshadowed by good news. This time it was Dylan who needed hope. As my words sank in, he confessed,

I was praying this morning about coming back. We need to be together…

Our steps have faltered. We’ve wondered if the time is right. Doubts try to smear our joy with shadows. But every time we try to turn back our steps are confirmed. Life in Idaho won’t be easy, but neither is waiting.

Instead of pondering my lack of patience, I focus on the tasks of moving. I go through boxes of Christmas decorations months too soon. Piles of cast-offs grow. Paintings are removed from the walls.

The open space reminds me of the flurry of cleaning and painting it took to get this place move-in ready. As I collapsed on the lawn, I wondered if the vultures overhead were circling for me.

A year later paint rollers came out again. We needed to switch bedrooms. A new little girl was joining our family, so Brother moved to the smaller room he carpets with Lego daily.

This house taught me so much. About repair, maintenance, and contentment. I no longer lust for the perfect house. The frustration of living in a fixer-upper has more rewards than just sweat equity.

I now know what home truly is. I enjoy the beauty we’ve brought to this shelter, but it’s not our home. Home is our family, not a house, not a city, not a state.

Right now our home is lacking the strong arms of Daddy. My heart aches, and I can only imagine the agony for other families separated even longer…

After praying with my son last night, he stated,

This isn’t our house, we just manage it for God.

That’s right. This house is a gift. It is a trust. We’ve cared for it well.

May the new management be embraced with peace and strength. I pray they discover home.

Love is Art

My husband thought we only had one small, pantry type closet full of art and craft supplies. I had him fooled. There were stashes in the garage, in my closet, and even in the bottom drawer of his dresser.

I try to toss some of it, but possibilities grab my thoughts and won’t let go. I think of all that I could create for my family. And I think of all that we can create together.

My friend Julie sent me this quote months ago, but I find it echoing in my heart during our slow good-bye to our home.

I tell you, the more I think, the more I feel that there is nothing more truly artistic than to love people. -Vincent van Gogh

Even if boxes of possibilities aren’t lugged to Idaho, my art will continue.