“It’s only a house.” At least that’s what a relative told me when I was fretting over my domicile’s clogged gutters and aging roof. I know what he meant; expect perfection from your house and you’ll be disappointed.
But on another level, he was wrong. My house isn’t only a house; it’s a home where lives have been lived for over one hundred years.
Yes, according to city records, our house was built around 1910. Of course I have no idea of who built the house or lived there in its early days. While stripping wallpaper and painting walls and trim years ago I did uncover some clues as to their taste; decades of wallcoverings showed changes in tastes and trends. Hand-painted 1930’s-era Disney characters evidenced a loving hand making a bedroom child-friendly. Stripping away the layers uncovered years and years of family history.
However, I do know what’s happened in this house during the 38 years my family has lived here. As in your house, there have been familiar routines and major changes, ups and downs, light and dark—all the things that make a house more than four walls.
More than three decades ago a young couple drove up to the front door with a U-Haul truck and carried in their small collection of furniture and many boxes of books. We were renters at the time, but I remember thinking the house “looked like us” when we first viewed it. After we bought the house three years later I spent much time painting, stripping wallpaper, and replacing carpet, all to replace harvest gold and avocado green 1970s décor with our own preferences.
In the midst of all this, of course. life was going on. Husband and wife left the house in the mornings to go to their university jobs, and came home in the evening to discuss starting a family. Eventually the lady of the house learned their only child was on his way. She went into labor in the house and returned two days later with a baby. “This is your home,” said the man of the house to the infant in his arms as they entered their home as a family for the first time. The couple moved a crib into the second bedroom and a bassinette into the living room.
The baby grew into a pre-schooler, made his first best friend with the neighbor boy, and took that long journey (to his mother, at least!) across the alley to kindergarten. He played in the school playground nearby, and later showed his BMX bike tricks off to his friends in the same place.
The house has been the site of birthday parties, Christmases, dinners with friends, and daily chores and meals. Some days have been more memorable than others, but they’ve all been our days. The house has seen both celebration and mourning, routine events and those that stand out.
The house certainly has its quirks. It’s had bats in the basement and a leak or two in the roof. The north face needs a good power-washing. Yet I love my house not for what it doesn’t have, but for what it is. It’s witnessed life playing out. It’s been the venue for learning and loving.
I suspect all this applies to your house as well. A house is more than those familiar four walls. It’s a place where life happens. And if memories were wallpaper there would be even more layers than the seven I stripped off my kitchen walls. It may have been just a house when we moved in thirty-eight years ago, but now it’s a home.
One day the current dwellers will have left this abode. Another family will move their belongings in, and set up their own routines. They will view the sun’s rising and setting through its windows, and build their own history. That’s what a house is for.
In this season of giving thanks, I hope you have a home you feel safe and content in. May our hearts be as full of gratitude as our homes are full of memories. Be well, and make yourself at home.
