As I walk from the wheelbarrow, arms loaded with fresh firewood, I know there's no place like my home. For, you see, my home is special enough to have a wood burning fireplace as its main source of heat.
As I open the screened door that needs to be replaced, the ever-familiar creak and slap! of the door reminds me, there's no place like my home. For, you see, my home is special enough to have a screened in front porch, complete with old rockers.
An aroma greets me as I enter my living room--the smell of fresh bread mixed with equal parts fireplace smoke--that reminds me, there's no place like my home. For, you see, my home is special enough to have a mama who stays home and bakes fresh bread because she knows she has some little young uns (and husband) who are delighted when Mama's bread machine buzzer goes off.
I stoke the fireplace, renew the blaze and head off to give my children a surprise, when I notice the pieces of Play-doh all over the table and floor. Kids' creations don the table as food never has before. I'm reminded, there's no place like my home. For, you see, not ever home has children to make 'culinary' creations with colored dough. My home does.
I get my children settled, head to take a soak in the bathtub, and really take a glance around. An old-fashioned tub--one that you could get bubbled up to your ears in--and still not get any on the floor--that's my home.
Ah, the clothesline. How could one find such pleasure in a handmade, wooden clothesline with ropes connecting? Why? Because it's here. Here I feel the wind on my face, cool wind bouncing off of wet clothes. It's here my eyes glance heavenward and I see the bluest sky around. Not a cloud in site. It's here I gaze out over acres of field lying dormant until spring's plow slowly turns over soil. It's here I envision a chicken coop, hear goats bleating, see more children playing. It's here I do see the beautiful pines and cedars swaying in the breeze, wood stacked neatly--reflecting hours of strong man's work. It's here at my haven. My home.
The back screen door opens with a familiar sound. I look up and see a familiar face. My husband. 'Just came by for a few minutes'. Drove several miles for a few minutes at his home. And, you see, not any home has a husband and father. My home does.
Home calls. I answer. Happiness reigns.
Lord, you know my home is not a castle by far. In fact, others may have to pick and prod to see what I see, and still some may not see it. But, my home, dear Lord, is a castle to me. A shelter from the biting cold and evil forces of this cold, dark, and self-centered world. A shelter for my children. Lord, you know I am the keeper of my home. Help me, dear Saviour, to care for my home as I would a tiny infant. Thank you Lord for the inhabitants in my home. Lord, you are the greatest inhabitant. Ever abide here, Lord. Thank you, Jesus for our home.
As I open the screened door that needs to be replaced, the ever-familiar creak and slap! of the door reminds me, there's no place like my home. For, you see, my home is special enough to have a screened in front porch, complete with old rockers.
An aroma greets me as I enter my living room--the smell of fresh bread mixed with equal parts fireplace smoke--that reminds me, there's no place like my home. For, you see, my home is special enough to have a mama who stays home and bakes fresh bread because she knows she has some little young uns (and husband) who are delighted when Mama's bread machine buzzer goes off.
I stoke the fireplace, renew the blaze and head off to give my children a surprise, when I notice the pieces of Play-doh all over the table and floor. Kids' creations don the table as food never has before. I'm reminded, there's no place like my home. For, you see, not ever home has children to make 'culinary' creations with colored dough. My home does.
I get my children settled, head to take a soak in the bathtub, and really take a glance around. An old-fashioned tub--one that you could get bubbled up to your ears in--and still not get any on the floor--that's my home.
Ah, the clothesline. How could one find such pleasure in a handmade, wooden clothesline with ropes connecting? Why? Because it's here. Here I feel the wind on my face, cool wind bouncing off of wet clothes. It's here my eyes glance heavenward and I see the bluest sky around. Not a cloud in site. It's here I gaze out over acres of field lying dormant until spring's plow slowly turns over soil. It's here I envision a chicken coop, hear goats bleating, see more children playing. It's here I do see the beautiful pines and cedars swaying in the breeze, wood stacked neatly--reflecting hours of strong man's work. It's here at my haven. My home.
The back screen door opens with a familiar sound. I look up and see a familiar face. My husband. 'Just came by for a few minutes'. Drove several miles for a few minutes at his home. And, you see, not any home has a husband and father. My home does.
Home calls. I answer. Happiness reigns.
Lord, you know my home is not a castle by far. In fact, others may have to pick and prod to see what I see, and still some may not see it. But, my home, dear Lord, is a castle to me. A shelter from the biting cold and evil forces of this cold, dark, and self-centered world. A shelter for my children. Lord, you know I am the keeper of my home. Help me, dear Saviour, to care for my home as I would a tiny infant. Thank you Lord for the inhabitants in my home. Lord, you are the greatest inhabitant. Ever abide here, Lord. Thank you, Jesus for our home.
1 comments:
How beautiful. I love this post.
Post a Comment