Sunny Side Up August 18, 2004 �2004, Kathleen Gibson A house is not a home Our daughter and son-in-law recently bought their first house, a cottage in a village not far out of town. The Preacher and I rejoiced. We'd been with them when they'd gone to look at it the first time. Like a teenage romance, it was love at first sight for us all. Vintage furniture and boldly colored walls; a white brick fireplace and windows romantically festooned with gauzy curtains. Welcome home, we all heard. The yard, I thought - still think - is a campsite for angels, dotted with tall blue spruce, fruit and nut trees and lilac bushes. Perennial flowers circle the cottage, rose bushes scent the air. In the back yard is a charmingly laid out rock garden and a fire-pit for evening sit-outs. Tall hollyhocks peer into the kitchen window, nodding in approval at what they see, or so I imagined. The owners described to us how each winter they flooded the vegetable garden out back for an ice rink and strung tiny white lights on the surrounding bushes. A fairyland, it sounded. Our heads filled with visions of rosy-cheeked youngsters wrapped in hand-knit scarves skimming across its surface. Like any good English garden, tall Caragana hedges surround the place, ensuring privacy from all but the most determined eyes. Shaded corners abound, perfect for a picnic table or a wooden swing to dream on. An angel's campsite, indeed. Moving day however, presented a different picture of the house we'd lost our hearts to. A body looks different with clothing, and a house does too. We'd seen that house dressed with the charming furniture and decorating of the previous owners. Naked, there was no place for the flaws to hide. I've always said that I'd rather live in an old house and watch it get better than in a new one and watch it deteriorate. Nevertheless, the next few years will be a steep learning curve, I think. There's a peck of work to do inside that little cottage. As we lugged in furniture, the atmosphere took on a curious mix of excitement and concern. Invisible ticker tapes added up future renovation bills; shoulders sagged just a tad under the weight of ownership. The Preacher and I felt it too, for our kids are part of us; their burdens partly ours. We all needed the reminder that it's not a building that determines one's worth, and not the house alone that makes a home. Scripture says this: With wisdom a house is built, and with understanding its rooms are filled with precious and pleasant riches. Where love, wisdom, and understanding abound, sagging doors and poor flooring are mere molehills. A home consists of spirit and relationships; a house is only the box we store it in. Our children already had one of the finest homes around long before they bought that cottage. Nevertheless, the Preacher and I are dusting off our hammers and paintbrushes. The box needs fixing, they need the help, and we need the exercise. ?You can respond to this article at [email protected] |
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