returning home – see the changes taking place in you
This is the place where He meets us. This home. Within walls and without walls. Where we suffer together and alone. With people and without.
A sanctuary. A prison. A refuge. A catastrophe.
A place of connection. A place of isolation. A place of community. A place of loneliness.
Nine years ago, my eldest son asked why our house is so small, why we don’t have a big yard.
We had just spent the previous evening with our friends who live in the hills on a large piece of property outside of town. While the parents chatted, the six kids got to climb trees, race mountain bikes across the large back and front lawns while playing hide-and-go-seek, and plan spy missions in the huge oak tree over the vegetable garden, where the zip line was going to connect with the tree house to be built soon. We spent summer afternoons swimming here, jumping on the trampoline, helping feed the chickens, and playing with their adorable dog–which reminded my three kids each time how much they wished they had a dog, and why don’t we have one, too? (Well, we did get one the next year.)
When my son asked me that question, we stood in the dining room, in the middle of our old house, the room that speaks of over 90 years of meals, of conversations of multi-generations with the light spilling through the two windows on the side. The floors creak in a few places here, and this is where I don’t tread in the early mornings when I fear to wake up the house and disturb the quiet. But I love the ache of this wood floor, the unspoken stories of the feet that have tread over these beams. There is a history here that my family gets to step into and live and breathe–God’s plan unfolding to us over these now 13 years we’ve been here, our youngest a baby. This is the house where God came for this family, and we will remember.
When my husband and I first got married, we got our living situation all wrong. We had spent years living in city apartments on the East Coast, and so when we moved back home, to California, we were eager to live in a house. The problem was that housing rents were sky high; but, in our determination to not live in an apartment, we paid a lot of money in rent to live in a real house, with unshared walls, and we did that for three years. A lot of money was poured down the drain, and, with us feeling new to the area, not a lot of people came over. Crazy. Soon it was time to move on.
When our first baby arrived, we finally got some sense and decided we had better start being more responsible with our money, more frugal, and we moved into a 900 square foot cottage for a year, and then a condo in our sleepy little downtown–three kids on the top floor. Soon, for the sake of our neighbors below — and because we were bursting at the seams — we knew it was time to try and look again. And that is when God showed us our home.
Due to the high prices of houses in the California Bay Area, we didn’t know if we were going to be able to stay here, despite Justin’s job making it necessary, then, for us to stay. It was years of planning — hoping — yet knowing our hearts needed to stay present, wherever we were, with Him, the provider of all. And then, on the way home from a visit with our realtor to another house that we could possibly afford but would need to spend tons of time and effort to fix up, God brought us home.
Our realtor had a surprise for us, he said. Just when we thought we were heading back to his office, he pulled into the driveway of a gray arts-and-crafts bungalow that I had seen listed six months ago but was not even close to our price range. A house forgotten.
With hearts beating fast, my husband and I walked onto the porch, one step in the door, and locked eyes. We didn’t have to say a word. This was our house. This was what He was giving. And with each new step in, we felt His hand guiding us, His joy, His child-heart’s delight, in showing us the details only He knew we would love.
The story of how the house sat here, with no offers, for six months, weeds growing in the yard, when there were no problems in the fine print of any of the inspections, flummoxed the neighbors, who didn’t like a house sitting on their street for so long without being sold. The price jumped down after a few months, then again, and then it went off the market for a while and was bought by the company of the previous owners, who then began to mow the lawn, made the inside look cute, and lowered the price once again. And when it came on the market again, after sitting for months and the price being lowered to a crazy number, God grabbed our realtor’s hand and drove us to the driveway of our house. We were home. This was the house He gave. We didn’t have to see the whole house to know His heart.
This is God’s house. This is the house He gave and for which we are so thankful. And we try to hold it loosely, like He asks us to hold our hearts loosely with Him, and offer them up. It is our house for His children, for His children to be let in.
And they came in clusters on Monday mornings to gather, and they came as a circle on Tuesday afternoons to pray. They came with toothbrushes for sleep-overs and pink swirly skirts for fairy parties and torn-knee jeans for play dates after school. They came as couples to gather in the studio in the back on Thursday nights; they came in small groups on Friday and Saturday night for dinner and gathered around the table. We opened the door to be fed by Him. This is His house He gave for us to give.
And so I stood there, in the room He built, and I told our son it is not yet time for us to move. I sympathized with this boy with energy bursting, his 9-year old body wanting greater freedom to move, to make long arches with a football, to build a tree house to climb up into, read in and dream. And I reminded him of the story of this house, the house God gave, and how we may never move, we may never have a big yard (although it was impossible to convince him we might never have a dog), and that is good. We are blessed. He is good. And we remind him of Kuffa and Kahlid, the boys we stay connected to in Ethiopia, and Troy in Chinle, Arizona, and Javier and and Andrew from Mexico, of the children God loves and provides for–and how He gave us this home to serve, to love, to worship Him with what He has given, with what He continues to give.
And now, during this pandemic, with just the five of us (and the dog) within these four walls for many months, I ask God to continue to define Home. In the struggles and joys of being together. In the desire, sometimes, to also be apart. And almost all my writing, my poems, have been written here. A grounding place to ask God what He is doing, what I pray He still does in my heart.
We’ve talked about home as a topic for poetry. But let’s do it again. As a topic, it will feel different now. Because you are different now.
Perhaps revisit what you wrote a month or so ago, at the beginning of your sheltering in place. Consider what new thoughts and feeling you have about being home. Describe your house or your home. Share how you are being stretched or frustrated, how you are growing or you feel stuck. Tell a story about what home used to be like and what is it like now. Let yourself go deeper, surprising yourself with a new realization about yourself or how you think about home.
When you have written your poem, share it as a comment below and/or share it on social media using the hashtag #looppoetryproject. Invite us into something new. We can’t wait to read what you discover.
With love,
jennifer
To Build a House that Stands
I want to make sense of what doesn’t
as if,
if I let my mind roam
around for a bit,
cling to its collecting of all the forgotten things
they will matter—
I will make them matter.
I am desperate to make them matter.
As if fragments of mental pictures
depend on me to sort them,
make sense of chaos
and I can’t
always make it work.
And this is the moment
when all falls away,
when I mourn the death of possibility
when we all belonged:
working together to create a home.
12 Comments
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~Glory In the Waiting~
Dreaming of a brighter dawn,
Sun-kissed prayers rising in the air, floating on currents of hope.
Tumbling and twirling as they rise,
Through clouds sheltering troubles and mists of worry rain.
Rising still on wings beating with the heartbeat of faith,
Until they reach the threshold of glory.
Answering blessings that shower down like gold-flecked sparkles of divine love,
Each holding the promises of eternity.
Falling ever so gracefully, landing like soothing caresses on a weary heart.
Creation fervently calls and Creator faithfully answers.
Red-stained cheeks adorned with the gossamer tears of yesteryear,
Eyes shining with unspent joy gazing expectantly towards a horizon not yet seen.
The passage of time measured with every heartbeat, with every trembling breath.
Offering up clandestine dreams, concealed secrets, and treasured silent hopes,
A humble and yet eternally precious living sacrifice.
Consuming not unto death but unto life everlasting!
Hands clasped tightly together in supplication, awaiting the whispers of perfect peace.
Alighting the heart anew with fresh fire,
Blazing forth with heavenly precision to transform the derelict into the pristine.
The soul cries out and the Spirit faithfully answers.
Reverent amazement, innocent awe,
Words fleeing from conscious thought like the flitting of butterflies.
Breathless anticipation, star struck wonder.
The nail-scarred hands of grace open wide and receiving,
Mercy pouring out in crimson waves of righteousness.
Frozen in wonder, lips parted with unspoken praise.
The presence heavy, unable to stand.
Falling on bent knee,
A lifetime of searching to belong and finally finding Home.
Desperately trying to find the words,
every prose woefully inadequate,
every thoughtful articulation completely imperfect.
The child lowers their head, tears falling in a sonata that echoes the symphony of the spirit.
And with eyes lit up in unfathomable love,
Gazing in abject adoration,
The Savior already knows.
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Sharis, my heart is full when I read your words, so full of beauty and hope. It is heaven singing, surely, that I am hearing. Thank you. Such a gift to be caught up in the movement of the promise you share here. Beautiful.
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Hi Jennifer, I’m in a house I desperately want to move out of and grappling with the mighty hand of God in all of it.
I have a question: can you elaborate on these lines – And this is the moment
when all falls away,
when I mourn the death of possibility?
Does the death of possibility extend beyond the pandemic for you?
Thank you for your post and time, shayani
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Hi, Shaynani, I am praying now for God’s wisdom to guide you now. Big decisions can feel overwhelming. And He has such a good plan for you now. I love how you ask about the poem–but I sincerely hope that you, as the reader, will hear it speaking to you in the unique way you read and hear and know what is true. What is your moment when it feels that “all falls away”? When have you mourned “the death of possibility”? Or do you push back against the idea–and, rather, feel the invitation for new things and beginnings and hope?
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Time to move
This house
Once filled with joy and laughter
And boys and balls and lots of noise
With chaos and tears
And clothes lying everywhere
A sink full of dishes and an empty refrigerator as a given
This house
Is now tired
Of being empty
Of being quiet and unused
While knowing it is getting older every day
As we are -just the two of us – and the dog
Its time to move
Time to make room for lots of little feet again
For toys on the floor
And unwashed windows
For the smell of large meals
And family and friends
And weekends spent in the garden
And we- just the two of us -and the dog
Are longing for life again too
A new beginning
In a different place
A new place
A place He once again gives
And that we can call HOME.
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Beautiful..xxx
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Anita, the yearning in this poem is one I deeply feel. Thank you for sharing this picture of longing and waiting. This middle place of hope.
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Very nice Anita!
Does this poem signify that you’re an empty nester? The reason I’m asking is because I will be also in a few months. I am looking forward to foster children in my home.
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Lovely to hear your story and …Yes Jiahanna, my nest has been empty for about 10 years as our sons left for a different part of the country…1800 km away. While going through the transition and getting used to cooking smaller meals- it took 2 years!😆- I have started all sorts of new things , like making jewellery, overseeing a charity shop, renovating the house and now painting almost full time as. self taught artist the yearning for family gatherings hasn’t gone away.
Now that my husband is retired and working from home we are planning to move closer to them again but also starting over again…
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I have been so touch with the story of your home, just as I read this how I felt how real you’ve been more so for you knew when you and your husband saw this home how the Holy Spirit came upon you both and knew that The Lord led you both home just driving up that drive way when you saw this home The Lord had blessed you with you did even have to inside what Faith you both had that Your Heavenly Father had for you.and were Blessed with this. In myself had one many yrs ago and hoping to have another tho I know that my plans weren’t his I’m on my own and He has Blessed me with an apartment which is my palace from My Heavenly and know this will always be and am Blessed for my ways are not His TY so Much for sharing this for I now know more then anything He has this for me and here ill stay until He says different tho I’m very Blessed where He has me AMEN!!
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home is where the heart is
it was filled with all of us
laughing, crying, playing, fighting, eating, celebrating
it was safe
it was home
then it wasn’t
they separated
a clandestine leaving that i helped orchestrate
it was broken and couldn’t be fixed
then it was sold
the leaving was painful and sad
so many memories, so many
we carved names in the beams of the attic
he played the piano
and i wept
home became the place by the shore
footprints back to when we were infants
now a gathering place
it was filled with all of us
laughing, playing, eating, celebrating
it was safe, mostly
it was home
then it wasn’t
unfounded accusations, dredged up grudges no one knew about
hateful things said, deep hurts, open wounds
it was broken and couldn’t be fixed
then she died
home is where the heart is
it can only be where He is
only He can fix all that is broken
He restores and redeems
hearts are broken
we wait for His healing hand
to make all things new
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Nice to meet you, home.
This home hasn’t always felt this way, I remember when I first met you- a stranger at first shaking onto my hand. You were so different to our last home, our swingset had been replaced by a hill, my neighborhood friends had all been wished away with goodbye letters, you were a foreign place filled with tiny rooms to someone who didn’t understand why we had to leave everything I had once known. I remember my first night in my room, I was so young and so scared out of my wits to close my eyes because the sounds outside my window didn’t sound like home. I’m sorry to say that I compared you a lot to my old home, and it took me a while to finally open up to you. Despite my unwillingness to get to know you, you continued to give me so many fond memories. You remained a constant to return to no matter what I had faced that day, and as I grew in age with you, you were there for me to see it all. You’ve watched me face my fears and fill my heart with warmth, friendship and laughter. You watched me grow with each marking on the kitchen wall, and you tell us stories with every nook and cranny and creak of your flooring. You’ve witnessed me fall in despair and anger, and comforted me when I needed space. You became my sanctuary. My little get away when the world became too hectic to bear. Years have passed now and too soon I’ll have to say goodbye to you after first saying hello. I’m reluctant to let you go now that I’ve started to treasure how important you’ve been to me. As old friends parting ways on to their new adventures, this goodbye has been so very bittersweet, but I will always look back on you home and be grateful for the time we shared, and that one chance I had to meet you.