A house, a home

The house was on a street lined with tall, mature trees.  It was what most appealed to me about the neighborhood.  It seemed so pretty and quaint.  My own yard had three huge oak trees, a tall pine tree, and a flowering ‘fruit’ tree.  The backyard was big enough for young kids to play in. When I first moved into my house, it seemed just perfect.  Moving from an apartment to a house will give you that feeling.  So much room!  Finally two bathrooms!  Two living areas!  An enormous kitchen with more counter space than I knew what to do with!  I couldn’t contain my excitement.  Perfect. 

Cut to 16 years later, foundation repairs and many remodels and redecorating.  It’s an old house; now 41 years old.  It’s still my house but sometimes it just feels like my old house.  A house that needs repairs and updates and more care than I want to give it. But every day when I walk into my house, it’s my home.  There’s pride and dignity there.  It’s a home that has seen a lot of hard work; and a home where every nook and cranny has been truly lived in.  It’s a home where children have been loved and nurtured.  It has seen a lot of physical, emotional and spiritual growth.  It’s a home that has seen tears; but a great deal much more joy than can be conceived. 

Two years ago I thought I saw some cherries on the fruit tree.  Alas, they were not.  I still don’t know what that fruit tree is.  But it’s perfect, just like my house.