Home, it’s here, right here where it’s always been before it was even a whisper in a
builders’ heart. There was a purpose to it just as there is to everything in life. In his
labored hands, he knew not the reason but he was impelled to bring a purpose upon it
toward the future for which it now resides and for all the seasons down through
Herein dwells the most amazing stories of life and love and loss.
It’s not a big house, instead, a humble one that carried the cries of newborn eyes and its
walls were arms that held them tight. The house was a holding place for testing out trials
and receiving joy.
Never was there a kindness given without the essence of receiving.
The curtains absorbed the laughter and shared it with the wind blowing through the
windows on a springtime day.
A ray of light still shines upon sentimental trinkets roaming the atmosphere of this
A mother’s comfort for a skinned knee still echoes softly throughout this home.
One can still see the evidence of loved little creatures whose names are spelled in silence.
With every desire, there is a cost but within this place, it’s all free.
This house still hears the remembrance of every knock on the door, every picture
from the walls and the footsteps still left behind, captured and stored within.
How can a house hold so much memory for so long and not spill over and out onto the
land? Each memory sprinkled like freshly fallen snow.
Captured within here, are the tender hearts of children, reaching for life that is still
laid out before them untold.
It stretches far and wide and it crosses years and lives of old. What is held within a house
is the heart that is beating for another success in life. Just one more child to grow and
one more story to be told.
Still here are the harmonious sounds of goals attained and rewards given.
Herein lies the truth about life and death and growing old.
Within the veins of this humble holding, lies the beautiful unfolding of everything,
everything! Even that to which is still unknown.
A house can capture a heart and you can even hear it singing
from the walls. Gently, ever so gently, like the breath of a child that lays sleeping and
dreaming about tomorrow. Within this house, there is always tomorrow. Whatever pain
that left a trace of fear was calmed by the love that was shared and the courage that was
made to continue on an on. Life is not a journey to an end, for there is so much more.
So much more to learn and grow and inspire and even to leap with excitement over the
tiniest accomplishments written on the doors. The news of these days never faded away
but is still in tune with morning routines, like breakfast laid out on the table and made
with love and a shout that still rings, the bus is coming. You must not miss it.
There are echoes here of scribbled papers and golden stars that were given for a job well done.
Beautiful insights are captured in a mother’s journal late at night.
In writing, she treasured pink ribbons, marbles or a butterfly or two which belonged to
her children that she held so dear.
How beautiful a place that lets a journey?
live on in other lives and other homes. Those homes that grow and live and cry. They don’t think it does, but it was purposed to never end.
Life passes from one heart to another and there is one tear that
is shed to remember and to never forget from where it came. I tiny house can hold a
mountain within if it is given the chance to thrive. This house still stands
because it is cherished, and it was labored in love and hope for the future. It’s tiny little
windows kept out the cold and held the promise of another day and another and
From one wish that stretched a lifetime, still grows and still sings its joyful tune. You
can’t reside within this home and not know that. You can’t grow up without ever
knowing how much you were loved and cherished and treasured. A house is a home for
just moments in the steam of time but the memories all connect from one generation to
another and from one tiny house forward the prospects for success. Take just one step
and you have turned a page in this story that spreads out a carpet that leads to promises
kept and rewarded and honored. A house is not just a house, but family interchanged and
so tightly connected. One should let go and yet still hold on reaching and growing with
every step and motion. It’s the child-like cry of a wounded knee and the captured
comfort from loving care that keeps this story going on without end. The people do not
own this house it is owned by love and commitment and perseverance, hard work and
prayer. This joy within is where the plates were once sitting upon those frilly little
placements that used to hold so much emotion. It could tell its own stories. It’s just the
steps taken every day, on and on and on without let-up or disappointment or getting lost
in confusion or pain. A house can only hold what you give it, whether tender care or fear.
It can be angry and scary, but it can be beautiful and enduring as well. We make our
homes to live in but our homes carry us through our lives, always connecting hearts to
hearts and spirits to the wind with a careful course and a purpose What our hearts cannot contain is held in the cupboards and the drawers and anywhere really, that memories are stored. They are just there waiting to be discovered by another family and
another life and another journey. One can leave home and never forget where they grew
up and the trials and tribulations of that day. I do know that here within my house, our
house, our home, there will always live generations beyond these doors and much love
more and more.