A Life That I Love

Our road is most likely similar to many other rural lime rock roads. Rutted and overgrown in places by grass and weeds, with low spots that collect the rain and high spots that shun it. A very ordinary lime rock road indeed. Dusty and bumpy, with overgrown shoulders.

Should I find it hard then, to explain why it would produce such comforting emotions in me, by simply making the turn down it at the end of a day at work? Or even on a day off, when I’ve been wandering, which is one of my favorite things to do, there is something that welcomes me as soon as I pass the mailboxes at the end. It is an embrace that begins at the corner and grows warmer and tighter the further down the road I come.

I guess it is obvious, I suppose, that it is the home at the end, that beckons and whispers in my ear, but there are so many pieces and parts that make this place a home. The familiar gate, the canine faces that appear and bark and whine, just within it, as if to sing a song of welcome to a lonely traveler’s heart. The paws that bounce off my legs, no matter how many times I have scolded them to stay down, that in fact are just a part of the song and dance that is hello. A bit of roguish misbehavior that has never quite been trained away, perhaps because I secretly love the act and what it means.

The ragged yard that is never quite evenly cut with random holes dug in the chase of some bug, unseen. The messy flower beds that never seem to grow exactly what is planted in exactly the way they were planned. Trees in need of trimming, weeds in need of pulling, shredded toys in need of discarding. Steps in need of sweeping, leading to a porch that always has an odd assortment of things that decidedly, do not belong on a porch but never seem to find their way back to where they do belong. A porch with a swing for sitting that never quite has enough open space to allow much sitting at all.

On those days when I am the last one home, sometimes if my timing is right, the door opens and the one who makes this old house in need of much, seem so abundant and so much like the best house around to be coming home to, smiles a “hello”. Not just a simple “hello”, though not flamboyant, but one that means so much more because not only is it spontaneous but because I know it is mirrored on my own face. Our smiles of greeting for each other are complete, they are not just a passing gesture of the mouth but a choreographed movement that engulfs the whole of our faces, from laughing eyes to the affectionate tilt of our heads.

Why should this messy, ill kept, dusty old house reach out to hug my soul so? Because it holds all that makes a life. The memories and mementos of time spent between best friends. The odd ticket stub or yard sale find that never quite found its place. The empty box saved for some long forgotten use that once held some long forgotten treasure. Dusty pictures on the dusty mantle of days gone by but fondly remembered. A perfect example of what makes a structure a shelter, a shelter an abode, a house a home.

The cross on the wall reminds me of how much I am blessed and how much I have been blessed. It represents the One that is greater than either or both of us. The One who made sure we met, in the most unlikely way. The One who pushed us back together when one or both of us were ready to call it quits. The One who blessed us with more than a love but a friendship and a camaraderie that rises above the romance of a young love to a kind of joining together that mere love or lust could never attain or sustain.

This rutted and overgrown lime rock road draws me back and welcomes me in because it leads to a life that I love, with all its trials and troubles. A house that is home and a heart that is true and ruthless in its love and friendship. A comforting hug, a hand in mine. A place where I will always matter, a soul that will always care for me. A dog in a window, steps that will always lift me back up, and a porch light that will always show me my way home.

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