I’m not in a writing mood. But here’s what I have to say:
I had a wonderful date night with Noah yesterday. We went to a children’s play, out for a piece of cake, and then took a stroll with a steamed milk and a latte in paper cups. I think I’d like to do this forever, even when his milk morphs into a second latte. He opened doors for me. I listened to his thoughts without distraction. What a guy.
On Thursday afternoon, there was a downpour of rain in part of Houston, and a dry lightening storm in another part. Friends of ours were in the lightening storm. It struck their house, which caused a fire, which brought significant damage to property. Their baby boy turned one that day, and Eileen had been gearing up for his weekend party. She held the celebration, hosted by a friend instead, and that’s where today her father-in-law asked if I had driven by the house yet. No. I had thought about it. I decided it would be rather an invasion of privacy. One’s personal, sentimental, messy items, devoured and spit out by fire for all to see. They had enough help at the time, so I would merely be a spectator. Now, after the fact, it just sounds ugly and painful. Why would I want to see that? Because they’re my friends, and this is real. I should go.
“It’s just stuff.” True. Husband and wife and child (and visiting mother, God bless her) and healthy and whole. They’re surrounded by the community they’ve so many times embraced, often in that very house. Still. This summer, I had zoomed in on the “En Gedi” of Song of Songs’ chapter one. I carried the thought into my kitchen: Does it smell of welcome when my husband comes home after working a late night? It inspired my mothering: Are my children peaceable, because I’ve invested in them well during the day? My thoughts rested on my bedroom and living room: Are things tidy and warm, or chaotic? Is my attitude generous, or am I haughty today? En Gedi is important. It was historically a military place of haven. And it should/can, as a home-base, be a place of rest, relaxation, rejuvenation. “The wise woman builds her house” (Prov. 14:1). Eileen did that. Her home was filled with heirloom photos calling remembrance to a lineage of faithful marriages. She brought to her walls photos of places she and her husband loved, places they had built memories that spoke of peace and purpose. Her kitchen was filled with tools she used to cook for not just her family, but the countless people they hosted and blessed. My baby shower was hosted in her home, as was another dear friend’s… while Eileen waited for her own pregnancy.
Of course it was just stuff. To say otherwise is to leave your heart there among the dust and rubble. But it was a place of rest, also. Thankfully, peace in a place reflects only the Giver from whom that fruit flows, who is very much alive in my Eileen. I’m sorry, dear friend, that you lost your Place. I’m eager for the building of your New One. In the meanwhile, I praise God that He’s proven Himself personally and mightily, that your marriage is real, that your baby is one, that lightening struck during daylight, that you have a great cloud of witnesses with able arms, and that the Redeemer is steady as ever. If it sounds like a good idea, if he and you would enjoy it, I might like to replace James’ lamb.
