I began composing this soon after a summer visit with my parents. It took me a while to complete, but better late than never, as they say.

This Old House

        Parts of the ceiling are falling in.  Mildew dots the walls filling the air with a musty aroma.  Wispy remnants of cobwebs haunt the corners, while abandoned dirt dauber nests adorn the door frames.  Floor tiles are coming loose everywhere revealing concrete underneath.  A refrigerator once guarded a family’s perishables in the kitchen, but its spot is now empty as are the cupboards, save for a deceased cockroach or two.  The once sparkling windows are dirtier than they have ever been making it hard to imagine that this old house used to be a home – my home, the place of my childhood.

        Mom and I stand at the bathroom door taking in the broken vanity, crumbling wall paper (which she so carefully put up years ago), and bathtub full of dirt and grime.  A sigh escapes her lips.  “It’s sad,” she says wistfully, “seeing the place look like this.”

        I put my arm around her shoulders and reply, “It is.”  I pause before continuing, “I think of all the times you cleaned this bathroom – now look at it.”  Mom nods.  “Makes me think you shouldn’t spend so much time cleaning things,” I end with a grin and another squeeze.”

        Turning from the bathroom doorway to face the living room, the past suddenly becomes the present as I see Dad putting lights on the Christmas tree which proudly stands by his chair. It’s a “real” tree of course, for nothing artificial will do.  Mom bustles about the kitchen making her traditional toffee square cookies; for it just isn’t Christmas without them.

        I see myself at the piano playing “Victory in Jesus” for the hundredth time.  (It’s Dad’s favorite.) And now Dad, hot and sweaty, is coming in from the garden with a bucket full of peas to shell.

        Mom cries in the hallway as we say goodbye; I’m heading to college. But there I am, back again in the living room, trying on my wedding dress which Mom painstakingly created for me.

        How many Bible discussions have we had in this living room? How many good night hugs and kisses in my bedroom?  How many visiting preachers ate at that table?  Too many to count, but each is a precious thread in the fabric of my life.

        Indeed, there are a lot of memories in this old house, and it is sad to see it well past its prime.  Its decay stands as a vivid reminder that “what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.”[1] 

Things change.  My parents live in a new house not many yards from this one.  I now live in a different town with a family of my own.  I think of Dad every Christmas as I’m in charge of the tree lights at our house, though ours is an artificial tree. (Dad finally caved in and bought a “fake” one himself last year.)  I still play “Victory in Jesus”, only now it’s at the church my husband pastors.  I’m bustling about the kitchen baking the cookies. And soon my tears will fall as I send my child to college. (Though I'm counting on help with wedding dresses when the time comes.)

        The walls, ceiling, and floor of this old house may be crumbling, but the solid foundation, warm memories, and sacrificial love my parents gave me here are strong and extending well into the next generation.

        “Unless the Lord builds the house, its builders labor in vain,” [2] the Bible says.

Thanks, Mom and Dad, for building on the Lord and providing a sturdy home that has stood the test of time.