The death of a home
The death of a home
I looked out the kitchen window this afternoon and noticed the house across the street was nothing more than a pile of broken rubble. For a moment I was sad. I don’t know why. I had
never met the people who lived in the house, nor did I know anything about them. I guess I was sad because the house was gone. Silly, don’t you think. But, I had seen that house every day for the last twenty years. As I stared at the heap of broken walls and busted concrete, it made me think of how much it reminded me of a person’s life.
It was born. It rose on its foundation, built with newly purchased 2x4s, drywall, brick and fresh paint. Shiny and new, it longed to become a home, not just a house. It craved the laughter of children, the cries of booboos, singing and dancing, birthday parties, Christmas trees, the smell of food being prepared in the kitchen, and the words of love as the children were tucked in for the night.
As it aged, it has its share of misfortunes: falling limbs from an ice storm had damaged the roof, its interior paint faded, the ceilings sagged, the drywall cracked, pipes sprung leaks, carpets grew dingy, outside trim needed fixing and painting. But, its loving family took care of it. The house was happy. With time, things change.
The hardest day was when the children moved out to homes of their own. They continued to visit, but only at Christmas and on their birthdays. The saddest day – the day Mother died. The house had been full of mourners and the smell of fried chicken, but it had only lasted a day. At some point, Father lost his memory and had to be placed in another home; a home where someone could watch over him.
Now our house was alone. It longed for music and laughter, but the rooms were dark and silent. It longed for opening and closing doors, but all the doors had padlocks. It craved its family, but they never returned. For years it sat there alone and forgotten. It wished it could cry, but all its utilities had been shut off. And then one day it died.
A bulldozer appeared yesterday and this morning tore down the house across the street. It was if a grave was being dug. Soon, there will be nothing there, only a barren patch of dirt. A new house or commercial property will probably rise in the ashes of our house, and in the years to come, our house will be forgotten.
Sadly, the same can be said of some people. We are born, we grow; we share our lives with family. We have families of our own. We live, love, laugh and cry. At a given time, our children leave. Hopefully, they will visit. One day we wake up, and we’re old. One day we wake up, and our life-partner has passed away. We are alone, and in time, we die. A bulldozer digs our grave. In the years to come, we are forgotten.
Sorry if this sounds depressing, but there is a shining light. It’s called a promise; a promise made by a loving God who has looked over us all our lives. Our deaths are not the end, but only the beginning. For God has prepared a place for us. A place where we will spend eternity in his presence, basking in his love. We will be among family and friends. We will be home.