Therapeutic musings mixed with humorous ramblings and sometimes spiritual notations of life as I know it in written form. A diary of my heart inspired by life.
Friday, May 13, 2011
Scars Tell a Story
Saturday is my cleaning day.... Has been for years. I usually have till noon to myself which gives me time to crank up the radio and tackle my dust bunnies. We have been blessed to live in a very old house that was built in 1927. Fortunately the house had been occupied by the same owners for 50 years when we bought it. Unlike a lot of home of that age, the interior of our home remained pretty much untouched by "updates". The original oak trim remain unpainted, the oak floors with walnut inlay remain intact. The house was even fortunate enough to have the original light fixtures throughout much of the house. Except for the kitchen area which we reconfigured, we have been very reluctant to change anything of substance in the house. When doing the kitchen our main priority was when it was completed it look as if it was still original to the house. We really feel more like guardians than owners. So, every Saturday I get up close and personal with my hardwood and tile. There are many, many scars on the floors, nicks on doors here and there that we haven't "fixed" because something about those nicks and scratches seem to tell a story... Not only about us, but about the time before we lived here. That's what we love about old homes. The history they hold in the walls, the architecture, the floors. When we were buying the home, the Grandson of the owner showed us through and explained some of the scars that were apparent on the hardwood floors. Something about those stories just make it impossible for me to "fix" the flaw which in my mind would cover up the story. It takes a special kind of person to live in an old house. Someone who is comfortable with the past and can over look the less than pristine. Some days I would love to come home to a nice new home with carpet and central heat and air. But on Saturdays when I'm cleaning my drafty home and dusting the endless nooks and crannies, I cherish the old and I look at the scars as works of art from a generation passed. My heart is a little like the hardwood floors in my home.... It has a lot of nicks, scratches and scars. Each scar tells a story and is a testimony that life goes on, regardless of what happens, life goes on. It also gives me hope that although my heart may not be pristine and flawless, it is a work of art and an expression of a faithful God who never promised we wouldn't have hurts, but has the ability to weave each and every hurt into a tapestry that tells not only our story, but the story of His love for us.