The Home and the Homemaker

A long, abandoned farm house in the middle of nowhere waited, through years, changing seasons, and the inevitable encroachment of nature. It waited for breath and heart beats. Memories of laughter and life echoed through its lonely halls. It stood alone, in stoic silence for so long that it eventually lost itself in a sort of deep sleep. Until the day she returned. It knew her instantly, though she was a woman now. How many years had it been? It couldn’t be sure but she was just a girl when it last saw her. 

She had to thrust all of her body weight at the dark, mahogany door to open it. She wandered through the house, tracing the walls and furniture with her fingertips, as though she were reading it by brail. She moved slowly, reacquainting herself with every corner and every detail, until she reached the shabby door of what used to be her grandmother’s guest room. 

The door opened with a crack, as she broke the seal formed by time. It was exactly as she remembered, from the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the ceiling, to the white-washed pine floors. She sat on the antique metal bed and bounced a little, chuckling as she remembered the screech of the springs. 

It didn’t take long for the tears to come. Isn’t it funny how the best memories make the biggest tears? Everything had been left untouched, since her grandmother’s passing. She ran her hands over the quilt on the bed. Her grandmother had made that quilt. Once, she had been down with the flu. Her grandmother had covered her with it, and sat by her bedside the entire night. 

“I remember you, grandma.” She said out loud, wiping the tears from her eyes. “I remember the apple pies you made. The way your hands looked covered in flour. The way you smelled of butter and cinnamon. I remember pulling raspberries, warm from the sun off of the bush and the way they tasted, sweet and tart and beautiful.”

“I remember laying on the floor and watching T.V. with you in the evening, while the breeze brushed past the curtains. You had the same phone number my whole life and no matter where I was, how long it had been between calls, no matter how late, you always answered, and you always listened. I miss that. I miss you.”

      Walls have ears and wood has a memory. The house sighed deeply. Every person has a purpose, depending on the person. Every house has a purpose and it's to be a home. Life was, once again, under this roof. 

     A truck pulled into the driveway. The sound of the door slamming pulled Colleen Donovan into the present. She ran down the creaky, old stairs and opened the door for the contractor. They walked every inch of the house talking about plans for renovation. 

 “You’ll take the master suite of course?” He said, pulling a pencil from behind his ear, jotting, showing a note.

“Uh... no…. actually I’m taking the guest room.” 

      He cast a confused look in her direction. “But this room is considerably smaller and…”

“I understand.” She replied, smiling, not expecting him to understand. 

     A crew of workers came. They sanded and stripped and painted and restored, but she wouldn’t let them touch the guest room. The house became a home again. She slept every night under the same glow-in-the-dark stars and hand stitched quilt from her childhood. 

      That little, white farm house was her soulmate and she thrived and bloomed there. She spent golden afternoons and purple twilights gardening, reading, and sipping tea. 

 A fall night came bringing a thick fog that covered the fields and orchards. She lit a fire and laid in the glow reading John Steinbeck in awe. The world was quiet and still, except for the homey pops and snaps of burning wood. Then, a gentle knock at the door brought her to her feet. She peered out a window and saw a man. He stood as tall and stately as an elm and he was singing softly to himself. 

      Now, Colleen was not a stupid woman and normally she would not open the door to a strange man in the middle of the night. But, she was inexplicably compelled. She opened the door a crack and looked up at him, straining to make out his features, in the dim porch light. 

 “Can I help you?” 

 “No. But I can help you.” His voice was low and yielding, a peculiar mixture of accents and tones. His presence reminded her of the feeling you get  when you’re trying to remember someone’s name and it’s right on the tip of your tongue, but you just can’t quite recall. 

“May I come in?” 

      She stepped back and opened the door wide, before she even realized what she was doing. He bowed his head to enter through the doorway. As he stepped into the light, she could see that he was blond, with clear, slate-gray eyes. He was all at once both stunning and unremarkable. 

 “Can I get you some tea?” She asked, walking towards the kitchen. 

     “Yes, please.” As she made busy, lighting the stove and filling the kettle, she marveled at herself. She was completely at ease, comfortable even. She placed mugs on the counter and sat across the table from him. 

     “Who are you?” 

 “I am a messenger.”  His eyes were fixed to hers and she suspected that he could read her thoughts.

 “ And you have a message for me?” 

“I do.” He nodded. About that time, the little yellow kettle hissed and sputtered. She prepared the tea in easy silence... the kind of comfortable, quiet familiarity that normally  develops through years of companionship. She sat the cup before him. 

“Okay…” she said, returning to her chair. She watched the chamomile steam rising from her cup for a moment, then looked up at her messenger. 

“Your children are waiting for you,” he said, in a feather-light tone, barely above a whisper. Somehow he loved her, she knew it. She furrowed her brows, confused. 

“I have no children. The doctor said I wasn’t able…”

“That is true, and still your children wait for you.” He drew a deep, long drink from his cup and then continued. “You are a homemaker. It’s your calling. You will share your gift with all different types of children. Some will stay with you a while,others will stay just a short time. But, all of them will remember you and this place.” He scanned the cozy little kitchen with the herbs growing in the window and the faded brick fireplace, and he smiled. Maybe, the only genuine smile she’d ever seen. “It will be hard. Anything worthwhile is. You know that. But the good will far outweigh the bad.” He finished his tea, stood and made his way to the door. 

“Wait!” She was fighting away tears. Tears composed purely of joy, overflowing. “I still don’t understand!” Her eyes begged for answers. 

He turned to her, with the knowing devotion of a father.  “Your understanding will become clearer in the morning. What’s meant to be will come to pass. It’s not up to you to design.” He left, walking into the apple orchard beyond the house. She began to forget him the moment she closed the door. By morning he was completely gone from her memory, but his message remained.

       That day, she signed up to be a foster parent. She signed the papers, took the classes, and within two week’s time, she opened the door to her first child. A painfully thin, wide-eyed, ghost, with bruises head to toe. She was filthy, tangled and traumatized. Colleen had no idea how she could possibly help this child. Five years old, nearly to the day, but she would not speak and her eyes were empty. So, Colleen gave her a bath, combed her hair, and gave her the guest room. She too slept beneath the glow-in-the-dark stars and a hand-stitched quilt, just as Colleen. 

In the morning, the little girl awoke to the homey smell of pancakes. In that house she learned about hugs and comfort and the stunningly simple pleasure that is banana bread. She was resurrected by the sounds of Carol King on the kitchen radio, rain slapping the windows, and the never-ending hum of an old, metal fan. The simplicities of home brought that girl to life. 

      There were many more over the years. They came broken and often left mended. Some of them were harder to love than others. Colleen felt her humanity then. She grew the most and loved the hardest, and sometimes wondered if any of it mattered at all. 

     When she was old, too old to take on any more children, they returned to her. One by one, they were all drawn back to that little farm house and the room with the glow-in-the-dark stars and that old hand-stitched quilt. 

     Those children, her children, who she had loved and set free, went out into the world and became important people. They were doctors, architects, blue-collared workers who came home and poured love over their families. The closest to her heart were the home makers. 

      That old farm house always knew its calling and it never considered that it may not be able to fulfill that calling. It never discounted itself as unimportant or unworthy. It knew that the seeds of life are planted at home and the effects of that place, home, are incalculable. It waited, dormant for its other half. The home maker. And together, they touched the world, as only they could.