No Place Like Home

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I guess the baby boomers of the post WWII era dreamed of something like this. The little house with a picket fence wife and two children and a dog, church on Sunday, matinees on Saturday mornings, picnics or barbecues. Malt shops and skating rinks, the barber shop and the beauty shop, the corner grocery store, the five and dime, and the drug store. This is the very thing I love about old movies. They captured the family values of the American dream and gave it to millions of people around the world.

Girls still wore dresses and jeans weren’t as commonplace. Ladies wore hats and gloves. Men wore fedoras. There were no seat belts or car seats, not the number of highways or speed limit we have now. Sunday dinners were routine, and everyone said grace and ate supper together. Imagine that, ” How was your day, dear? “,  ” What did you do at school, today, son? ” You had to ask to be excused and didn’t have to be told over and over about elbows on the table or talking with your mouth full.  If the phone rang, the father would get and they were told you’d call back later, after your homework was done. Not texting, no bluetooth, no wi-fi and thank you Lord, no telemarketers! But there were door to door salesmen and peddlers.

That may not be everyone’s idea of a home but sounds great to me. It’s certainly not the chaos of a 9 to 5, both parents working ( and there’s nothing wrong with that ) house, daycare, school, traffic, cell phones, laptops.  After school programs, soccer games, hope the crock pot recipe turned out, the children run in, grab sandwiches or microwave a pizza. Homework, texting, tweeting, video games, social media.  Life is much easier in many ways, but also more complicated. Communication depends on typing, cursive handwriting is a thing of the past, people read e-books.  Nothing wrong with it, but I like to hold it, smell the library smell or fresh crisp, hot off the press pages.  I like to hold the photographs instead of seeing them go by on a screen.

It’s better to hear a voice than leave a voice mail. Hug someone instead of waving at them on Skype.  Face to face is better, more personal, so is conversation, so is prayer. I used to think about my house, and it wasn’t this one, the lifestyle wasn’t the same either, but the peace was, the joy  the love…the personal touches that make a house, any house a home.

I dreamed of my house with a a library and a big desk, a place for all my books and a place to write, not dark or musty but light with a window and a cottage feel. I always dreamed of a house with a huge living room and two white couches facing each other, a couple of black and white striped Old Hollywood style chairs and a gas fireplace. I just can’t tolerate smoke. I guess now it cold have a big screen television, but I always want a black baby grand piano.  I wanted my home to be filled with laughter and music and the love of Christ to radiate through it, everyday and on holidays. I thought it would be ideal to have a husband to pray with you, read with you, and to you, worship with you.  A girl can dream can’t she?

Whether you live in an apartment or mansion, a house with a white picket fence or a gated community, in a shelter or on sofa…you are not homeless. You have a home with Jesus, He’s what makes any house a home.  And He has room for everyone will believe in heaven, I heard about a boy who wanted an amusement park in his backyard, his grandmother, who is in the ministry, says,he’ll probably get it. Let’s slow down a little, so we might all catch up to Him. Rebecca Jones/ public domain

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