Home Tattoos

The entirety of my life is inside my house. I wake up and come downstairs and the day begins. Sometimes I am up every few hours during the night and those a s "clocked hours" too. My life is bound inside this house, yet it really has nothing to do with this physical space but only the people in it. Sometimes it's only the people who live here with me, but frequently I invite others in and they become my "work" too. There are days in which I don't even step outside to get the mail or go to the garage. There are days in which the hours creep by ever so slowly and other days in which the hours fly by and I can't keep up.

There are reminders in my house of the good and the bad. The dent on the floor by the front door when my brother-in-law and his wife were visiting and he dropped their computer and dented the hardwood. I was so mad at the time for his clumsiness but now I look at that mark and remember that fun weekend. They are now separated.

My living room was regularly full of friends and acquaintances from church. When I look at our couches I can see the leader and his wife sitting there from my memory. We all had our usually seating place. Looking at the other living room I can see my friend and I sitting on the couches and my mind remembers the hard conversation one morning over a cup of coffee. It was the beginning of almost a year of angst between us. So many lies we both heard about who the other was. Yet when I look at that couch I also remember the fun times with the same friend on Wine Friday--kids occupied in the other room and use two chatting and laughing.

In my home there are evidences that children live here. Toys on the floor, kid socks discarded on the couch, pictures colored and taped on the wall. Right now there's a 12th Man theme. A few months ago there was a six-foot wide storyboard drawing about Christmas that my daughters collaborated on with a friend. This home isn't going to be Pottery Barn perfect because my kids and I aren't Pottery Barn perfect.

I look around my house and see my not-so-good moments too. The things I've kicked in and broken because I was frustrated with my life and responsibilities. The piece of the stairs I had to repair with wood glue because I threw something at it and it broke. The door I kicked and dented one morning when we were trying to get out of the house on time. These marks are reminders of my redemption. I need Jesus. For so long I didn't see that simple fact. I cannot and I did not save myself. I need Jesus. The broken door frames shouts at me when I forget. I need Jesus. I do not feel condemned, but I am reminded of my need and then of his grace.