The Old House

Once upon a time in a place long long ago, there was a long dirt road that led through golden fields to a large wooden house whose paint had long chipped off and whose roof was barely hanging on.  The road had not been traveled on in many years, and the field on its edges had creeped onto the road like a disease spreads through the body.  The winds would chase each other through the fields and up and down the road.  They would race to the old house and clap the shutters.  They would whistle through the old windows and chill the bones of the empty dwelling.  The rains would come and soak the house.  The roof would leak and the beams would swell.  Watery mirrors would form on the floors and the stars would soon shine from the puddles in the old house.

The house felt alone, and cried each night at the darkness of its bowels.  It had been much too long since light had filled its rooms, and laughter echoed through its halls.  There was an ancient clock on the wall whose hands were frozen, in fear their motion would cause death of the old world.

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I wrote this in church last sunday… guess I wasn’t really listening to the talk.  Not sure what it means… but I have a feeling I see myself in that old house a little bit right now.  Waiting for light to shine inside again.  Hoping for joy.  Remembering what it felt like to be full of life, and wishing to once again feel the bliss of vibrant energy.  Wanting to let go of the past and accept the future and the now of what life is like for a mid-twenties husband/dad.