*** *** ***
Before the reflection, the following was read:
Hear, O Israel: The Lord is our God, the Lord alone. You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your might. Keep these words that I am commanding you today in your heart. Recite them to your children and talk about them when you are at home and when you are away, when you lie down and when you rise. Bind them as a sign on your hand, fix them as an emblem on your forehead, and write them on the doorposts of your house and on your gates.
~ Hebrews 3:3-4
*** *** ***
It’s a shell, an empty space,
walls, rooms, floors,
a kitchen that might have prepared
food in the past
but it was unfamiliar food that was cooked,
for someone else to eat
It's a shell, an empty space
until we move in
that day, there's Chinese take-out, eaten on the floor
a still-packed moving box
serving as the table
someone once told me
(she was in a military family,
and moved every couple years for a while)
that the first thing she did in a new shell, a new empty space
was to hang pictures on the walls
doing so provided some immediate familiarity
she told me
I wondered, also,
if that served to transfer some memories
a sense that the empty shell
might become home before long
the last time I moved
we brought the bikes & books,
furniture and photos
that had been part of life in the previous house
and of course the giant, heavy,
awkward, hand-me-down swingset
to set up in the back yard
the new place was an empty shell, and became home
only when the swingset got swung on
(and climbed on)
when familiar books were read
while sitting on familiar furniture
when we cooked familiar food
in an unfamiliar kitchen
because despite the familiarity of the things
despite how full the rooms were with the stuff
the house was still an empty shell
it only became a home
when the memories started to be made
when laughter echoed from the walls
when sorrows sought and found consolation
when family and community gathered
when love was shared
see, a house is simply an empty shell
until a home is created
and home is the place, or condition
or community
or family
or reality
in which we feel cared for
safe,
and loved
walls, rooms, floors,
a kitchen that might have prepared
food in the past
but it was unfamiliar food that was cooked,
for someone else to eat
It's a shell, an empty space
until we move in
that day, there's Chinese take-out, eaten on the floor
a still-packed moving box
serving as the table
someone once told me
(she was in a military family,
and moved every couple years for a while)
that the first thing she did in a new shell, a new empty space
was to hang pictures on the walls
doing so provided some immediate familiarity
she told me
I wondered, also,
if that served to transfer some memories
a sense that the empty shell
might become home before long
the last time I moved
we brought the bikes & books,
furniture and photos
that had been part of life in the previous house
and of course the giant, heavy,
awkward, hand-me-down swingset
to set up in the back yard
the new place was an empty shell, and became home
only when the swingset got swung on
(and climbed on)
when familiar books were read
while sitting on familiar furniture
when we cooked familiar food
in an unfamiliar kitchen
because despite the familiarity of the things
despite how full the rooms were with the stuff
the house was still an empty shell
it only became a home
when the memories started to be made
when laughter echoed from the walls
when sorrows sought and found consolation
when family and community gathered
when love was shared
see, a house is simply an empty shell
until a home is created
and home is the place, or condition
or community
or family
or reality
in which we feel cared for
safe,
and loved
