A house is not a home…

“For in this we groan, earnestly desiring to be clothed

upon with our house which is from heaven.

If so be that being clothed we shall

 not be found naked...”

- 2 Corinthians 5:2,3:

Bible, King James

Everything was gone.  The house was empty and yet it seemed smaller…

It had been a couple of months since last we saw one another, and while the movement of time had been the same for both of us, a universe of change had occurred.  The inclination of descent into darkness seemed to have accelerated at a faster rate than I had expected.

My sister stays in an assisted living facility in Missouri.  ‘Assisted living’…that would be the broadest of ways to describe her place of residence.  The wing where she lives is called “Harmony Hall,” the portion of the facility where Alzheimer’s patients find themselves.

Harmony Hall – the ultimate euphemism for confinement…”Oh yes, my loved one stays in Harmony Hall at the assisted living facility where she lives.”  It has an almost melodic ring, doesn’t it?

While she is safe and well taken care of, ‘harmony’ is not the first word that comes to mind when visiting.  She is the youngest person living in her unit, where all of the residents, to one degree or another, find themselves in diminishing worlds of reality – worlds of thought known only to themselves.

Leaving home

With her departure – when it became clear there would be no return – Nancy’s home became simply a house; an empty space where a lifetime of personal things quite suddenly had no place…no context…nowhere to fit in.  The photo’s on the mantle, just photos – while familiar…the circumstance for their placement now missing, their meaning now unspoken.  The furniture arranged by a keen eye with a rationale…now just furniture.  Little curiosities around the place, the kinds of personal little things we all gather in our lives, no longer having a story teller to advocate their meaning…now just curiosities.  While her things were still in the house, there was a feeling of vacancy and a small but lingering sense of intrusion, brought about by her absence. 

Once the course of no return was clear, the house would need to be cleaned up, cleared up and touched up to see if it could attract a new occupant who would have the opportunity to take possession; a new occupant who would have the opportunity to arrange their furniture…place their photos…put their little curiosities around, making this house…their home.

It’s not that easy

None of this, of course, just happens.  After all, when you go to the market place hoping someone will like you enough to take you on, you must be spruced up…you know, look your very best.  Any house knows it cannot do it without help, so in come the workers and the task commences.  Lots of things begin to happen…carpets removed…kitchen emptied of its appliances, cabinets, sink and flooring…bathroom fixture all gone…all gone. 

Time for a fresh coat of paint, new carpet, appliances, flooring, bathroom fixtures…why if you didn’t know it, you would have little idea these things had been done once before, when this structure had put on its best appearance longing to attract someone to its empty, sterile rooms, waiting…hoping to be occupied and changed from a house into a home.  Someone did, and that someone was my sister…she made that house into her home.

It was a good run you know.  That Nancy Jeanne knew how to turn a house…yes indeed, she knew how to bring love and joy and laughter, where nobody that walked through the door was a stranger…where hospitality began with a capital ‘H’ and ended with a capital ‘Y!’  It was the legacy under which she had been raised, and she carried the tradition with enthusiasm.  She had the kind of charisma that willed the four walls of that house to be a home…her home or anyone else’s who happened to be visiting.  Yes, it was a damn fine home and a damn fine run wasn’t it?…wasn’t it?  It was fine…wasn’t it?

That was then

Now they both sit waiting.

One with hope to once again be filled with ornaments in its nooks and crannies –  making it unique and different, given new life by its new occupant…hoping to become a home once again.  For you see, houses don’t always become homes…sometimes they just remain houses.  A house doesn’t always get the opportunity to become a home.

The other?  Ah yes the other.  She just waits.  She had that special gift…she knew the secret that making a house a home was a collaboration between the two…you couldn’t just buy a place and move in…there was more, so much more.  She understood it took love and elbow grease to transform and give that building personality…life…light…you know…make it a home!!

But now her time seems to have passed, so she sits in her little room in Harmony Hall and waits…a bed, a comfortable chair, a wide screen television, a common gathering area just down the hall from that little room where there are…well, things to do, food to eat and “…others who in one degree or another, find themselves in diminishing worlds of reality – worlds of thought known only to themselves….”

Yes indeed, there are secrets in so many of those minds – secrets that were exercised in vibrancy and energy and focus and productivity and love and laughter – that are increasingly locked away as they wait...as their loved ones wait…relegated to brief, shallow monologues hoping to elicit a glimpse of the world that once was, the paradise lost. 

Is there meaning?

Empty houses reflect two possibilities – the coming and the going.  One a ‘hello,’ and the other a ‘good-bye’…the ‘hello’ filled with an anticipation of challenge and excitement… the ‘good-bye,’ a bit of sadness and melancholy at the inevitability of change. 

My sister’s home has become a house as surely as her mind has begun to slip away toward an unknown place of residence.  Her ‘…furniture, fixtures and curiosities…’ seem to have lost their context…so she waits.  Almost everything is gone, and of little doubt, she seems much smaller.

Somehow though, I believe she still has a secret up her sleeve; somehow I believe she knows there is a new home waiting for her special touch – her gift; somehow I believe she knows…

How could I not?

ted