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This photo evokes so many memories. I can picture Mom sitting on the couch, trying to hear the television while we all gabbed sitting around the old living room. I can picture Dad in his favorite chair telling a story about some infraction that happened on one of his bills, or a high-priced grocery item he found for less elsewhere. Many laughs were shared in this room, and a few tears were shed. Lessons were learned, and love surrounded those who entered.

This is the home of part of my youth where we moved when I was about twelve. We left old memories--ghosts if you will--and began a new life in the home on Highland.

Mom became well and strong in this place putting behind the sadness she had carried for so long. There were woods behind the house and all sorts of new creatures: raccoons, chipmunks, rabbits, squirrels and deer. For my mother, someone who adored animals, it was a Disney dream-come-true.

I can see countless beloved cats and dogs lined before my mother; each with adoration in their eyes vying for her attention. And I can see Mom stroking each one, talking to them in that special way she reserved for her dear animals as if they understood every word.

This home holds a place of peace and solitude in my heart. It carries memories of holidays, birthdays, and wonderful meals cooked. It welcomed friends and relatives old and new. It became a steadfast rock of Gibraltar to us all. It welcomed the birth of my dear brother.

In later years, my son would come to know and love this house. He would learn that his grandparent's stories were special and to be treasured. That their legacy was something to keep alive long after they were gone.

There's a golden glow to this photo, as if the Lord placed a blessing over this precious room, this house so dear to me. I would come to know God as true Love while living there. My parents had a simple faith, a quiet faith. But their lessons came from how they treated each other and everyone they knew. My mother said that everyone has a story and I learned that they did.

Home in a small town. A place where simplicity thrived. A time when goodness was in the very fiber of lives well-lived. Let me visit there for a moment, but let me not tarry too long. For sadness may begin to creep in as I walk the path of memory lane. And at least for today, I'd like the memories to be ones filled with nothing but happiness.

When a House is Truly a Home

When I was twelve years old, my parents told me that we were going to be moving soon. They'd been looking for a new house in a different area of our small town. I must say that I wasn't too upset by the prospect, after all, my best friends would still be fairly close by. And a fresh, new start is exactly what our topsy turvy lives needed. We'd just been through hell and back with bouts of mental illness with my mother. Though she'd been hospitalized many times throughout my young years and hadn't even known who she was during the worst of it, Mom became completely well--healed and whole. We had no idea how the miracle had occurred, but to my father, it meant a clean slate was also necessary. Too many sad and frightening memories in the house I'd grown up in.

The day they brought me to the house on Highland, I knew it would be a place of magic; of life, love, and goodness. There were two back yards! A smaller one bordering woods with a rustic firepit, and the main yard with so many trees and greenery! I'd grown up in the cement jungle in town, with barely a patch of front or back yard.

This new home had the most adorable screened porch off to the back-- perfect for viewing nature and the little raccoons who would soon become like friends in a Disney movie. There was a paneled basement with a custom-made wooden bar, and even though my parents weren't drinkers, to a young girl, it would mean hours of playtime and imagination.

My room held two twin beds and had windows that viewed the glorious backyard. My parent's room was huge, and right next door to mine. No more nighttime fears. No wondering if my mom was gone. I would know where they are and I would feel safe and secure.

This house was situated on a beautiful, pleasant road. Hardly any cars, and I could ride my bike right in the middle of the street. On a summer night, the chirping of crickets...and during the day, the sweet music of birds.Though I still saw my old friends, I made one of the most important friendships of my life with a girl who lived down the road. 

It was in this home that memories began to be made. First, my mother announced she was pregnant after having two miscarriages a few years back. I couldn't contain my glee! I'd always wanted a sibling, and the anticipation for me was enormous.

My brother arrived in 1974 when I was fourteen years old. Like a second mother, I watched him and loved him. And as he grew, we became like best friends. Through the years, my brother established some of the best friendships of his life. It was his little group that I would feel close enough to that I called all of them my brothers.

And they would have so many fun adventures in the woods behind our home, the basement, and riding bikes all over the area. My parents became their parents, and our house, their house. It was the closeness of our loving family that became the glue that bonded the lives of these boys with all of us.

Christmases at the Highland home were cozy and warm. The aroma of my mother's baking and all the special foods which were prepared at that time of the year, always permeated every room of the house. When company arrived, there was always cheerful laughter and fun banter. Everyone felt truly welcomed there.

Halloween became the focal time of the year, and we decorated outdoors as if trying to win some type of contest.With the magnificent dummies we fabricated, and the frightful accoutrements, children feared walking to our door for candy until one of us would unmask, proving we weren't the crazy monster we appeared to be on that special night.

My parents love for one another deepened in this home. Never did I hear a fight, nor any type of harsh words, or tears of sadness. I watched the two of them as if they were newlyweds.

The house saw many different types of pets, from scruffy stray ones that we nursed to health, to beloved pets that became like family members. It was a place of refuge for all.

As my parents began to age, the home became more precious than ever. They would sit on the front porch together, bird or butterfly- watching for hours. Dad's beautiful flowers would sway gently in a warm, soft breeze as they chatted about all the years that had gone by. On days that I visited, a sense of peace would wash over me as I sat with them, sometimes saying nothing at all, soaking up the love and contentment.

They are gone now, my parents. Yet this past Christmas, we still celebrated at the beloved house on Highland. New memories were made, and old ones cherished. But sadly, due to many financial difficulties, our family may lose this precious home. I've been praying for a miracle, believing for God to move heaven and earth so that my brother will somehow be able to work out a way to keep this house, and sell his quickly. It feels impossible, insurmountable, but I know God is the God of the impossible. He has made a way when there seemed to be no other way many times throughout our lives.

Join with me please, if you would, in prayer, that a miracle will occur, and this home will be able to stay in our family. And think about your own special place, perhaps where you grew up, or a beloved grandparent's house. Somewhere that you felt safe and loved.

Those Strays

It feels wonderful to be chosen. When we were little, to be picked first for a pick-up sports game or in gym class to not have to feel the head hanging shame of being one of the last ones chosen.

I think this is why I'm so up in arms about a tiny stray kitten that suddenly appeared near my son's home this summer. Someone took God's tiny creature and not caring what might happen to it, they "chose" to drop this precious sweetheart off on a busy road without a second glance as they drove off to their busy lives.

Mewling, scrawny, eyes too big for its little face, I spotted the tortoise-shell kitten between my son's house and the neighbor's home. At least there was a dish on their porch, and I could see the neighbors had a soft spot for this little stray. I, of course, ran into my son's house grabbing handfuls of cat kibble and a cup of water. The grateful stray rubbed against me, purring gratitude, looking up at me with those huge, starving eyes.

My son has a heart like his mama. Recently he asked what he could do for this cat. He couldn't take it in with his own two, we were unsure if it may have caught some sort of disease or infection in all its time outdoors. But he wondered if perhaps PetSmart would take it.

I had an idea. A compassionate veterinarian works down the block from me. It was she who found me my own two fluffy, gray, long hair ragamuffin cats. I prayed, "Dear Lord, please. Please let this little cat find some love and care in this world." I phoned the vet the next day and she agreed to take her.

My son and I brought "her", as I began referring to this cat as a girl, to the vets office where she was greeted with smiles, loving, caring hands and sweet voices talking to her. She may have never heard anything but, "Shoo. Get out of here!" in her short life.

God's creatures are special. And sometimes if we are lucky enough, we are the ones "chosen" to take care of them. Other times, a little kitten or puppy are chosen by a new, family and brought into warm, loving homes.

Let's not choose to do harm though. Let's never consider an animal something we can easily get rid of by "dropping it off" in a neighborhood to fend for itself. I think God smiles when we offer a little help, a little of His goodness and heart for the unloved strays of this world.

On a truly happy note: I visited the little cat several times while she was at the vets office. They took amazing care of her, and got her ready for adoption. They had a name tag of "Jenny" on her cage out in their waiting room which warmed my heart. Weeks went by, and I prayed that the right family would find her and love her as she was truly meant to be loved.

Two weeks ago, one of the girls that work at the veterinarians called me to tell me little Jenny had been adopted by a woman. She said that the woman phoned their office once she'd gotten the cat home to tell her that Jenny was doing great, getting along with her dogs and ruling the house. She re-named her "Sheba" because she is queen of their castle.

I write this ending with tears in my eyes. You see, we have the opportunity to do such good in this world. A little animal, carelessly thrown away now has  the chance of a great, new life.