The Heart Is Where The Home Is

Arriving home, the children have missed me dearly and they crowd for my affection. I sprawl out on the floor and tussle with them for a bit whilst my beloved is hummingly putting the final touches on our Supper.

My daughter, her long frame curled up in my lap like young Fawn, tells me about her day in a long rambling discourse – she paints even the most trifling of mundanities with a child-like flourish, such that I somehow find her descriptions of a particular late-morning adventure to be quite enthralling.

My son strides and skulks about. His movements ranging from sudden dashes of playful aggression to abrupt silences spent curling my hair around his fingers. During one of these tranquil lulls, I watch him out of the corner of my eye as his sister regales me with her stories… he seems content to let his sister bask in the radiance of my attention, content to rest near me in an easy slouch. Through the open door a glorious beam of the declining Sun crosses the floor in a warm golden scalene.

My beloved prepares a sumptuous meal for us, bricks without straw, and we gather together at our table round. As my family lowers their heads to await my words of thanks, my thoughts flash with the passage of Time… I see a long corridor of meal-time prayers, that of the past and of the present, and I marvel at the maddening chorus of laughter and voices.

I remain in awe at the harrowing beauty which can be so often found within His world, and I am grateful that He has revealed so much of it in my days.

…day is done.


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