“Home Sweet Home”

Since I was a small child, I’ve been fascinated by other people’s houses.

My kindergarten had a hinged, folding house that was filled with child-size

furniture: a stove, sink, and chairs. 

I loved that room and mourned when I could not use it because too many other children  were playing in it.

When I got older, I always loved museums that had period rooms to gaze at  and

see how people lived in different times.

I am not attracted so much to large eighteenth-century rooms, however. 

They seem too impersonal and grand. 

It would be hard to imagine children running unhampered through these large

palatial dwellings or sitting in those spindly and uncomfortable chairs.

And as for romping with pets, well . . .

But give me a room from a country cottage, and I’m all set to admire the

furniture, tools, and implements of daily life.

Along with this infatuation with houses comes my love of dollhouses.

My grandfather, who did woodwork, made me a dollhouse for my birthday when I was a little girl.

And I’ve always loved the miniature utensils that can be purchased for these homes.

Williamsport has a local museum that has a breathtaking dollhouse donated by one of the doctors in town.

It  is a Victorian mansion, constructed with painstaking realism.

The kitchen has all the usual attributes of such rooms with the addition of miniature cutlery and tableware.

There is a study, with a man reading a tiny newspaper and candles on the fireplace ledge.

The children’s bedrooms are meticulously furnished, even to the small  quilts on the beds.

A dog frolics in one room while a maid, properly attired, descends the stairs.

And you can see all of this through real glass beveled windows.

And that is only a cursory description of a few of the rooms.

The outside has an elaborately landscaped garden, consisting of miniature flowers, hedges, trees, and a fountain that actually works.

(Unfortunately, the museum has no water source to activate it.)

I can stand for hours mesmerized by this house/home.

But I think this points to a problem in me.

Now as I approach my seventieth birthday, I’m beginning to realize that my love for period rooms may be a sign of a spiritual emptiness.

For I see these rooms as emblems of families living lovingly and cozily,

with children who feel loved and nurtured by their parent/god.

Because a parent is a god to her children.

Hence my impatience with eighteenth century grand rooms, where it is hard to imagine children playing and growing naturally.

But it’s time for me to grapple with my place in the universe and forgive my family for any problems in my upbringing.

Jesus says, “My father’s mansion has many rooms.”

I pray that one is reserved for me.