Once upon six months ago, I dreamed our new house, nestled on a plot of land in the city—three-quarters of an acre inside the 694 loop—was a place of healing for all who entered. I awoke, claiming it.
Now that we’re the owners, I sometimes forget we live in A Healing House. Instead, I see unpacked boxes downstairs, nonfunctioning outlets here or there, and a swimming pool that may or may not need major work when the pool guy comes in May to pull the tarp off the thing. All the dollar signs make me queasy, and there’s more to seize my thoughts because I’m a human navigating the surprises, just like you.
My nerves—once neatly tucked under my skin—now lie outside my body, like electrical wires without their protective coating, and I wonder when the next Now What? will jolt me.
I force myself to nap, assuming a respite will calm me, but I thrash around instead. Forget it; I might as well get more done. I sit cross-legged in bed for a second as I plan my leap to the next item on the list.
Look outside.
I do it because I know That Voice.
Through our back yard saunter two deer, as gentle as mercy and as peaceful as the river in that old song. I breathe, savoring the scene. The animals sniff the grass, lift their heads to survey their surroundings, and don’t seem to mind when a few ducks come over for a swim on the “pond” (a.k.a. dirty water on the pool’s sagging tarp). After several minutes, the deer lope through the trees and disappear.
I’m steadied and softer now. Maybe even a little covering is inching back over my wires.
A place of healing. A Healing House.
Ah, I’m starting to see it now. And I think it’s just the beginning.
