Cowboy boots by the door. Afghans on every couch and chair. Guitar and banjo cases filling up almost every corner space. Candles everywhere. The furniture, livable and homey. Wood burning stove just waiting for the first truly cold fall morning. Jim Brickman-ish music quietly playing.
That’s our living room in the mornings. And when I say living room, I really mean living. It’s truly where we do our living – work on the computer, read books, do homework, work on projects, play instruments, crash after a long day, lots of sibling talks and some of the boys even prefer to sleep on it’s floor at night.
It’s not a fancy room, but it’s full of life living and being lived. With old-fashioned charm, it’s one of my favorite places. Sometimes it’s full of noise and laughter, at other times, like now in the mornings, it’s quiet and cozy and full of introspective thoughts hovering in the air.
Maybe it’s strange to write with affection about a simple room in a house. Maybe I just get too attached to things in my life. I have some Pat of Silver Bush in me, after all. But whether or not that’s true, I still think there’s something really special about our house and it’s not been just once that someone has commented on the peacefulness and just hominess that is found inside it's walls. I know it comes from all the laughter, prayers, memories and love that’s been a constant here.
We're not fancy people and our home isn't either, but we're family and it's home. And frankly, I'm so happy to be living back home again. I didn't realize how much I'd missed it until I came home. I know someday I'll have to leave again, but for now, I'm going to go grab my hot cocoa and curl up under my favorite afghan in the corner of the couch with my bible and journal and watch the morning pass around me.