This Broken House
By Elena Limoges
When we first toured the red brick two-story flat that would become our home, I was skeptical. The upstairs living room boasted pealing yellow wallpaper, four layers thick. An old leak in the bay roof and crumbling mortar caused a persistent trickle of rain to destroy the ceiling tiles and plaster in the frontmost wall.
“What do you think?” my husband asked as we drove away, clearly excited about the prospect of a home here on the West side within our budget.
“It will be a lot of work,” I returned with caution and fear plain in my voice.
“We can do it! we can do the work.”
And so, we did.
Our dear one hundred-year-old home had rusted-out pipes, missing tiles, and cloth-coated electrical wires. My husband labored over endless projects to make this space livable. My work was to care for our brand-new baby in the construction zone and find places to go to avoid potential for dust or danger.
As the years go on and the repairs continue, I find myself longing for a different space. A larger space. A more comfortable space. At times, I am lured by the notion that something different will be exactly what I hoped for.
Years ago, I told my husband’s sweet grandmother that I would be content in a cardboard box, as long as I was with my husband. Looking around, I have forgotten that contentment from the first moments of our marriage.
Here we stand in a brick home, sheltered from the wind and the cold, yet I want something more or different. The next thing, the next life stage, and the greener grass just beyond the hill pull at my attention. Yet the truth remains that grass is greener where I tend it. Here I am now, privileged to make this a place of welcome and comfort for all that cross our threshold. The space is small with rough edges, but my welcome can be a conduit of love to others.
Home is where my husband and I are, raising our small men. Home is where I ensure that all who enter are warm and well-fed. Home is a beautiful space when my attitude is realigned to what matters most.