Old Homes

"This world is not my home, I'm just passing through.
My treasures are laid up somewhere beyond the blue.
The angels beckon me from Heaven's open door
And I can't feel at home in this world anymore."
This World is Not My Home
Words and Music by Albert E. Brumley
© 1965 - Albert E. Brumley & Sons All Rights Reserved

I recently took pictures of an old house that was in the process of being torn down. It was a beautiful Spring afternoon and the sun was setting. As I stood in the living room of the house looking out the front window, I couldn’t help but think of the people that had lived there in the past. I could just imagine the pride that a young couple must have felt starting their new life in this house many years ago. The beautiful oak floor showed the scratches of several generations that had lived there over the years. The rafters may have been sawed at the sawmill that used to be next to the house. Such love and care went into the building of this house to make it a home.
The front door was left open by the person that was demolishing the house and it was swinging in the breeze. I felt like I should latch the screen door to keep something out although the back of the house was already gone and gaping open. Maybe I needed to keep the memories in of those special family moments. Could it have been the ghost of Christmas past? Was it a cry announcing the arrival of a sweet baby? Maybe it was the passing of a soul. I left the door like I found it. I thought maybe the memories needed to drift out and find their way to the setting sun.

When I was leaving, I looked back at the front door and saw the worn metal door knob. I saw the sun shining into the doorway. Then I knew, the souls that had once lived there were already home.

Lesa