If this house could speak, it would fill volumes. Unspeakable volumes.
The poor carpet. It would tell how it cradled a little baby as he slept and played on its surface. It captured the moments Parker's first crawl, first step, first bumps and bruises. It would complain of all the days and nights spent having trenches walked in it as we shushed a baby with a tummy ache.
The bathtub would rave of all the bubbles it held, the songs it contained, and the memories that were made almost nightly at 7:30pm.
My poor, poor couch would tell a painful tale: of drink spills, diaper leaks, sleepless nights, a bouncing child and food stains. That couch has seen the worst of us.
But if my house could speak of all these things, it might then tell the truth. The whole truth. It might tell what goes beyond surface level stains and wear and tear. It would be real in its tale. That we fuss and fight like everyone does. It would tell of a mother who loves-loves the blessing of her family. It would rumble on about discipline. That sometimes mommy snaps and yells, and hugs her baby and apologizes.
If this house could speak, it would not say we are perfect. That we don't struggle. But it would definitely say that we are joyful. That we've made unforgettable memories. That my son is surrounded with unconditional love. And it would say that this house and the hearts within it, belong to the Lord, every nook and cranny.
