There stands a little green house on Pheasant Run Road. It’s a quaint and cozy home with a decent patch of lawn out in the country, where houses and subdivisions are rising up in what used to be fields. It nestles into the neighborhood down a ways from my own. Nestles there, smiling out at the road.
It is an honest house, its face unhidden from view. Its garage doors are off on the side, not visible from the front. It is not like these other houses. They suppose that putting their best foot forward is putting their garage in front of the house. From their big, white doors, they say to other self-righteous garages, “My garage is bigger than yours! I can fit more boats, more cars, more vehicles than you!”
Not so with this home. Not so. Its front door gleams with the sun caught in its sparkling prism-ed, chiseled window. Its light catches the eye of passer byes like me. It does not shout but whispers. A narrow walkway meanders its way to that welcoming doorway, without pretense from any fat, white-bellied driveway. Instead, the driveway quietly finds its way to the side of the house and one wouldn’t immediately notice it. I myself had to stop and peer at the yard to see where its path trod.
Tread softly as you find your way into my heart.
Rather than boasting of luxury size garages and wide buxom drives, this house offers all the perks of a new home while whispering the truth “I have no pretenses. Come here to find rest. In me is a home.” Its pale green siding blends softly and naturally with the earth. I had to pause in my walk and think, “How lovely.”
We shall know a home by its beauty.
I had walked to find this very house, this one that has intrigued me since the day I first discovered it on a bike ride through the new subdivision. That was several years ago. It has always been my favorite.
To know a place of home when we find it – is it so hard? A place of home beckons a person to come nearer. A place of home summons us to stop and take a look around. For what is a home if not a haven? And what is a haven if not restful, undemanding, sheltering?
A home like this is intriguing. Perhaps what has called my attention to this lovely green house in the last couple months is a sign on the lawn, “Adashun Jones Real Estate.” The house is up for sale. Somebody doesn’t want it. Somebody else is looking for it, but hasn’t found it. And so it sits there, nestled into the mound of a hill behind it, quietly waiting. Its open, empty rooms have much to give, but I cannot tell. I only guess from my spot on the road, where I stand, still looking on, shading my eyes from the bright sun overhead. I am certain those rooms have much to give, though now they swell with emptiness.
I know the feeling. Perhaps that’s why I’ve stopped this way, to stare at my dreams. I see a future day opening up where my hand touches my brow. I see myself building a family. I see a writer in her own place with dreams come true to write about. I see a man to love. I see a home to care for, a garden to plant, a yard where dreams spring up and grow, not far from Grandma’s house.
And then I see a little green house with a red and white for-sale sign. An empty feeling hugs my heart. It’s silly to dream where no seeds are planted, I tell myself. Yet, I linger for just one more glance before I turn away.