The Comfort of Home

            
                   For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed.  –Kahlil Gibran

My Aunt Lillie was a World War II Army nurse having served in England where she cared for injured soldiers brought there from the battles in Europe.  After the war, Aunt Lillie returned to the family home to care for her mother.  Lillie remained in the family home for the rest of her life, and she lived alone there in her later years.

Through the eyes of childhood, the family home seemed enormous.  The hall was long enough to be dark and spooky when the lights were off. There was a long front porch with a swing, a sunporch with bookcase of ancient titles, and a back porch from which all loved ones entered.  The basement had a summer kitchen no longer in use. 

Aunt Lillie ran this household with a certain order, an order that was part nature, part Army nurse, and part practical.  She repeatedly told me that she organized and maintained her home in such a way that should she ever become blind, she could continue to live in her home alone.         
   
I loved the beauty, the order, and the peace and quiet of that big, old, solid family home compared to the chaos of my small suburban house crowded with four children, two adults, a dog, and various friends who seemed to spend enough time with us to be named dependents on my parents’ tax return.  It seemed like something was always lost, breaking, falling apart, wearing out, or used up in that newer,  crowded, and busier household.

In my memories, the paneling in the family home is always shining, the furniture scented with lemon polish, the curtains freshly laundered, everything just so and yet comfortable and reliable in its just so-ness.  There is always something delicious on the kitchen counter or ready to come out of the oven.  Ringing comes from a heavy black phone on Aunt Lillie’s desk, someone calling our number that began with K-I-6.
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The family home left me with an understanding that home can be a retreat from everything else.  Especially in times of grief or uncertainty, I think of Aunt Lillie and the security and comfort of her home.  I am reminded that small acts of caring for what we have ARE life and those small acts are meaningful in ways we do not acknowledge or understand.  All these years later, I sometimes find extraordinary comfort in the ordinary tasks of living.  When under stress I can return to center by straightening the towels on the bathroom towel bar, stirring the soup, lining up the shoes in the closet, folding the napkins, watering the plants, and making the bed.  When the world seems out of control, I am the master of this universe I call home.  And if I ever go blind, it will still be home.