Home is Where Mom Is

I turned to face my somber son.  “That’s okay,” I said light-heartedly. “I’m not going THINK of you either. I’m just going to PRAY for you, okay?”

My nearly-twelve-year-old  looked me straight in the eyes and explained, “Mom. It’s not that I don’t love you or anything. It’s just that if I don’t think about you while I’m at camp, I won’t get homesick.”

I nodeed in understanding and pulled my mini-man into a one armed hug. “I understand,” I assured him. “I would hate to have you thinking of home when there are bugs in your bunk to kill and carpet ball tournaments to win!”

Finally, my serious firstborn smiled with relief. His mom still loved him, even if he had vowed not to think of her for the next few days! His burden lifted, Luke hopped happily in the van, ready for the adventure that awaited him at church camp.

As I kept my promise this morning and PRAYED for my sweet son, I marveled at the implications of his pre-camp conffession. If I don’t think of you, I won’t get homesick. Then it hit me: In our crazy life laced with laughter and tears, hugs and hurts it’s difficult to tell where home ends and Mom begins.

In the rich tapestry of my own childhood, my mom is the constant thread. My images of home are framed by memories of Mom. When I picture my childhood home I spy sunbeams dancing across the gold linoleum on the kitchen floor. I smell scrambled eggs and buttery toast.  And I see my mom sipping coffee as she perches on the edge of the olive green sofa with her tattered brown Bible, praying for me. I hear the laughter and chatter around our dinner table, and realize it is Mom who is listening to my latest school saga, Mom who is serving my favorite meal, Mom who is inviting me to join her on a walk when the dishes are done. As our home is bathed in starlight, it is Mom who is pulling the covers to my chin, Mom who is whispering prayers over me, Mom who is listening as my wild imagination battles bedtime fears and worries.

Perhaps the framework of my own childhood led me scribble this simple prayer in my journal a decade ago: “God PLEASE make me a woman who BUILDS my HOME instead of tears it down!” At the time, I was a floundering new mom of one, (all right, so I’m still a floundering mom- just no longer a mom of one!). I was struggling to be content in my marriage, struggling to delight in the privilege of motherhood, and struggling to accept the me that God was calling me to be. One morning as I read through the proverbs, a verse pierced my heart. “The wise woman builds her house, but with her own hands the foolish one tears hers down” (Proverbs 14:1).  Oh, how I wanted to BUILD my home, but I wasn’t sure how, so I invited the Master Carpenter to have His way in my family.

Today’s Overflow! “The wise woman builds her house, but with her own hands the foolish one tears hers down” (Proverbs 14:1)