As a whole, we homeschool moms are blessed! To bear children. To raise children. To be married! In the midst of rampant divorce, drug addictions, affairs, and chasing after money, we are investing in something else entirely!
It’s easy to lose sight of the privilege of being “the hand that rocks the cradle,” raising and investing in the next generation. When Satan puts a House Beautiful magazine before us, we’re tempted to think that a wonderful home is merely a beautifully decorated house.
But it isn’t. A home is a place of love and belonging – that fits inside any type of house. A home is a messy, smoochy, smiley place where everyone is safe because they are cherished. No matter the circumstances that surround us – whether sickness or poverty or hurt – we are safe and treasured by our family. Houses are everywhere; homes are rare. Rarer still are those who understand their value.
“She watches over the affairs of her household.” King Lemuel’s mother knew the power of a homemaker, and it’s a beautiful old-fashioned word: homemaker – making a home.
“A joyful mother of children…” reads Psalm 113. Yes! That women are privileged to mother the next generation is a gift from God beyond compare; that we’re at home, rather than working to pay the electricity, is a costly jewel! Bless the homeschool mamas who are doing both! But we who are husbanded with provision should be beyond grateful. The woman who is given the time and opportunity to turn her house, no matter how modest, into a home is a blessed woman indeed. Home is the warmth of family and belonging, stable and present through the years, come what may.
Edgar Albert Guest expressed it well:
It takes a heap o’ livin’ in a house t’ make it home,
A heap o’ sun an’ shadder, an’ ye sometimes have t’ roam
Afore ye really ’preciate the things ye lef’ behind,
An’ hunger fer ’em somehow, with ’em allus on yer mind.
It don’t make any differunce how rich ye get t’ be,
How much yer chairs an’ tables cost, how great yer luxury;
It ain’t home t’ ye, though it be the palace of a king,
Until somehow yer soul is sort o’ wrapped round everything.
Home ain’t a place that gold can buy or get up in a minute;
Afore it’s home there’s got t’ be a heap o’ livin’ in it;
Within the walls there’s got t’ be some babies born, and then
Right there ye’ve got t’ bring ‘em up t’ women good, an’ men;
And gradjerly, as time goes on, ye find ye wouldn’t part
With anything they ever used—they’ve grown into yer heart:
The old high chairs, the playthings, too, the little shoes they wore
Ye hoard; an’ if ye could ye’d keep the thumbmarks on the door.
Ye’ve got t’ weep t’ make it home, ye’ve got t’ sit an’ sigh
An’ watch beside a loved one’s bed, an’ know that Death is nigh;
An’ in the stillness o’ the night t’ see Death’s angel come,
An’ close the eyes o’ her that smiled, an’ leave her sweet voice dumb.
Fer these are scenes that grip the heart, an’ when yer tears are dried,
Ye find the home is dearer than it was, an’ sanctified;
An’ tuggin’ at ye always are the pleasant memories
O’ her that was an’ is no more—ye can’t escape from these.
Ye’ve got t’ sing an’ dance fer years, ye’ve got t’ romp an’ play,
An’ learn t’ love the things ye have by usin’ ’em each day;
Even the roses ’round the porch must blossom year by year
Afore they ’come a part o’ ye, suggestin’ someone dear
Who used t’ love ’em long ago, an’ trained ’em jes’ t’ run
The way they do, so’s they would get the early mornin’ sun;
Ye’ve got t’ love each brick an’ stone from cellar up t’ dome:
It takes a heap o’ livin’ in a house t’ make it home.
This month, we’re thankful for the privilege to do “a heap of livin’” in all its messiness with our husbands and children!
