A Dusting of Sweet

The bathtub was a lovely dusty rose. I knelt by the side and sprinkled the cleaning powder liberally, then turned on the water and scrubbed. A bobby pin had to be inserted *just so* in order for the drain to stay open. I thought, How is it that I have so many memories of using this bathtub, when the only shower we had was downstairs? Well...

Two little boys splash merrily in the water, using bubbles to make beards just like Daddy. Mama leans over and steadies the two-year-old as he slips backwards in the wake of his brothers movement, and they all giggle together. Their hair is washed, and she wraps them, one at a time, in soft, fluffy towels and they stand on the bath mat shivering and smiling, their blond cowlicks standing straight up.

I smiled as the last of the dirty, dusty water circled the drain and disappeared. It mattered not the color, nor the location. The memory was sweet.

We spent Memorial Day weekend at our home in Boise, preparing it for sale. We painted, vacuumed, washed windows and scrubbed all surfaces that were dusty from lack of use. And with each swipe of the sponge and sweep of the vacuum, memories assailed me with a sweet, sweet fragrance.

I used the hose attachments to clean our unfinished furnace room. I thought of the women who would walk through the home, imagining themselves and their families dwelling in it, and I thought that maybe we should rid the room of the thousands of cobwebs dangling from the rafters. As I moved carefully around the concrete floor, being most diligent about not vacuuming directly above my face, in case something with eight legs wasn't too happy about my destruction of their home, I remembered the many times my husband had done the same thing... for me.

"Honey, I need to work in the furnace room...could you...I mean, do you mind if... well, would you have any time to clean the cobwebs down for me first?" He smiles, and kisses her on the forehead, moving to the closet to remove the vacuum. Fifteen minutes later another kiss, and the room is ready for a jittery wife to work in without nervously casting glances at the ceiling for any movement. And he never complains. Never rolls his eyes. Just loves. Such a man.

As I wound the cord and looked around the clean room with satisfaction, my heart swelled with love and memory for the space, pest-ridden though it was. For with love it was given to me by a hard-working husband, and with care it was prepared for me by the same.

I pushed the vacuum back and forth on the green shag carpet. Not my favorite room. Using the brush roller to pull the strands upright, leaving a pattern that shouted "I'm clean!" I felt the hard ground beneath my feet and remembered that there is no pad down there, only concrete.

"You need to meet me at the hospital. Now. Micah has broken his arm." She gasps and runs for the door of her friend's house, already weeping and shaking. Upon arrival at the emergency room, she stammers to the nurse, "He's two years old today, and he broke his arm. My husband is with him - please, may I go back?" And as she rounds the corner, the toddler body of her boy comes into view, surrounded by two doctors and four nurses. He weeps piteously, and her eyes search for her husband. His anguished face catches her breath, and she goes to him, encircling him with her arms. "He broke it in the bedroom that has concrete underneath the carpet - I don't know what happened!" And for the first time, she sets aside her tendency to place blame, choosing not to ask anything more. Just comforts him with her love and silence.

As I eyed the freshly striped pattern in the carpet and turned to go, I thanked God for the gift of that moment; realizing, without words, that my husband was afraid of my reaction. And choosing to stifle blame and simply move forward. It was a hard, lovely lesson I will never, never forget.

One side of the backyard was a chain link fence, looking directly into the rental yard next door. An unkept rental yard. But my children leaned on that fence and befriended the lonely children who lived there, and I grew to love and appreciate them as well.

The dining room was very small, and actually a deterrent for me when it was time to make an offer on the house. But we squeezed my husband's parents and grandparents in there for a Thanksgiving meal. Our last one all together.

An enormous pine tree dropped sappy needles in our backyard, bringing little boy feet to the back door for a scrubbing upon entering. But bouquets of pine cones were brought to Mama daily, in sticky hands.

I began homeschooling in that house. With more space, we were able to have our first real Christmas tree. Teenagers filled the basement on Wednesday nights, and the back yard in the summer. We conceived Eliana there.

For several years now, I have practiced the art of memory making. Not with scrapbooks. Not with stamps. Not even with journaling. Merely stepping back in a potentially frustrating moment and thinking, "Someday, something will make this moment special, and I refuse to let it be stolen." Moving forward in the moment with determination, to remember the good with the bad. For time has a way of making even bad memories glow with a dusting of sweetness.

So many minor irritations pale in the light of the lessons I learned. And as I leave this home behind, moving on to the next one, I am thrilled to have these precious words whispered to me...

Beloved, abide in Me, and I will abide in you. I Am home.