The Finlander and I just celebrated anniversary 21. He’s sitting on the couch with his laptop, ordering green coffee beans from Ethiopia, wondering if the computer battery is one of those that is going to explode. He catches my eye and says, “I like our house.” He’s not talking about our house, but I know what he means. Our house is a fixer-upper. We no sooner start one project than another one rears its ugly head. Still, in the midst of this, he likes our house.
I’m guilty of forgetting that moment by moment, word by word, silence by silence we are building the houses in which we live. I would have liked to have inherited a nice house in the country with a large orchard full of pear and apple trees, some grape vines to make jelly and wine from, a barn, a few chickens, maybe a peacock or two, and a big front porch where I could read a good book and drink sweet tea. I would have liked to have assurances that the things we hold on our laps are not going to explode while we are innocently ordering coffee beans. But there are no assurances, no inheritances. Instead, moment by moment, word by word, silence by silence, I’m creating the place where, explosions or no, I have no choice but to live.