I know spring has come by the things it sweeps into my home –
dirt from muddy pup paws
dry yellow grass coating the soles of running shoes
bicycle tools and parts littering spare corners of tables and the guest room bed
the faint smell of motorcycle grease and jackets hanging in the entryway
Winter meant lots of coats and boots stacked by the doors, and blankets on the couches, but it did not change our home the way these things have. I am daily reminded of Spring’s arrival by the need to sweep and vacuum – and pull out the Furminator and lint roller to manage Ridley’s personal contributions of hair to our home.
Our home is well-lived in.
Stacks of books live on our Craig’s List-sourced dining table and on our dark-stained coffee table, the one Eric built with his own hands, remind me that I have once again tackled too many reading projects.
Our pup’s squeaky beaver toy always ends up in the exact spot where we want to walk, and the wheezing of 20 squeakers (a boasting point for the toy’s packaging) serenades us in the evenings when we pad barefoot around our home, not watching where we step. I suppose we will deal with this when we have kids, so we joke that we need to teach Ridley to clean up after himself and that a fluffy beaver is better than Legos.
One bicycle lives in our guest room, while the other two occupy the basement, sharing space with a motorcycle and a plethora of tools and camping gear and various-sized ice chests. We cram things in every available corner. It’s no surprise to find spare tubes or allen wrenches or bottles of cleaner and greasy rags next to our houseplants and tabletop coasters.
These pieces of our life speak blessing to me, remind me that we take advantage of the good, of the daily graces we have been given.
Sometimes I wish I could just clean and enjoy the results of my labor, but it’s a daily thing to pick up the shoes and restack the books and refill the soap dispenser and vacuum the rug for the upteenth time this week. It’s a daily thing to give thanks, to be on the lookout for the showers of confetti that leave a trail behind us as we live this gift we have been given.