Oh, the books I read when I was young. The tales my mind went to and imagined. I just knew I would have truly made an exceptional princess or, at the least, the smart, gorgeous daughter of a duke.
Then, one day, it hit me.
“Who am I kidding?” At best, I would have been a scullery maid. Daisy of Downton Abbey. Or the teacher. All right, I might have been the teacher.
Nevertheless, I would have been low on the wealthy-possibly-historically-important-people list. No, I am strictly middle class. Not complaining, just explaining why I have pretty much always been the one to wash my kitchen floor. I say pretty much because there were times that I would hand my girls oversized sponges and a bucket of soapy water and let them go to town on the floor, slipping and sliding all over (it’s called creative mothering).
Anyway, just a couple of days ago, the floor called my name, pointed to a pail, and said, “Now.” There was no room for discussion. We both knew that a mere sweep or swipe of a swifter simply would not do.
So, there I was, and none too willingly I must add. After all, it was Saturday. And who, pray tell, wants to be on their hands and knees cleaning the floor on a Saturday?
Yes, there will be some of you who actually love housework, even on a Saturday. I, however, do not, indeed, love housework. As a matter of fact, the flooring had been chosen, at least in part, for its ability to hide dirt. It was now, decidedly, not holding up its end of the bargain.
Hence, the rug, garbage can, and table chairs were moved, every inch swept, and a pail filled with warm, sudsy water. Finally, I knelt with a rag in hand. Then, judging my progress by the tile lines, made my way across the kitchen.
I was just a few tile blocks in when I began thinking about how it was just three years ago that I first looked at this house. It was when homes were being bought and sold in record time. With the help of someone who knew someone who knew me, I was able to see the little house before it even made it to the market.
That, my friend, is called Providence.
In case you didn’t know this—fixing up an old house has long been a dream of mine. With hardly a moment to breath, I signed on the dotted line, and the adventure began. Now, I couldn’t wait to put my stamp on it. My head was bursting with ideas. Near the top of the list was acquiring one of those brass centennial signs to proudly display right by the front door where everyone could see.
You know, the plaques that show that a house has stood the test of time.
Christmas rolled around that year, and amid renovations, my sister-in-law gave me a hard-bound book titled Historical Architecture of Davie County, NC.
Excitedly, I tore into that volume. And again. Then, once more, this time turning the pages even slower.
But I couldn’t find it.
My little house, built in 1920, was absent. “This can’t be right,” I thought. It was obviously an oversight on someone’s part. I would just have to ask my sister-in-law to explain this conundrum.
Let me be clear here. I wasn’t asking my sister-in-law simply because she had purchased the book. For goodness’ sake, I’ve bought many things I am not an expert on. My car, for instance. But let’s not go there.
The fact is, I asked her because she is a bona fide historian. She doesn’t just have a couple degrees hanging on her wall in the field of history; she has authored two published historical books and has another underway even as I write. She would have the answer.
“Marcia,” I began, “I have looked several times through that book you gave me, and, for the life of me, I can’t find my house in it.”
The sincere concern over the injustice done to my little house was on my face and in my voice.
“Well, Melissa,” she spoke forthrightly though not unkindly, “that’s because no one important lived there.”
I was rendered speechless. No one important?
As my mind whipped through the possibilities of people who could have lived in the house, I had to concede that she was probably right. Who would they be? Bricklayers and carpenters (the ones who most likely built the fancy people’s homes), teachers and nurses, small business owners, or maybe even a member of law enforcement.
Salt of the earth people. The kind that holds a community together. The ones who make a community.
I thought of the stories all the walls could tell. There’s the original three-room section built in 1920, the bathroom and second bedroom added sometime in the 40s (or so we think), and, finally, the mudroom and third bedroom tagged on the back (probably in the 1970s). Why, these walls are practically screaming with stories of importance.
Just not important people, I guess.
I comforted my heart with the fact that Jesus turned our idea of who is important right upside-down with these words:
“You know that the rulers of the Gentiles lord it over them, and their great ones exercise authority over them. It shall not be so among you. But whoever would be great among you must be your servant, and whoever would be first among you must be your salve, even as the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many” Matthew 20:25-28.
Not to be deterred, I researched how to get a historical home plaque.
Apparently, something historical has to have taken place in the house.
I understood the concept. Still, I felt slightly offended for my house. After all, who’s to say something historical hadn’t occurred here? I smiled. Maybe not historical in man’s eyes, but what of things eternal?
What of love and family,
laughter and friendship?
What of hearts surrendered,
burdens lifted, and grace given?
These walls will fall one day, the roof cave in, and the foundation crumble—time and history will end. But hearts surrendered? Lives determined to walk by faith? These are the things that will live on eternally.
So, letting go of my minor offense and deciding to embrace things for what they were, I googled “outdoor house plaques” and ordered my house its very own one-of-a-kind historical plaque.
HOME OF THE COMMON MAN, ESTABLISHED 1920
I’d tell you more, but the porch needs sweeping, and I might as well do it before it starts shouting my name. After all, I have a sweet friend coming tomorrow. She needs some love, a listening ear, and hope wrapped in Truth. I bow my head in anticipation.
It’s doubtful our time together will have historical significance—but, if we are blessed, it will have of eternal worth.
P.S. If you’d like a plaque for your house, you can order one here: https://www.personalizationmall.com/
P.S.S. I do not get any reimbursement for the sharing of this link 😊
I love this so much!!!!
I was reminded, after writing this, about the line “I’m just a nobody, trying to tell everybody about Somebody who saved my soul…” Casting Crowns). Amen to being a common nobody 🙂 who has an greatest Somebody!
Beautiful and powerful read. Words that ring of the truth!
Thank you, Judi. It’s nice to meet you here. I pray that all of our homes are filled with moments of eternal worth.
I absolutely loved reading your story! Thank you for sharing! It made me think of Prov. 24:3-4 « …by knowledge shall the chambers be filled with all precious and pleasant riches.”
Catherine, you are right, Proverbs 24:3-4 are definitely spot on for this! I’m so glad you enjoyed the story. Thank you for stopping in.
Thank you for sharing your story! A simple home, family… Thankful for floors to be washed because that means I have a home to live in. God’s grace. 🙂
I love your comment, Charlotte! Yes, thankful for floors to be washed because that means I have a home to live in. It is all God’s grace. Thank you for stopping into to read.