There are a few places in my life that bring deep peace to my heart and soul. They are spaces where I find comfort and ease. Some of these sanctuaries of solace include the obvious locations: The church of my youth and a local chapel I visit from time to time.
Others are more obscure: McGregor Park, Turkey Run State Park, The Rocky Mountains, The Library. But one haven of healing stands out above all others.
Of all my precious asylums, our abode is my favorite. Our house is nothing short of a retreat center for my spirit, a balm for my soul. It is a residence of rest, a hearth of harmony, a quarter of quiet. Our home is a dear and wonderful place of tranquility and renewal.
I’m not exactly sure what makes this place so magical to my weary heart. It might be the way the light shines through the dining room window on a late autumn evening. It could be the way the grass grows in the back yard, thick and lush even during dry summer days. It is possible that it is the amazingly warm and inviting colors we’ve painted the walls. Or, most probably, it is the love and trust we’ve honed over the past twenty years in this a little, vinyl-sided structure planted on a cul-de-sac in a north-of-Indianapolis suburb.
Whatever it is that creates the mystery of this mini-mansion, this house is more than my home. It is my sanctum: A place of grace. It is “Grace House”…my place of safety and strength. And I love it, dearly.
