It takes a heap o' livin'...

You might recall my love of poetry. I mentioned it recently as a simple pleasure. You might also recall my love of singing. I've mentioned that tidbit a time or two as well.

And you might also recall a couple of lamentations. Though I love to read poetry,  I wasn't given the gift of writing it. And though I love to sing, Well...I'm a little lacking there as well.  When it comes to singing, I'm the gal making the joyful noise.  The joyful part is for God, the noise for everyone else.

God didn't leave me completely wanting, though. You might not be surprised to learn that He gave me a flair for the dramatic. That's why in the church choir, I'm often the narrator.

And that's how I found myself in a difficult spot last week.

About a decade ago, our church was having a talent show, and a dear old lady approached me with a favor.  There was an old poem, she said, that had been her mother's favorite. She hadn't heard it recited in years, and citing that aforementioned flair for the dramatic, she asked me to recite it in the talent show.

I ashamed to say that I chickened out.

You see, the poem is written in a strong, country dialect, and I don't speak fluent Ellie May. (Really, I don't...) I felt kind of foolish doing it. Therefore, because of my own vanity, I didn't do a sweet old friend a simple favor.

I wish that I had.

Last week, I got a call from the hospital. Our old friend had been battling cancer for most of the decade that passed since that time, and the cancer had finally won. They were bringing her home to die.

And then her daughter said, 

 "Debbie, Mama wants to know if you remember her poem..."   

I did.

And once again, my old friend asked a favor. 

So last Thursday morning, I stood before her family, and her friends, and a casket covered with yellow flowers, and though I sort of citified it up a a bit, this is what I said:

It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it home,

A heap o' sun an' shadder, an' ye sometimes have t' roam

Afore ye really 'preciate the things ye left behind,

An' hunger fer 'em somehow, with 'em always on yer mind.

It don't make any difference how rich ye get t' be,

How much yer chairs an' tables cost, how great yer luxury;

It ain't home t' ye, though it be the palace of a king,

Until somehow yer soul is sort o' wrapped round the thing.

Home ain't a place that gold can buy or get up in a minute;

Afore it's home there's got t' be a heap o' livin' in it;

Within the walls there's got t' be some babies born, and then

Right there ye've got t' bring 'em up t' women good, an' men;

And gradually as time goes on, ye find ye wouldn't part

With anything they ever used—they've grown into yer heart:

The old high chairs, the playthings, too, the little shoes they wore

Ye hoard; an' if ye could ye'd keep the thumb-marks on the door.

Ye've got t' weep t' make it home, ye've got t' sit an' sigh

An' watch beside a loved one's bed, an' know that Death is nigh;

An' in the stillness o' the night t' see Death's angel come,

An' close the eyes o' her that smiled, an' leave her sweet voice dumb.

Fer these are scenes that grip the heart, an'when yer tears are dried,

Ye find the home is dearer than it was, an' sanctified;

An' tuggin' at ye always are the pleasant memories

O' her that was an' is no more—ye can't escape from these.

Ye've got t' sing an' dance fer years, ye've got t' romp an' play,

An' learn t' love the things ye have by usin' 'em each day;

Even roses 'round the porch must blossom year by year

Afore they 'come a part o' ye, suggestin' someone dear

Who used t' love 'em long ago, an' trained 'em just t' run

The way they do, so they would get the early mornin' sun;

Ye've got t' love each brick an' stone from cellar up t' dome:

O', it takes a heap a' livin' in a house t' make it home.

The poem is Home by  Edgar Guest.

The door is home, by the Duchess.